Bridgenorth via Kidderminster and the Severn Valley Railway

It's probably fair to say that Kidderminster isn't high on most peoples lists of dream holiday locations. I have wandered through the town centre in the past and it's no more interesting than any other downbeat Midlands town whose industrial base has largely deserted it. However there is one attraction that many of the competitors would love to have, Kidderminster is home to the Severn Valley Railway. Perhaps it is a peculiarly British eccentricity, or an example of “people power”, but when railway lines were closing in the 1950s and 60s, enthusiasts started banding together to buy and re-open them. Up and down the country railways that the powers that be decided were unnecessary have found a new lease of life providing entertainment for both travellers and operators.

My trip started with a run through central Birmingham past endless amounts of industry both live and dead. The highlight was probably West Bromwich Albion's football ground which appears to be a giant marque – the sort of thing you see trade stands in at outdoor events but on a much larger scale. I'm assuming some football goes on in there but since I don't follow the beautiful game I'm not sure.

I sat towards the back of the train and through the door that lead to the drivers cab I could see the track we had just travelled over. Quite why this view is so appealing when there are perfectly good windows in the side is something I accept but don't understand. Perhaps it's the fact that it's so often denied to us that matters. As a bit of an enthusiast I suppose I like to see the equipment that makes the railway work, for a while anyway, a bit like seeing behind the scenes in a theatre.

A mystery appeared on the skyline at Rowley Regis – two large communications towers on the horizon. Thanks to the haze they were a little indistinct but I'd certainly like to know more. A dig around on Google Maps hasn't enlightened me. Since we are talking about pretty substantial structures I would have thought they would be obvious on the satellite view but no.

Passing through Old Hill there is a golf course. Nothing special except it appears to be in a back garden. It is complete with rough, fairway, green and flag, all the builder needed to add was a bunker or two and the job would be complete. Perhaps this is a new idea – separate holes at different locations. To play a round you catch a bus and get off at different stops to tee off for each hole. Taking a different bus could give a different course effectively each time. Perhaps I should patent that idea ?

From Stourbridge Junction the landscape changes from buildings, via a burst of red sandstone in a cutting to rolling countryside. One minute you are in Birmingham and its environs, the next to the sound of choirs singing “Jerusalem”, the English country with hills and trees and everything.

Kidderminsters' proper station is a couple of platforms with a building picked from an uninspiring catalogue. Next door is the Severn Valley's much more imposing attempt. Brick built with towers, a sweeping approach and a proper ticket office you'd not be blamed for thinking it had always been there. The effect is helped because it is surrounded by buildings that are a lot older. The town was a big producer of carpets and also hosted the weekly livestock market so goods facilities were important and these buildings survived. One warehouse houses a railway museum full of signs and memorabilia. Admittedly on a weekday out of the holiday period I was the only visitor and the lady looking after the café wasn't doing great business but it's free and well worth the visit.

Being out of season there are only four departures to Bridgenorth, my intended destination. I'd missed the first but after half an hour the next train puffed into the station. Enthusiasts will want to know it was pulled by a GWR 0-6-0 Pannier Tank locomotive. Everyone else will just say it was a steam train. A line like this is staffed mainly by volunteers. Not being paid seems to affect their pride in the job as the coaches were taken away and washed before we were allowed to board. That care and attention plus the well presented uniforms that everyone wore spoke of a pride that has long since been beaten out of public life in other sectors.

Now when you take a traditional steam train ride in Britain you expect to see many things from the window – hills, sheep, cows, abandoned cars etc. More of a surprise was the sight of water buffalo followed by elephants. It is possible that some farmer had decided that cattle were too much trouble and wanted something with more meat on its bones but more likely that that section of line runs past West Midlands Safari park. I had to look this up which indicates someone is missing a trick with the advertising – a banner on the fence might get them a few more visitors.

Puttering through he countryside this way is very restful. The gentle sway of the coach, the noise from the engine and the clickety-clack of the wheels is enough to lull the passenger to sleep which is a pity as the view are not spectacular but pleasant in a very English way. The railway manages to do more than simply re-create the technical aspects of the line, it also recreates the atmosphere of the 1930s. Each station is immaculately presented with “set dressing” of luggage and ephemera. Some might see this as a Disneyfication of the past but I like to think it's more than this. The timetable is adhered to but in an unhurried and unpressured way. Post was being sent up the line by handing it to the guard and all the staff talk to each other like old friends, which of course many of them will be.

