Here Be Dragons

He strolled nonchalantly onto the station platform trying to look as cool and well travelled as possible. Things had gone way better than expected, with just two thumbed lifts carrying him three quarters of his journey from Yorkshire down to Swanage, his destination in Dorset. The last hundred miles had been a wallow in the gaudy extravagance of a blushing pink Cadillac driven by a living, breathing caricature; a pony tailed impresario he called himself, driving down to his recording studio in the New Forest. They had floated across country from Northampton in this alien blancmange, passing the time by lying mischievously to each other in their Wurlitzered cocoon. He finally touched down on the station forecourt at Romsey in front of wide eyed witnesses, casting him into a role he had never played before.

He was in unknown territory and beginning to feel just a little anxious. The best of the day was nearly over and an early April chill was tightening its grip on the afternoon. He swung his rucksack from his shoulder, took out one of his gift box Dunhill cigarettes and furtively scanned the platform to asses his audience. It wasn't every day that the good burghers of Romsey witnessed the drama of an impresario's pink boudoir disgorging an enigma into their midst, so he sparked his plastic throw-away lighter into life and lit the cigarette whilst gazing enigmatically along the platform. Any illusions of a Leslie Howard, Brief Encounter sort of image quickly evaporated as he realised, to his dismay, that he'd just put the wrong end of the cigarette into his mouth and badly smouldered the cork tip. The blunder did not go unnoticed and he hurriedly smuggled his discomposure into the nearby Gents.

It was the Spring of nineteen-sixty-five and south was a whole new experience for this nineteen year old college boy. East and west he knew from holiday trips to Scarborough and Blackpool and even north had once been explored on a school trip to the Lake District. South however, was a 'here be dragons' journey deep into the unknown. He had been invited down to the home of his gorgeous new college girlfriend during the Easter break and any misgivings had been immediately dismissed by limitless youthful ardor. A local commuter train rattled into the station and came to rest alongside, twitching nervously as its diesel engine grumbled in an exotic syncopated language. He slid into a vacant carriage seat, as far away from the witnesses as possible and spent the fifty minute journey to Bournemouth dreamily anticipating his reunion.

A bright sunshine yellow trolley bus stood waiting outside the station, purring quietly in anticipation and he soon found himself down in the town amongst its bright sunshine yellow inhabitants. Dignified Victorian street furniture set the tone with ornate railings, elegant heavy cast iron benches and handsome sign posts directing visitors to the beaches, the Central Gardens and the Pavilion. He sat for a while in the gardens gazing at the immaculate Spring flower beds and exotic palms and breathed in the scented air; a heady mixture of ozone, floral perfumes and civic self confidence.

Bournemouth was a revelation to a Yorkshire lad far from home, comfortable and well mannered, a town where the wealthy spent their days setting members-only standards at their tennis clubs and their evenings dozing through Tortelier recitals. A town of select sea front hotels sheltering retired headmistresses and flatulent brigadiers from their fading relevance. It held respectable rank amongst the elite of our fading empire and yet he sensed that they and their town were struggling to come to terms with what was going on around them. It was under siege from a new era of immodesty and vulgarity, from mods and rockers and teddy boys and package holidays, but most of all, a scornful disregard for everything that was. He quietly wished them well with their plight and set off in search of the bus station. It was time for the final leg of his journey.

His spirits lifted as the sturdy little Hants & Dorset single decker pulled on to the stand, resplendent in its tasteful green and gold livery and displaying the day's first acknowledgement of his final destination, Swanage. He settled into one of its thickly moquetted seats and inwardly rejoiced as the anxieties of his journey melted away. The confident little bus growled its way up out of the town and on to the cliff tops, chugging past the Connaught and the Ocean View and the Haven until eventually, it ran out of road and came to a halt facing the sea. The driver switched off the engine and they sat in silence staring through the windscreen at the view across the entrance to Poole harbour.

A small sailing yacht pitched purposefully across their vista, butting valiantly against the freshening wind sweeping in from the English Channel. As the little yacht slowly slipped their vision, a large flat-decked passenger ferry loomed towards them, hauling itself across the harbour entrance from the Isle of Purbeck. Chain driven, it arced its way across an outgoing tide, straining against the tensions of its under sea manacle, grumbling noisily against every heavy link.

