'Diary of Seven Buses in One Day: 12 hours and £14.00
August 17th, 2024
Part One
Finances dictated that this year, the journey to my homeland of Dorset for the annual summer holiday would be taken via the local bus network. A more positive way of looking at it is that this has been a bucket list item for several years.
I don't drive, so I'm a seasoned veteran of public transport, especially the local bus network. A few years ago, I thought, what an adventure it would be, and after working out rough timings in my head, considered it manageable. So when presented with skint circumstances, I thought, well, now is a time as good as any.
As a diarist, I wanted to document the event, bus by bus, town to town, through counties and differing sceneries. For fellow bus geeks, I'll note timings, bus numbers, routes and places travelled through, along with pictures of scenery and descriptions.
6.38am. I board the X6 from Northampton to Milton Keynes, a Stagecoach bus service. One minute in and we passed Northampton Museum and Art Gallery, and NN Contemporary Art. We pass Delapre Abbey, and a couple of miles on from there, we move onto the Junction 15 roundabout and travel over the M1. I see some site works in the distance. These are for a new railway connection, which will switch goods between road and rail.
We go past a sign for Stoke Bruerne and after a drive through Roade, the landscape opens. It's 7.04am.
I rested the camera until we got to Milton Keynes, which turned out to be a feast for the eyes.
Part Two
Approaching Milton Keynes on the X6, the city creeps up on you. Fields turn into roundabouts, and road signs change from B123456 to V1 and H2.
The time is 7:22 a.m., and despite all its criticisms, Milton Keynes receives, I must say, in this morning light, it has a serene quality I wasn't expecting. Square and rectangular buildings sit within the sky's negative spaces, their angles are softened by the wilded verges.
The square outside MK Central Railway Station pops with colour, and a bus stop requests me to look again.
I should have disembarked from the X6 here, but was so relaxed, I wasn't paying attention to my itinerary. But no matter, it just meant that I caught my next bus (to Oxford) at another stop further on.
Part Three
It is now 8.08 am and I am safely ensconced in my seat upon the X5 bus from Milton Keynes to Oxford (which had started from Bedford).
Our first point of call was Buckingham and in quick succession, I saw the Buckingham branch of the Freemasons followed by a second hand tool stall at the market. The tool stall was much more interesting and I bemoaned the lack of stoppage time at the junction to gaze at its splendours.
Soon out of Buckingham, we crossed the M4 onto the A34 to Oxford via Bicester. At 9.10am, the bus was travelling along Botley Road in Oxford, where you can admire/long for/ grimace at the large pretty houses.
We go past the Radcliffe Observatory Quarter, part of the University of Oxford. You may be interested to know that this features the Radcliffe Observatory, which was an astronomical observatory from 1773 to 1934. It then moved to South Africa. Increasing light pollution in Oxford made astronomical observations difficult, so the Radcliffe site was sold by the Radcliffe Observatory Trustees. They built a new observatory in Pretoria, South Africa, where the atmosphere was more suitable for astronomical study.
Next, we whizzed past The Eagle and Child. I have visited this pub quite a few times over the years. I enjoy soaking up the 'Inkling' vibes. 'The Inklings' were a group of literary mates who, on Tuesday mornings term time, hung out and road tested ideas involving fantastical tales, some of which went onto become iconic novels by 'Inkling' writers such as JRR Tolkien and CS Lewis being the most noted.
I alighted at Oxford Bus Station and my first point of call was some railings. Why would these be of interest to me? I hear you question. Well, it was on this very spot, back in (possibly) 2012 and either the summer or Christmas holidays while on the coaches travelling to Dorset, that my daughter announced that she no longer believed in Father Christmas. She had discussed it with her Grani and was nervous to tell me.... but I felt relief as she had unburdened me from having to start the conversation, although I had been subtly dropping hints. After a mini parenting lecture from Eleanor as to why do parents lie to their children, we carried on our merry way to the South Coast.
Back to 2024 and due to bridge works at Oxford Railway station, to locate my next bus stop, I crossed the river Thames (its source being at Thames Head in the Cotswolds).
Soon after boarding the S6 service to Swindon, we crossed the A34 and passed a rather large pylon, which evoked an image of a metalised Treebeard, the leader of The Ents, although I am more than quite sure this wasn't Tolkien's source of inspiration for Treebeard as the pylon would not have been in existence then. There then followed a series of rabbit hole thoughts about alternative Lord of the Rings characters and plot lines involving Pylons, Motorways and Buses.
