Diary of Seven Buses in One Day: Twelve Hours & £14.00
‘Diary of Seven Buses in One Day: 12 hours and £14.00
August 17th, 2024
Part Eleven
We’ve now crossed over to Shell Bay and again, I’ll forgo regaling memories from here, as they are as multitudinous as the 53 years taken to make them.

We adventure on, by first ambling past Shell Bay Bistro. Yes, another gentrified establishment from which I’m outpriced.


Through the ferry’s tolls and past the lines of cars and motor homes parked on each side of Ferry Road. It is now that the ‘racing bus drivers’ come into their own. The gear’s shift and the speed ramps up. The road is free and for a while, this place is our own.
We see ‘Little Sea’ a short distance away, which is a fresh water lake created by the growth of the dunes system. Old Harry Rocks stand proudly beyond this. They are chalk formentations formerly part of a long stretch of chalk between Purbeck and the Isle of Wight. We pass through heathland, which boats all six species of native British reptiles.

The speed of the bus whips the hair around your face. While travelling on it with mum a while ago, she insisted on keeping her hat on so as not to ruin her hair. It was an ongoing battle between mum’s hands holding it down and the wind wanting to claim it.

We move under the cover of some pine trees, slow down and climb a small hill. Someone requests the bus to stop. We have now reached the Knoll House Hotel.

Built as a holiday home by the Bankes family at the turn of the 20th century, it changed to a hotel in 1931. It has been a long held dream of mine to stay here; to play a game of tennis on the courts which overlook the sea, wander down to the beach for a swim in the evening and indulge in a spot of afternoon tea.
When holidaying I am usually found in a tent, but the very occasional spot of indulgence I think is acceptable. I might imagine being Vanessa Bell, who painted Studland Beach in 1912 or hanging out with Gluck, a trailblazing ‘ahead of their time’ icon, who spent some of their happiest times in Dorset during the 1930’s. The Bells and the Wolfs stayed in cottages within Studland Village, but I am sure, being the celebrities of their day, would have been invited for cocktails at Knoll House by the Bankes’.
It’s now 17.59pm and we have dropped the passengers off, across the road from the hotel and beside the tennis courts. I use this bus stop when hailing the No 50 back home from a spot of swimming on Studland Beach. If I’ve been night swimming, timing is crucial to catch the last bus, as it’s a very long walk home.

I’m now down to 10% battery on the phone and I need to save it in order to ring home once I’ve arrived into Swanage. This is frustrating as there are glorious views to photograph on this stretch between Studland Village and Swanage. I make a decision to take my last photograph as we approach Swanage Beach.
The bus travels through Studland village. We are travelling on the B3351, the Swanage Road. All the houses are dream houses with the last few looking out over Ballard Down. The bus whizzes under trees and it is along this stretch as we hurtle towards Swanage that the donning of hard hats would be handy due to the enjoyment of trees whacking their branches across humans foreheads a little too vigorously.
Eleven minutes later, we arrive into Swanage.
As we come down the hill, we see a spattering of families enjoying the evenings quiet on the beach. I take my photograph.

Beyond is Swanage Pier, Peverel Point and the Molem Theatre, which are all framed by the Swanage Downs. The Purbeck Breezer pulls into the bus station, which consists of two bus stops. These are directly outside the entrance to the delightful Swanage Railway Station which provides a good home to a family of steam trains.
After eleven hours and flawless transitions between six buses, I have hit a stumbling block at the final furlong. The No 50 has arrived late, meaning I’ve just missed the No 40 to Langton Matravers, my final destination. I ring mum. She offers to pay for a taxi. I gratefully decline, wanting to see this challenge through. I have one hour to wait. There’s only one thing to do. I elbow my way through the remaining throngs in the town centre until I’m facing the Mowlem Theatre and Forte’s café.
Look left and there it is, glistening in the evening sun. I walk along the promenade to find a quiet spot, heave the bags from my shoulders and sit with my legs dangling over the sand. I look out across Swanage Bay and breathe in the sea air. I contemplate on the two opposing ‘SB’ bus waiting scenes; Swindon Bus Station and Swanage Bay. It is safe to say that this spot is infinitely preferable. It’s time to head back to the bus stop.
It’s polite in Swanage society, for travellers to queue for the bus where it says ‘Queue Here’. More Buses have employed an inspector to admonish those who ignore this request as they jam up the entrance to the train station, frustrate the locals and make getting on the bus stressful for the elderly and disabled. I’m glad to be one of the first in line and with relief, pride and celebration lunge onto the No 40, which is heading for Poole.
Whereas the No 50 travels east across the water on the Sandbanks Ferry, the No 40 goes right around Poole Harbour visiting Langton Matravers, Corfe Castle, Wareham and Upton along the way. Ten minutes later, I press the bell to alight at the old ‘Ship Inn’.
Waiting for me at the bus stop is my stepdad Roddy with a lovely smile of anticipation. Mum and Rod have waited up for me, for this is usually their bedtime. Once through the door, I’m greeted with a hug and a glass of wine, both of which I readily embrace.
I’m knackered, but buzzing and it takes a good few sips to calm down before I’m able to regale the tales of my journey.