On reaching Bridgenorth everyone piles off the train and heads across a modern and surprisingly high footbridge which dumps you at a roadside. I followed the signs to the cliff railway as most of these trips seem to involve one so why break the habit ?

The town is on a very steep hill hence the funicular, one of the few not at a seaside. The line is crammed in between buildings and would be easy to miss if you weren't looking for it. The ride is quick and not in the least bit scary. I love the design of the cars which are bubble like rather than the Victorian boxes found elsewhere. 90 pence buys a return to the town, which considered the other option seems a bargain. Tickets come out of a proper machine set in the office desk. The only problem is that they are torn in half for each section of the trip so you don't get a souvenir !

The trip from Kidderminster is just over 16 miles but you might as well be in another world when you reach the centre of town. Yes there are a couple of chain stores, the ubiquitous WH Smith & Woolworths, the rest are the local shops beloved of tourists if not townspeople. The centre is dominated by the town hall which hosts markets in the arched area underneath. At one end of town a castellated gate provides a traffic obstruction. Quite how these survived the 1960's rush for road building I don't know, but I suspect the tourist office is glad they did. It's this sort of thing that give a destination like this atmosphere and makes it worth coming. There isn't a town square as such, just a wide main street with the market hall and lots of parking in the space that would once have been home to cattle on sales days.

Regular readers of this blog will be pleased to know that there is a small indoor market. The highlight is undoubtedly the second hand book stall which is huge and home to a wide variety of titles, not just pulp fiction but proper books you would be really pleased to track down. The rest of the market appears more like a down market department store with each area owned by someone else. With so little space to play with I doubt that they could do anything else. Mind you, the butchers selling local delicacies at the front was very tempting...

Under the side of the town gate I found one of the most unexpected shops I've found ever – an importer of weird American foodstuffs called Americalicious. Without teh Interweb I seriously doubt that the owner would stay open for more than a week but when I went in he was busy parcelling up goodies to dispatch around the country. Most of the display seemed to consist of Hershey products but as anyone brought up on a diet of Cadbury products knows they are an abomination. I settled for a packet of Jell-o and some Kelloggs Fruit Loops. Reading the nutritional information on the side explains so much about the size of America today – the main ingredient of each product appears to be calories.

After taking in both model shops (three if you count the one that specialises in die-cast collectibles) and an antique centre that used to be a garage, I decided I needed food before the return trip. Since I hadn't picked up a newspaper I headed to Smiths, the only newsagent as far as I could tell, and then to the Swan pub on the other side of the road.
Waiting at the bar to order the landlord was saying farewell to someone. He explained that the lady had worked in the pub for 28 years and the previous day had been her last with them. I asked what she did and he said, “She was the chef”. Now that's not a good thing to hear when you are about to order lunch but apparently they had a replacement and everything would be fine. Sadly the traditional toad in the hole had sold out and I didn't know what the next two over enthusiastically offered options were so I plumped for a mixed-grill affair. This arrived after about 25 minutes and looked OK. However I suspect the new cook is still finding his feet. The chips were both hot and not cooked properly, the bacon seared but surprisingly pink. The beer was nice though even if it wasn't a local brew.

After this I had to waddle back to the station fairly quickly to catch the train. I made it with ten minutes to spare and settled down in a compartment coach. These have long since disappeared from the real railway and I for one miss them. I understand that people could get up to mischief when hidden away but if you were in a quiet one, it meant a peaceful journey as noise and trouble didn't travel. Neither did heat though and the other passenger sharing it with me decided to go and find an open coach as this was too hot – vintage coaches offer no air conditioning !

A couple of stops down the line I was joined by two of the volunteer “explainers” from the Engine House museum on the line. This is a new attraction which aims to showcase some of the lines locomotives and put them in context. This all sounds very worthy and I wonder how many of the tourists will care when someone tries to explain why an exhibit matters when all they want is for their kids to use it as a climbing frame. Anyway, the volunteers were talking about a recent diesel gala. Apparently they find that not all enthusiasts are equal, even amongst the “anoraks” some are weirder than others. People sniffing in diesel fumes and sighing in the same way a wine taster does are definitely considered to be on the lunatic fringe !

Neither seemed to know why an ITV outside broadcast van was parked up in Arley station but we were all impressed when the dish unfolded itself from the roof, spun around and started hunting for a signal. The high-tech contrasted with it's surroundings and the coal powered train we were riding on. That coal made its appearance as we trundled through a long tunnel later on in the form of sparks flying by the windows. You don't see them in the sunlight but would certainly notice it if they hit some dry undergrowth nearby.

