The Spanish Inquisition lady in Corfe Castle was intrigued by the fact I’d been to Swanage as a chubby 11 year old in THAT summer of 76, and asked if I thought it had changed.
But I wasn’t complaining. Everywhere has to change a bit, or we’d all be drinking mild at a shilling a pint on bench seats with cheese cobs the only food.
This was a third return in six years after 40 years absence and I still get a frisson of excitement when I see the guest house
and the souvenir shops from which in 76 I bought a plastic statue of Dennis Tueart and a poster of Bjorn Borg.
It’s a resort for undemanding children, and ducks, one of which was nicking chips merrily by the docks.
The beach is OK, there’s better 10 miles west, but young and old seem to be having fun in Swanage.
Remember fun? Course you don’t.
My tick, the Black Swan, opens at a miserable 5pm. What happened to all day drinking ?
There’s a 40th birthday party being set up in the garden, luckily not closing the whole pub,
and an indecisive couple, the wife mesmerised by hubbies decision to “try an ale”. Finally.
You can guess which one he had. The one with the silly name. So I did too (cool, chewy 3.5).
But remember, Worth Matravers is but 10 minutes away. What are you doing here ?