Part Four
It is 10.53 am, and I am on the S6 to Swindon from Oxford.
There were long stretches of open countryside on this route, and as we headed south, a sense of entering a more rural part of the country emerged, with the area serving as a gateway to idyllic pleasures beyond. Dotted here and there stood pretty cottages, serving as gateposts for the villages to which they belonged.
A housing estate for pigs came into view. The design of their houses was reminiscent of Luke Skywalker's desert childhood home in Tatooine, and I wondered if the architects of the 'pig houses' were influenced by Star Wars architecture. If you look closely, you can see a pig watching the bus as it goes by.
We are whizzing through the Vale of the White Horse towards Farringdon. You might be interested to know at this juncture, that this particular leg of the journey takes an hour and a half and the distance travelled on the S6 a little over 30 miles.
As we approach Farringdon town centre, we pass a 'Living Roof' bus shelter, complete with a solar panel. It is also known as a 'Bee Bus Stop' and its roof is planted with sedum plants, which are rich in nectar for bees and other pollinating insects. Perhaps, seeing as it is one of the most air polluted towns in the country, Northampton could do this with their bus stops, bring a bit of Kudos to bus travel and attract car drivers off the roads.
Farringdon is a pretty market town, with an old town hall, which is similar to the Old Grammar School in Market Harborough.
The next port of call is 'Watchfield and Shrivenham', two places which blend into each other. We pass the Army Chaplains Museum, which resides opposite to the entrance of 'The Defence Academy of the United Kingdom'. This part of the journey gave me the shivers. The latter's gate leads to an education about military defence, while its neighbour educates us about the recovery from such defences.
The junction back onto the A420 was a welcome sight, although at this point, I had forgotten, from a previous experience, what lay waiting for me in Swindon.
Part Five
Shortly after turning onto the A420 to Swindon, we passed a train travelling adjacent to the road. On the left was a rundown, derelict building reminiscent of a grand entrance to a long-since-abandoned country house. The image of it in the bus window is ghosted by a coach and car travelling on the opposite side, and it appeared as if we were in an episode of His Dark Materials, gazing from our world into another. The two images are in stark contrast to each other and help to narrate the story of the road and a foretelling of what was to greet me further ahead.
On approaching the bus station, there was a tract of flattened ground surrounded by tatty hoardings and beyond, signs of building work. When pulling into Swindon Bus Station there certainly isn't a sense of 'Welcome to Swindon' and it gets worse once you step off the bus.
Knowing I had one and a half hours to rest and soak up the Swindon vibes, my first priority was to find a toilet. Now I've relieved myself in a variety of places over the years, haven't we all? But these facilities are top of the plops. If you Google Swindon Bus Station reviews you soon get the picture that this isn't a welcome break for travellers. Blocked and broken toilets, smells smells and more smells, overflowing bins and wet tissue everywhere. It was an in and out job in record time.
I then went in search of a cafe to while away the time in between journey's, but Swindon had other ideas. Minimum sign posting and what sign posts there were, led to nowhere. I joined fellow non Swindoners in a remake of Jaques Tati's 'Traffic', albeit involving pedestrians, and not cars. It is best described by this guy, who when walking past me said to his friend 'It's like a *ucking PS2 game!'. Now I've not played a PS2 game and he's probably not watched Jaques Tati, but at that moment we were occupying the same headspace.
This fleeting moment of parallel experiences, happened inside a deserted office block square circa 1990's - 2000's. In one world a grotty chipped and stained bus station and after walking through a graffitied brick portal you arrive into a wannabe Milton Keynes. All of us lost travellers walked around and around this echoing square, watching each other to see if any of us discovered an exit and route out, shop, café or anything at all other than what we were trapped in. But all routes seemed to only lead into aromatic alleys and dead ends.
Eventually I found a way out and after a further route around, a good old Costa. I took my coffee back to 'ghost square' and urged the clock on my phone to whiz through its numbers in order to speed up departure time.
An internet search has revealed a raft of bad reviews for Swindon bus station, including one fellow traveller who says 'The best thing you can do if you arrive in this awful place is to get the next bus out' which I gladly did, to Salisbury on the X5.
To exit Swindon, we navigated a few of its many roundabouts. (If you are interested in roundabout facts, Swindon is in the top five UK places with the most roundabouts) and as we emerged out of its border, caught a glimpse of Liddington Hill, which is topped by the iron age hill fort Liddington Castle, one of the earliest hill forts in Britain.