We made it back to Kidderminster in time to find crowds of kids being disgorged from the main line stations doors as the returned from school. Fighting my way through the crowds I made it on to the a train that turned out to be running straight through to Leamington. As we rumbled off it was interesting to compare the two trains – I was in a carriage that rattle because of the engine under the floor. All around were plastics and metal. The seat was comfortable but not luxurious. The journey would be punctual but impersonal. By contrast my steam trip had seem me wallow in seats surrounded by wood and fittings that were certainly not vandal-proof. The windows opened so I could stick my head out. It was a different age.

More photos on Flickr

Aberystwyth

Wales is a foreign country whose people there speak a strange, scrabble-defying language.

My experience of the natives has, along with many other English people's, not been all that positive. Several years ago I stayed a few nights in Builth Wells for a training course. Walking down the main street on the Sunday evening I had abuse (I think) shouted at me in Welsh just because I looked English. Unfortunately there are some very pretty bits of country and a lot of interest in this dark land and as I want to take my VeeDub there in a couple of months I thought it would be a good idea to have a day trip to Wales to acclimatise myself.

Playing around with the ever unfriendly Network Rail Journey planner, I worked out that in a day it is possible to travel to Aberystwyth and back in a day. That's about as far west as you go in Britain without getting wet feet. Better still, if I bought my ticket in Birmingham the price dropped from a whopping 48 quid to around half that – even allowing for the trip to Brum. More research in a handy edition of the Lonely Planet guide to Great Britain showed that the town had a cliff tramway and pier. That's enough for me, I was sold.

The train out of Birmingham New Street was interesting. Announcements before we started were telling us that it would split during the journey with the rear half going where I wanted and the front travelling up the Cambrian Coast line to Tywyn. As a bit of an anorak I realised that the end that had been the front to New Street would be the back when it left, unlike half the other passengers to general confusion and panicy scampering along the aisles and back again.

The journey starts unremarkable enough heading out through Wolverhampton and Shrewsbury. I enjoy the Black Country scenery of canals and derelict factory buildings in a macabre sort of way. It's interesting to speculate what they once produced and imagine the proud owners standing in front of gleaming new premises. For some reason my mental picture has the owner dressed in tweeds and everyone wearing bowler hats with workers in flat caps. I knew I was on the way to Wales though - the guard called me “bach” when returning my ticket after checking it. We were heading for holiday territory too, the carriage carpet was from the traditional B&B section of the catalogue judging by it’s lurid design.

I settled down to enjoy the journey. Birmingham New Street to Abber takes around 3 hours, plenty of time to struggle with the crossword and read a book. To make the experience complete I picked up a muffin from the baker next to New Street’s ticket barrier. Like a good boy I eschewed the double chocolate option, plumping for the much healthier Banana and Toffee version. This surely counts as one of my “five a day” doesn’t it ?

Along the way there are sights to be seen. I was amused to see that when we pulled up in Wellington station, over the top of the building there was a Boots sign visible !

Welshpool station is a mystery too. The old station is on the other side of a main road from the railway. I’m assuming that years ago the line was rationalised and the station site reduced allowing space for the road. I’m sure the local council approved wholeheartedly. As it is the building is still in fine shape and now operates as a shop. Apparently it sells Hornby model railways amongst other things.

Normally I like to spend a long train trip stuffing my face, listening to music and reading a good book. The reading had to stop after Newtown though - the scenery was simply too good to ignore. We travelled through valleys between brooding mountains and across fast flowing rivers. The weather was kind - soft sunlight with just a hint of cloud to cast ever moving shadows in the hillsides.

After an hour of hillsides the scenery opened out at Dovey Junction. Here the line splits with track heading off up the Cambrian Coast line. At this point the view out of the window becomes completely compelling. You simply can’t take your eyes off it and my book was completely forgotten.

All good things have to come to an end. In this case that means Borth. Borth is a seaside town whose popularity is obvious due to the huge number of mobile homes that seem to cover the entire town. Those covering the hills looked like a giant wave with the white roofs glittering in the sun. What is it about the British holidaymaker that wants to visit a place where every building has wheels yet never moves ? One thing a rail user doesn’t get to see though is the real sea. You are far too inland for that even if there caravan infestation didn’t get in the way.

