BOAT, BUS, STEAM

We went on a boat trip yesterday, after my morning quest to Elle’s bakery. The warm air dried the night rain and by the time we climbed aboard the Enchantress, it was already a passable summer’s day.

The captain waited until we were right out in the harbour before he told us that the Enchantress had actually seen military action... in the Second World War. I studied the hull for cracks, and tried not to look at the seventy-year-old floor.

Today, we were in need of more of an inland adventure, so after examining timetables, we caught the Number Thirty bus to Swanage, with an eye on taking a steam train to Corfe Castle.

I asked the Intrepids whether they remembered the golden age of steam, which they both found funny (I know not why). Then, after a quick lunch on Swanage Beach we climbed aboard a mahogany carriage and waited for that puff and rattle of a steam engine, followed by the creak of the brakes, and then the steady chuffing over the sleepers. These things still seem to carry so much old-fashioned romance with them.

The journey is around twenty minutes, and definitely gets you wondering whether modernisation is ultimately inevitable. Steam is glorious, but also slow. Sitting on a carriage is effectively like being on an old-fashioned bus. It’s uncomfortable, but only because you know better.

Anyway, we got to Corfe Castle and I remembered with a shock that the last time I was here, I was with my friend who passed away last month. Sitting in the tea shop garden with the roses, the bright June sunshine, and the imposing ruin behind us reminded me exactly of that day - when we sat there by the castle. It all looked exactly the same; there was an incongruous collection of feelings all of a sudden.

Well there it was: Corfe Castle - grey limestone, over a thousand years old and a marker of centuries gone by, as well as perhaps more recent times. We didn’t have time to look around, so we sat drinking tea, and I read the history from Wikipedia.

The bus ride back took an hour or so, winding through the sunny Dorset countryside: Osmington Mills where a white horse is complete with King George III on the hillside. Lulworth Cove again of course, and on through the luscious green valleys. Eventually, the sea sparkled and Weymouth suddenly sprawled across the bay.

“I think I’d like to walk along for a bit,” I said, whimsically as we alighted from the bus. It was the golden hour: long shadows, warm sun, stiff breeze. We sat on the beach and poured some tea from the flask. Custard creams appeared from somewhere and my Dad sank into his binoculars, trying to find Durdle Door on the opposite side of the bay.

“So highlights from today?” I asked my Mum, sipping tea from a plastic cup. “What was the best bit?”

“Probably this bit,” she said. I nodded in agreement.