We crossed the M4 and moved swiftly into the gentle Malborough Downs. For much of this section of the journey, we were the only vehicle on the road and sitting in the cherished front seat at the top, meant a cinematic experience all the way to Salisbury.
Part Six
I'm on the X5, part of the 'Salisbury Reds' bus company, which operates around the Salisbury area and was born out of the Wilts & Dorset bus company, which I remember from my youth.
After travelling through the Malborough Downs, we arrived at Malborough, an old favourite haunt of my mother's and home to the Rabley Gallery, which I keep intending to visit.
With only 12.6 miles between Swindon and Malborough, the contrast between the two places is glaring, in all facets: town planning, socio-economic factors, size, culture, fashions and identity.
We approached the town centre via a steep hill downwards and it begins with a manicured green, bordered by Georgian houses, followed by a sign for 'Dan's Terraced Wine Bar' and an expensive gift shop.
I'd like to note that the stains on the bus window might have suited Swindon, but they don't assist in showcasing Malborough's assets. And similar to old market towns across the country, their splendours are compromised due to the overcrowding of cars.
Then follows another contrast. PS2 games and aromatic alleys are swapped for leisurely afternoon strolls in straw hats. Although this look is all about a Malborough/ Swindon mash up, combining hats with tats. Creds!
It is now 1.50pm. The bus circled the square and wound its way out of Malborough to continue on to Salisbury. We climb up a hill, fly down a hill and traverse along the A345 towards the Vale of Pewsey.
Part Seven
My original plan was to write one episode per bus. However, when buses can span two counties and cover many miles per journey, constricting the posts for the sake of the number of buses taken seems unfair to the experience. So please stay with me for a bit longer, as we cross Wiltshire, knock on the door of Hampshire and cross East Dorset for the Purbecks, my final destination.
For now though, I'm still on the X5 to Salisbury. After a whizzy ride down a hill and having left Malborough, we travel towards the Vale of Pewsey. The village of Pewsey is about six miles south of Malborough. Pewsey means 'Pefi's Island' which translates as 'well-watered land.
It is now 2.03pm and the landscape begins to change into something which resembles home. We pass a series of grand-ish houses set back from the road and enter into a gentle landscape of deep green, patterned with cloud shaped trees. Still on the A345 and on the way to Pewsey, we pass through the villages of Oare and Prospect. This is a twisty road, whose bus stops are dotted precariously alongside it, in places where civilization seems scant.
Living in Northampton, I've become used to 'city' buses, which tend to appear every 15 minutes with electronic boards notifying passengers of bus 'due' times. Here, there is a different bus culture and one which I used to be a member of. It exacts this feeling upon you that you are the only human for miles around, and you are reliant on the bus gods' delivering you from being 'stranded in the middle of bloody nowhere'. Once the bus arrives, you prevent yourself from smothering the driver with thank you kisses as they have saved you from a very long walk home.
At one such stop, a young mum, her child, and a friend got on and at the next stop, a mile away, two young lads alighted, and walked towards a farm. There's no 'nipping into town' here and nights out with mates may still involve parties in local woods, similar to the antics of my younger self.
The bus continued on its way and a row of distant sparkling white cottages came into view and soon after, as we neared a turning into a village, a glorious river appeared, complete with resident swans, and its sight caused a yearning for me to swim in it.
This is the river Avon, which rises in Wiltshire to the east of Devizes, and after the Vale of Pewsey, travels through Salisbury and onwards to the edge of the New Forest, meeting up with the River Stour, and flowing into Christchurch Harbour.
We pass another village 'gateway' - a pretty red tiled cottage and once into the village centre (which was either Oare or Prospect) our X5 heading south, meets the X5 heading north. They partner in a Dosey Doe dance as they navigate around each other on this bendy lane not designed for 16 tonne metal objects.
Ten minutes later and back on the A345, we pass a delightful church. There seems to be a bijou wedding service going on. The vicar was attending to something out of view, while two onlookers observe proceedings. One of these might well have been the groom.
We only skirted Pewsey, but I glimpsed just enough for me to remember a visit there for my mother's 70th birthday; an unforgettable experience involving barge boating down the Kennet and Avon Canal.This being the Avon section.
A few minutes later, we drove past a parking sign for Woodhenge, Kent House in Amesbury and Old Sarum, an Iron Age hillfort and the 'original' Salisbury.
Part Eight
After passing the sign for Woodhenge, I eagerly anticipated a sign for Stonehenge and seeing Stonehenge itself. But alas, the nearest we got to being near this legendary structure was a brief encounter with a Stonehenge children's 'Playbus' parked outside an inn on the corner of a roundabout.