Aberystwyth station is nice. It’s actually home to two railways. The Network Rail’s and The Vale of Rheidol. The later had the distinction of being home to British Rail’s last steam engines which ran into the late 1980s when the line was privatised. I’d managed to pick a day to visit between two operating days so there wasn’t anything much to see, but with only 4 hours to kill a ride would have been out of the question anyway. Exiting the station I notice that the prominent sign on the build proclaims it is a Wetherspoons Free House rather than where you get trains. Railway enthusiasts will also be amused by the presence of an hotel called Beechings opposite. Don’t ask, it’s not that funny.

The sea is a five minute stroll from the station. I’ll be honest and say lounging on the beach wasn’t what I’d come for - good thing too as it’s a combination of shingle and stones. No soft sand for the Welsh obviously.

I started with the cliff railway on Constitution Hill at the north end of the town. The ticket was issued at the office from an over complicated computerised system that smacked of someone in the councils IT department getting involved. Why does the guy in the office have to type in the number of passengers ? Surely a couple of rolls of tickets would be more authentic and reliable ?

Anyway, I clambered aboard the car which differs from other funiculars in that it is open and had tiered seating. After a short wait the ride to the top of the hill started and I began to regret my choice of seat. Sadly I’m not great with heights. Ladders defeat me but buildings are OK as long as I have something solid nearby. The view from the car was, disconcerting. There wasn’t anything between me and the view. For the first few minutes I sat very still in the seat. It didn’t help that once track became visible this didn’t look like it had been maintained since the line opened (H&S Note - I’m sure it is regularly checked and is fully in accordance with all appropriate rules and regs. That’s what I kept telling myself anyway.) which was, according to the other car as it rattled past, 1896. The ropes hauling us up didn’t look very thick ether. Still, the views were spectacular with a panorama of the town available to those with open eyes.

At the top of the hill there is a café, playroom, Frisbee golf (?) and camera obscura - the largest in the world and of course, shut. Looking along the coast makes you think the builders of the town weren’t very clever, there is proper tourist friendly sand on the beaches in the next bay. Thanks to the joys of mobile phones I also found out all about one persons brand new car in English and Welsh and the appointments of a woman who needed to understand she was on holiday. I suppose as offices go, this one at least had decent views.

Back in town, the pier is to be honest, rubbish. It’s not very long and contains a pub and amusement arcade. I tried a few machines and all I won nothing except some tickets which the office wouldn‘t redeem as I didn‘t have enough. Each was as valuable as cash in Zimbabwe at present. There didn’t seem to be a way out of the back of the building to see the sea either. I’m assuming a chunk fell off the back of the structure once, either that or the builders ran out of cash before getting very far. Where the obligatory theatre ?

While the pier disappoints, the harbour is much more appropriate to a seaside town. If you are around in the morning there will fresh fish aplenty. Judging by the number of pots, fresh lobster is on the menu too. Aberystwyth boat club does good business too judging by the number of sailing boats moored up. Not many relics either - I doubt there were more than half a dozen vessels that wouldn’t be seaworthy. Maybe they are hidden away somewhere. The lifeboat station houses an inshore boat so presumably the sailors manage to stay out trouble most of the time too.

To complete my joy I found an little indoor market when walking back past the attractive ruined castle. Not exactly busy, one of the stallholders was dozing behind her stand, I suspect this might be because the goodies on offer were best described as “stuff” - the sort of thing you might buy but wouldn’t miss if you left it behind in the hotel. Mind you, it is possible to have your laptop valeted, a service I’ve never seen offered before.

Presumably because of the extra trade provided by the local university, the shopping centre is pretty good. All the usual chains are there along with a few odd-balls. One street even has two model shops - more than there are in the whole of London. What it lacks is the traditional seaside tat shop with rubbish souvenirs. If anyone fancies a business opportunity then there it is. Judging from the number of guest houses there must be customers.

Fish and chips on the beach (OK, shelter on the prom) came courtesy of the dolphin café. A proper slightly run down establishment a million miles away from any homogenous chain outlet. The fish was good and crisp with nice batter, chips a bit soggy. Not enough vinegar either. Nice smell of seaweed from the shore though. That’s proper seaside.

Back at the station for the last train back to the midlands, the platform was pretty busy. My fellow passengers were mostly students heading away for the weekend. Our two coach train was 10 minutes late and once on board the crew announced it was playing up and so we’d have a new train waiting at Machynlleth and shouldn’t get too comfortable.