As it docked at our side of the harbour, gates were flung open and unpenned motors bounced gleefully up the ramp and scurried away to safety. Within minutes, our little bus had edged tentatively onto the ferry and taken pride of place at the opposite end of the deck, facing not just the mysterious Purbeck peninsula, but an increasingly fractious tide and any number of waiting dragons. The captain hoisted the black ball to the top of the mast on his elevated bridge and the ferry lurched back out into the hastily retreating tide.

Purbeck was a whole new world to him, hewn from the unique geology of the Jurassic era. The little green and gold bus trundled along the headland towards its destination with golden beaches through one window and mystical heathland reserve through another, a wonderland that he would find forever irresistible. This was another country, a place where time stood still, anchored permanently into its geology. It was spellbinding.

Heathland slowly gave way to scattered habitation, with sturdy stone cottages defying the elements for hundreds of years sitting comfortably alongside decadent Edwardian manifestations of wealth; any friction between them long since smoothed by the wind swept sands of time. And then they ran a gauntlet of pastel coloured bungalows; Seascape, Sandy Toes, Wave Whisperer and Driftwood, all basking in the sharp reflected sunlight. Suddenly, like the magicians reveal, they descended triumphantly past bright enticing guest houses onto the promenade, where the curtain was thrown back on the most breathtaking of sights.

Assorted pleasure craft enjoying the protection of the bay pitched and swayed, tugging fretfully at their moorings like tethered watchdogs; the ever freshening wind serving only to increase their anxiety as they bucked and gyrated around their shackles. And behind them, across the bay, the distant white cliffs of the Isle of Wight reflecting the fading afternoon sun like the sails of a great tea clipper bound for the Orient. The graceful promenade fed them directly into the heart of the town where our little green and gold cocoon lurched to a halt, crunched into reverse gear and came to rest on a small designated parking bay tucked away behind the main shopping street.

His immediate impression of the town was of a place that wore a comfortable tweed jacket and listened to the Archers before its afternoon nap. It had probably heard of Little Richard and Elvis and the Beatles, but had dismissed them as frivolous, just as it had done earlier with the jitterbug, tea bags and the conical bra. Swanage did not do unseemly. It attended evensong and wore brogues and frowned upon the uncouth and ill mannered. This little resort had long decided that nineteen thirty nine was about as far as it wished to go and had dug its heels in. It sat in its comfortable south-east facing corner of the bay, smiling contentedly. It was compact, confident and cuddled, its toes tickled by Neptune and its shoulders stroked protectively by the comforting Purbeck hills.

Suddenly, a familiar high pitched whistle echoed around this busy little amphitheatre and he responded instinctively, following his nose along the street, his very DNA aroused by the unmistakeable musk of a coal fired steam locomotive. He came from a railway family and lived in a railway town and had spent much of his boyhood being chased from the engine sheds. This was an irresistible clarion call and one very quickly answered.

There, at the end of this bustling little street, he came face to face with a scene that would forever be imprinted in his mind. An idyllic jigsaw-box-lid of a scene in which too much of interest squeezed into the one overcrowded composition. A bustling railway station forecourt with vigilant cabbies chatting idly against their waiting taxis. A handsome blue and cream motor coach spilling raucous children into the elegant foyer and a crimson post office van, its rear doors flung back, standing patiently as its driver loaded bulging sacks from a heavily laden cart. And purposeful people everywhere, arriving or departing or just observing this theatre in the last of the afternoon sun.

The platform end was open to view, its every intriguing aspect visible from the street and there, wheezing its sizzling breath onto the ballast beneath its fiery belly, stood a huge fearsome steam locomotive; the oily capped driver leaning out from the footplate enjoying the adulation of soot flecked boys. It was a captivating scene and all so close to the bustling street that only the buffers prevented this fiery leviathan from hurtling down the short thoroughfare and being extinguished by the sea. Here be dragons indeed!

He crossed the road to their appointed meeting place and occupied a vacant bench under the station canopy, inviting himself into the heart of this glorious tableau. They had only been briefly introduced, but this captivating little town spoke to him like nowhere else. His anxious journey into the unknown over and his every fear dispelled, he glanced at his watch and smiled. He had only ten more minutes to wait for the beginning of the rest of his life.