After Old Sarum, the journey into Salisbury happened quickly and involved spotting a biker gathering, with stalls, tents and bikes in a field next to the main road. We navigated the traffic on a steep downward hill, onto a narrow road lined with shops and suddenly, this stage of the bus journey ended.
After stepping off the bus into Salisbury market square, I had a choice. Either hop onto the next bus due in ten minutes or wander around for a bit admiring things I couldn't afford on the market stalls. Carrying four bags ( I'm a renowned bag lady) and not wanting to take any risks (you never know when a bus goes awol) I opted to continue on with my journey. I made a quick phone call home to mum, to inform her of my position and was met with surprise and delight as to how quickly it had taken me to get to this point.
While waiting for the bus, I tried not to rudely stare as a poor lad was questioned by the police. For what, I don't know. Absolutely nothing I suspect. After being let go, he boarded the bus with me and gazed outward from the top deck until he got off at a village halfway to Bournemouth.
This bus is the X3 to Bournemouth and for this journey, we were staying with the 'Salisbury Reds' bus company. Before travelling out of Salisbury the bus half squared the city centre, passing restoration works and an old building displaying a pronounced chimney, a balcony window and a coat of arms.
I played a game of 'watch out for the best view of the cathedral from the bus', while thinking I must revisit it some day.
My grandparents took me on days out there as a child, and I remember being in awe of its magnificence. Its tower was built circa 1310 -1330 and soars one hundred and twenty metres above ground. It also boasts Britain's largest cathedral close and the world's oldest working mechanical clock built in 1386, whose weights have to be wound up once a day.
It is now 13.29pm and I enjoy a rest from photo opps, until caught off guard by the sudden emergence of a wide glistening river and a postcard worthy cottage nestled by its banks. A swimmer's hot spot and the sight of it increased my longing to immerse myself in cool wild waters. This is the southern branch of the 'Salisbury Avon', which we saw earlier on our A345 travels toward Salisbury.
We are now hurtling towards Fordingbridge, the northern gateway to the New Forest. Now Fordingbridge is in Hampshire, but I have a vague memory that it was in the catchment area for either Cranborne Middle school or Queen Elizabeth's School in Wimborne, both of which are in Dorset and which I attended in the early 1980's. Cranborne is 6.6 miles west of Fordingbridge and Wimborne is 16 miles south.
I had this feeling, and I'm not sure which word to use here, but it was like sensing a time and trace of your existence within a place. Although it's a place you might not have visited, its presence as an aura of places you have visited nearby. I think this feeling happens only when one doesn't often frequent places in adulthood of one's childhood. So a sort of mythology of the place develops. Akin to psychogeography but not specific to it, I don't think. Neither is it 'Hiraeth', a Welsh word describing a 'bitter sweet longing for a person, place or time'.
The linguists among you might like to contribute to this quandary.
Six minutes later, we emerge into the openness of the New Forest and the 'Salisbury Avon' travels with us for a short while until it merges with the River Stour and heads out to sea.
The sun is pouring into the bus, cooking us slightly, and a woman in a fuschia pink top fans herself with an azure blue fan which matches the bus's interior. We are now approaching a roundabout, officially signalling our arrival to the outer reaches of my home turf, as it signposts exits for Poole and Dorchester to the west and Bournemouth to the south.
Part Nine
From Salisbury, we've been travelling on the A338 (notorious for its number of RTAs) and on this narrow stretch, it's single-lane traffic only, following the River Avon's curves.
After a brief sojourn to Ringwood's Furlong Car Park, bordered by bus and coach stops, we continue our journey to Bournemouth on the A338 and pass through heathland, which forms part of the largest settlement of Dorset's heaths.
This tract is another signal that I'm heading home. I only ever see this area when I'm on a bus or coach; when travelling by car, the journey would have taken me onto the A31 towards Wimborne and Poole. But here, one has the pleasure of absorbing the subtleties of colour present within the heathland; purple heathers, silver birches and the deep blue-green
pine trees.
We soon reach the outer edge of Bournemouth and I'm looking down from a flyover. I catch sight of a house which I last visited for a college friend's birthday party, circa 1988. Then, onwards onto Holdenhurst Road and into Bournemouth centre.
While sat in traffic, I watch daytime visitors at a local park, enjoying the sunshine. An elderly gentleman chilling in his wheelchair, friends sharing a few beers and a young mum attending to her child hidden inside a pushchair.