The scenery was just as amazing on the return trip. Just outside Dovey Junction we passed a man fishing from a rowing boat in the river. Rather than a rod he used a net in the same manner as a trawler. I assume a huge catch wasn’t planned or those oars were going to need some serious pulling. It didn’t seem fair to the fish either.

Machynlleth arrived and we disembarked for the new train. Despite the advice of the crew, the students were too stupid or lazy to walk far and crammed themselves on the first two coaches. The grown-ups walked further and spent the rest of the trip luxuriating in mostly empty coaches, most of us having a table to ourselves. If the beauty outside had been switched off I might have typed rather more of this on the train than I did. As it was, reading and watching the hills roll by seemed more appropriate.

The journey’s entertainment didn’t stop with a change however. Outside Telford we were held up by engineering works and it was announced the train would terminate at Wolverhampton and we’d need to change again for Birmingham. The lady behind me, who had been talking to the guard about her options for getting to Chipenham on the already delayed service sighed loudly. I commented that she would need to take up Ariva trains offer of a taxi ride mentioning that I was unlucky enough and all I was aiming for was Leamington Spa.

At this point the guy on the table opposite piped up. Next to him sat a large gentlemen obviously from eastern Europe. Apparently he was heading to Leamington too and needed some assistance. The visitor called Christian was in the country for a week laying concrete. His wife Erika lived in Leamington Spa and he was heading back from Shrewsbury to meet her.

I’ll be honest, being stuck with a Romanian with a poor grasp of English (better than my Romanian though) for the remainder of the journey on a rail network set to “messy” didn’t appeal that much but there wasn’t a lot I could do. Wolverhampton arrived we sprinted over the footbridge to a train into the city which was a good start. Once on board I checked the timetable and discovered that our train from Brum to Leamington left Snow Hill station at 10:15pm, 40 minutes after we arrived. The walk takes 5 minutes, so I was going to have to look after Christian for that time. It hardly seemed fair to just sit him in the waiting room if his visit wasn’t that long.

In Birmingham we wandered across to check the trains were running and there wasn’t the chance of an earlier one. The entire return journey was going to take 5.5 hours - 2 longer then the run out at this rate. Sadly my timetable work is excellent and we had time to kill. Christian needed a drink - “juice” he said - so I though we’d try the pub 2 minutes walk from the station. After all our visitor might as well see a traditional British Inn, even if it was a Wetherspoons. I walking in past the bouncers but they stopped my new friend for wearing a tracksuit. Sad really, it was in better condition than my grubby jeans, still, dress codes are dress codes and we wouldn’t want downmarket inner city pubs would we ?

There was a handy newsagent still open. It’s next to the bus stops and not the nicest area of town but Brum at night isn’t bad and Christian was built like a brick outhouse. He came out with Iron Bru - I didn’t like to say the only way that counts as juice is if RSJ’s are classed as fruit. Still you do get plenty or iron and I assured him it was a popular Scottish drink.

Back on the station the train had arrived early so I dived on and sat down. Looking back I’d lost Christian but I assumed he’d made a trip to the toilet so didn’t go hunting for him. A few minutes later he turns up with a women in tow - his sister-in-law who he’d bumped into heading for the same train ! She thanked me for looking after him and related his problems with the rail network, London to Shrewsbury accidentally via Sheffield had apparently been his introduction to our trains on his arrival in the country. They chatted away in Romainain and at some point also spoke to his wife to explain just why it was taking so long for them to be reunited.

We bade each other farewell at Leamington after what turned out to be a longer day than I had expected. Aberystwyth is a journey worth 28 pounds of anyone’s money if the weather is kind even if you don‘t get off the train. I know this country is home to some of the best scenery in the world and today I felt I had seen a chunk of it. The main thing I seemed to miss was Welsh people. I doubt if more than a third of the people I spoke to were native and those that were were friendly. Good news for my return trip later this year.

More pictures can be found on Flickr

Bournemouth

I know what you're thinking. Bournemouth isn't traveling. Heading off up the Zambezi is traveling. Tracing the source of the Nile is traveling. Trekking to Goa and getting stoned on a beach while being sold "authentic" trinkets by the locals is traveling. Bournemouth is where old people go to die.