I was in the process of getting my bags ready, thinking we were heading into Bournemouth Bus Station where I could catch my next bus. But we continued on, crossed a roundabout and headed for the town centre. We passed the door to a gay nightclub I used to frequent in 1989 where I'd dance with the guys in their tight day-glo cycling shorts to rave music.
And then there it was, the setting which housed the story of how I came to be. The Lansdowne, also known as, in the late 1960's, Bournemouth and Poole College of Art and Design.
This is where my parents met. I would attend the same art college years later, but after it had moved to the Shelly Park campus in Boscombe. But in The Lansdowne, when at my parents age, I'd rent out vinyl records. Because when the art college moved, it became Bournemouth Record Library (it may also have contained books). Hours were spent rummaging through wooden racks smelling of polish, which contained musical gems kept safely within protective plastic sleeves. I remember rows and rows of these long racks and floating dust glistening in the sun's rays streaming through The Lansdowne's tall elegant windows.
Thirty-five years later and The Lansdowne is a Grade Two listed building surrounded by scaffolding, as it is being redeveloped and preserved as an educational institution for future students, this time part of Bournemouth and Poole College. The art college had become 'Arts University College Bournemouth' in 1998 and moved to Wallisdown.
And then, we are on top of a hill on Bath Road and for a brief moment, as we pass the Royal Bath Hotel, we can see the sea!
There's the sea! The sea!
We abrubtly turn onto Westover Road, adjacent to Lower Gardens, and the X3 pulls up to it's final destination.
My next bus, the No 50 'Purbeck Breezer' sets off a few bus stops down, and I have just enough time to wander part way into Lower Gardens to see if the aviary is still there. Not that I'm a fan of birds in cages, they should be flying about and enjoying themselves in trees.
I walk up through the art market, emerge back onto Westover Road and wait for the No 50. We are now using the award winning 'More' bus company, which was formerly known as Wilts and Dorset.
It arrives. YES! It's an OPEN TOP!
I board with an excitement not changed since childhood. This bus service is my all time favourite. You'll soon find out why. I head for the back seat and off we go! The community on the top of this bus always delightedly share in its offerings of rain, wind, overhanging trees, wet bottoms and bus drivers demonstrating their penchant for being a 'racing bus' driver.
With the sun shining, we follow the bend around Bournemouth Square.
Looking to my left, I see the central path leading through Lower Gardens to the beach. To my right is Bournemouth Square, which used to be a roundabout. Now it's a piazza type experience for locals and visitors.
To the left of two palm trees is the old Debenhams, now a fancy destination store called Bobbies. When built, it opened originally as Bobby and Co in 1915, changing to Debenhams in 1972. Its focus now combines cultural tourism with shopping to create a 'unique and faithfully restored venue' as they describe in their advertising.
When I was little, I went out shopping in Debenhams with my mum and grandparents. I took it upon myself to hide within the coat racks for quite some time. I can't remember if I was found, or if I revealed myself once I realised I'd been the cause of gut-wrenching panic.
A quick look back to the town centre and before we journeyed through the Chines, we visited Westbourne, the 'fashion district' of Bournemouth, with its boutiques and interior design shops.
A statue of Mary stood on the roof of an inconsequential building. I can't recall seeing a graveyard or church in its vicinity. It looked quite alone and perplexed as to why it was there.
For thirteen minutes, we meandered our way through the Chines. Durley Chine, Allum Chine and Branksome Chine. A sprawling community for the rich and wealthy, retired in their Victorian mansions.
The bus teases us at Branksome Chine with a 'blink and you'll miss it' view of the sea and five minutes later, we pass 'Seaside Sizzle' a 1970's-ish luxury pad with glass walls and balconies. Looking across to Poole Harbour, Seaside Sizzle is another 'memory marker' as its name much amused my daughter Eleanor and her step siblings when young, travelling on the No 50 as a days out activity. And as adults, it still does.
After morsel offerings of the sea back at the Royal Bath Hotel, at 5:28pm, it revealed, in part, its splendours. And after being in the shadow of the Chines' multitudinous pine trees, the view suddenly opens up. Ahead of us is Brownsea Island, famous for its red squirrels and is regarded as the birthplace of the world wide scouting movement.
Boats and paddle boards bob about on the waters surface and as we curve round this end of the harbour we pass the entrance to Shore Road beach, then 'Millionaires Row' (the most expensive coastal street in the world) and Sandbanks beach; memories of which are too rich and numerous to mention here.