To be fair a trip to the south coast is hardly in the same league as the expeditions by Victorian explorers across deepest, darkest Africa. My excuse is that they had impressive mutton chop facial hair to protect themselves and the best I could manage would be a pathetic goatie. Anyway I had a reason for wanting to take this trip. Every time I go to the station a train comes through heading for Bournemouth. Every single time. Since I'd never been there this seemed to be a sign that I should one day get on one of these trains and see if there was a wall of dead geriatrics along the edge of the English channel. Maybe the famous quote, "close up the walls with our English dead" had been taken a bit too literally ?

Whatever, there must be something good at the end of the line or why all the trains ?

With time to spare this seemed like a good starter travel. I booked some tickets (plural, it's cheaper to book two singles than a return – and when they turn up you get no less than 6 bits of card which makes for some shuffling at ticket check time) a couple of weeks in advance and on the day loaded up my rucksack with a big camera, little camera and Eee PC. Basically the same kit I plan to drag around with me later in the year on longer journeys.

The train was slightly late but otherwise an excellent journey. My reserved seat was already occupied and being properly British I didn't want to complain. That and it was window seat and I prefer an aisle. The carriage was pretty full but there were seats. In fact there were seats for all who wanted them but plenty still chose to stand and moan about the crowded conditions rather than sit next to another person.

Stars of this journey were a couple of girls who I reckon were about 15 and going on holiday somewhere. One had a rucksack the same size as herself and looked like she planned to wear it while standing despite it blocking the aisle. That lasted about 5 minutes and then she realised it was heavy. The other, dressed in shocking pink, had a large soft bag. I think I could have climbed inside it such was the size. This wasn't going anywhere as the racks were full so she tried putting it in seats, and then the owners of the seat would turn up and ask for it to be removed, or in the vestibule where it couldn't be watched so that didn't work either. I only hope they were off for a fortnight 'cos if that's a weekend then one day they will need a separate carriage for the wardrobe.

The great pleasure train travel affords is the chance to look out of the window between attempts at the crossword or pages in whatever book you are reading. You glimpse things you'd never see from a car, at least without swerving into oncoming traffic. Sometimes you wonder if you really saw something though. Is there really a giant mud hut somewhere in the back garden of a farm in the south of England ? I think I saw it but not clearly. It was certainly round with a pointed straw roof – like a recreation of an iron age dwelling perhaps as it looked pretty large.

Passing Southampton was more fun. The guard announced that if we looked out of the left hand window we'd see the largest cruise liner currently afloat. We looked and there it was – a tower block with a hull. Not pretty in anyway to my eye but if you are an octogenarian American then I suppose you have different standards.

Finally you get to marvel at station names. Who thought Pokesdown was a good idea ?

Bournemouth station is a fine piece of architecture with a loft roof albeit flat rather than a grand arch. Outside is an appealing design in brick too which looked lovely in the mid day sunlight. The town planners had done their job well too as directly beside the exit is a bus station and taxi rank. Sadly these are dominated by one of the ugliest Asda stores I've seen (I may be wrong – I've not made a study you understand) from the "Put together by the work experience lad while the proper architects went to the pub" school I think. The taxis and buses are a sunny yellow which helps a bit but sometimes you want the council to drag the architects in and point at the edifice shouting, "This is what greats the visitors to our town !".

My first stop was to be Westbourne Models (model shops figure large in my choice of destination, as do indoor markets so get used to it) which Google told me was a couple of miles away. I looked at the buses and headed to the information office to discover that I could stroll for half an hour or I pay £1.50 and see the sights from the top of a double decker. 10 minutes later I was fighting the ticket machine on board as the tear off mechanism didn't work properly. Still if it's good enough for the Andrex puppy...

No matter how often you see it, your first glimpse of the see on holiday is always special. Mine came through a bus window as we crested a hill and was worth the price of the ticket on it's own. Walking down the same road the view would have crept up on me – on the bus, wham, it was there. And being higher up it was earlier than it might otherwise have been.

Westbourne is nice. It's not rally on the edge of Bournemouth, more on the edge of the main shopping area. I'll leave the description of the shop to another blog but the other shops and even little arcade were charming. A bit run down but certainly unusual. Who needs a Flying V ukulele ? If you know then get them to Westbourne where the guitar shop has several. I wonder how they survive though. The gallery I looked in had some nice pictures but I can't see they were going to get much passing trade picking up A4 sized paintings at just under a grand. Most of the others seemed untroubled by customers yet appeared to be prospering. I guess the rents are cheap. I felt sorry for the Grand Cinema which had obviously been very grand in it's day and was now a bingo hall.

The stroll back into town was shorter and more interesting than it looked on the Google map, no mention of the Bournemouth Eye – a giant tethered balloon offering 15 minutes of panoramic views for a tenner – for example, or the lovely gardens. I navigated to the beach by deducing that the water would probably be at the bottom of the hill. It was and so was the pier.

Piers are and even greater draw to me than indoor markets and I can't pass one by. Both belong to a gentler time when we hadn't learned to fly abroad for holiday or drive to an out of town megastore. This particular pier isn't especially exciting. As the law (The Piers and content act 1806) there is an amusement arcade and a theater. You won't have heard of many of the acts at this time of year but they are familiar to the managers of provincial theaters around the country as there is a special circuit unknown to most us us where random groups sing wartime songs or hits from the musicals. I suspect in "The Home of the Geriatric (TM)" they might do some very respectable business with a crowd who respects a professional show that doesn't revolve around being on the telly. Certainly it's enough to keep the house open.

The arcade is small but it has penny falls machines which are the only ones I know how to operate. These took 2p pieces which is even better news as I'm the worlds least lucky gambler and so if I'm to lose money I want to do it slowly. For the sake of the experience I did try a pricier one arm bandit but lost interest after 20p. You put your money in the slot and press a button. Some wheels whirl and stop – that's it. I know I'm not going to win so this seems pointless. I like the lights and noises but is there more to it than that ?

The theater was shut and the wildcard restaurant at the end overlooking the kiddies

funfair was too pretentious for its location so I headed toward the only obvious source of the seaside staple – fish'n'chips . Much play has been made of the Harry Ramsdens restaurant on the front. Quite why a chain chippy is better than a proper one beats me but it was the only place (pun intended) available. To be fair the portion was OK and McDonalds style cardboard tray was probably easier to eat out of than the traditional paper when balance on the knee. I of course eshewed the greasy spoon style tables inside prefering to sit on the beach fending off seagulls. It's a very British thing to go somewhere nice and then sit in the car or at a tacky plastic table rather than on a bench outdoors. We can't bear to leave our comfort zone even when we make an effort to get to the edge of it. Of course I wouldn't have been so daring if the weather hadn't been nice !

Actually I spent quite a lot of time on the front simply staring out to sea and listening to the waves lapping on the shore. It's a lovely sound. Mind you, a decent gale would have seen me back in the town double-quick.

Anyway further along the prom there was the final magic seaside ingredient – a cliff railway. Now this is a technology ahead of its time. How did the Victorians know we'd all become too fat an lazy to climb the stairs or hill back into town ? This one even had clever differential pricing. 80p gets you a ticket down to the shore but it costs £1.10 to go back up. What you go up to is debatable, a couple of hotels basically and a sloped road that takes you back to the pier and then into town. I wasn't missing out on this ride though even if I did have the car to myself.

Back in town Bournemouth is very like every other mid sized town in the country. You see the same shops in different orders. There are a greater number of small local establishments, presumably the population is a bit more affluent and likes variety. They also like churches of all denominations. Every street had at least one and often more than one. Obviously there were C of E and Catholic establishments but also spiritualist and off shoots of the main Christian religions. With church going in decline I wonder how they all survive. None looked particularly neglected from the outside. The design of a few said late 60's/early 70's but even these survived much better than contemporary buildings, quite an achievement on the coast where storms and salty air conspire against them.

Red telephone boxes (K6 model for anoraks) also proliferated. I think i saw only a couple of the 80s BT silver versions. The shear number was impressive as the public callbox is all but extinct elsewhere thanks to the rise of the mobile.

If you feel the need to travel out of Bournemouth on the train, I can recommend the 7:45 as it was nearly empty out of the station. My booked seat was an aisle but I grabbed a table for easier typing. I shared with an arts student who was unimpressed with the lack of interweb and then proceeded to struggle with a book on Bahaus – heavy going for anyone at that time I would think. Flicking though the 50 Greatest Designs of all time (says who ?) indicated that her mind wasn't really on the studying. But then working on the train isn't always all it's cracked up to be.

So, Bournemouth is nice. I'd certainly go again but only if the weather is good. I suspect it's pretty wretched when the rain and wind are doing their worst. There are no obvious piles of aged dead, in fact I would have said the demographic of the local population isn't any different to other towns. The local university probably helps with this but even so, that reputation isn't really deserved.

More pictures on Flickr