Past a parade of shops, which have suffered the curse of gentrification: cafes have become bistros and Rick Stein has moved in. We move along the Banks Road, a one way system on the southern side of Sandbanks peninsula.
We turn left. We have reached the Haven Ferry shop and the Haven Hotel. The
Haven Ferry shop has thankfully avoided the capitalist handshake. When I was young, a much looked forward to routine, was to be treated to a Screwball Ice Cream from my mum, a reward for cycling the ten miles or so to get there from my grandparents house in Upton.
Part Ten
The Haven Hotel sits at the top of Sandbanks peninsula and looks out onto Poole Harbour, Brownsea Island, Shell Bay and the Purbeck Hills in the distance. The name of the small stretch of water it's settled by is the Haven Channel. Further into Poole Harbour is the Swash Channel, and behind the Haven Hotel is the English Channel, thus giving it 270 degrees of views of water.
Poole Harbour is a drowned valley and is the estuary for seven rivers, the largest being the Frome. Its area is roughly 14 square miles and is 'talked up' as being the second largest natural harbour in the world. However, there are plenty of other harbours across the globe laying claim to this title and one of these is most likely the truest claimer.
It is 5:31pm and the bus has turned its engine off. It's waiting in a small queue of cars and I estimate the wait time to be about ten minutes. I take the time to scan the scene around me.
To my right in the foreground are a series of jetties lining up along the west shore of Sandbanks peninsula. The jetties are attached to gardens, which in turn are attached to expansive dwellings, priced in their millions. Sandbanks residents currently or previously include the varied likes of Harry and Jamie Redknapp, John Lennon's aunt Mimi and down the road in Branksome is Liam Gallagher.
North of the jetties, there's the southern facing tip of Brownsea Island and Brownsea Island Castle, historically known as Branksea Castle. It was originally a device fort constructed by Henry the Eighth, becoming a country house in 1726 after a period of abandonment lasting over 250 years. It was owned by a host of characters until the National Trust purchased it and leased it to the John Lewis Partnership. They've restored it over the years and have used it as a corporate hotel for employees and retired staff.
Aged eighteen years (ish) I was offered a chambermaid's job there. I wrestled with the decision of whether or not to take it. This would have been some commute; an hour and a half bus ride from home and then catch a ferry. Work my shift, stay over in the castle, work another shift, then repeat the journey home. Alternatively, I was offered another chambermaiding job in Bournemouth within a budget hotel. Still an hour's bus ride, but this time without the ferry commute. My plan for after work would be to go clubbing and stay overnight at a friend's house.
Both options appealed, but I went for the latter, so that I could have a social life with humans, slightly edging it over one with squirrels and seagulls. As much as I love my friends, today I'd make a different choice as my social battery runs out quickly and time in nature and quiet evens out my soul.
As I scan the horizon, the Purbeck Hills are calling. I can see the deep gap in which out of view, on a hill of its own, stands Corfe Castle, built by William the Conqueror and demolished by the parliamentarians in the 17th century. 'Corfe' in Old English is 'Ceorfan' meaning 'to cut or to carve' and this isolated hill was created by two streams, 'The Corfe River' and 'Byle Brook'.
Below me is a sign for the Southwest Coastal Path, England's longest waymarker path. Ahead, just below the far off 'Ceorfan', I can see the Sandbanks ferry on its return journey. Sandbank's ferry has shuttled between Sandbanks and Shell Bay since 1926. It's a chain link ferry carrying vehicles, cyclists and pedestrians. The crossing connects Poole and Bournemouth with the Isle of Purbeck and Swanage, saving travellers a 12.5 mile trip by road around Poole Harbour.
Whenever I come home, I aim to go on the ferry, either as a pedestrian or on the open top. If I can't do that, just seeing and hearing it is a good second option.
As a pedestrian, if you go on the upper deck, you can wander the walkways between the bow and the stern, to observe the journey from and to, with sea gulls accompanying you from above, and fish from below. An open top bus crossing isn't any less exciting. You can join the pedestrians in hearing the 'chug chug' sound of the ferry's chains' passing underneath it through a mechanism.
The ferry's captain in their lookout always appeases requests by children to wave at them. I have to admit that I enjoy exchanging a smile of acknowledgement with them too.
Each journey takes four minutes. I've learnt to adapt in absorbing its delight to the fullest, within the available allotted time.
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.
It 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.
And as we come down the hill, we see a spattering of families enjoying the evenings quiet on the beach. It is now that 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've 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 all the way 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.
