Even by the outstandingly high standards set by the rest of this glorious coastline of ours, Dorset is special. As a snotty-nosed schoolboy sat in a cavernous, drafty classroom I can still picture my inspirational geography teacher Mr Douglas in the throes of a misty-eyed eulogy about Durdle Door, Lulworth Cove and Chisel Beach. I have a lot for which to thank Mr Douglas. His genuine enthusiasm for the subject marked him out amongst his peers, most of whom were more motivated by clock-watching and time-marking. He was the difference between me leaving school at 18 as an immature, directionless waistrel, and me leaving university at 21 as a debt-laden immature directionless waistrel. In many ways Ken Douglas was ahead of his time. I can remember him raging against the wanton destruction of the environment and the folly of building six-lane motorways across bits of rural England long before Swampy and his cohorts took to trees to protect East London from the M11 link road in the 90
RMS Titanic leaving Southampton by John Stewart Southampton was a coastal city I did not know well – save for a visit to Ordnance Survey’s hallowed offices in my first ever proper job – until Daughter No 1 took up residence there as a student. The day we took her to the University halls of residence for the very first time was, predictably, full of sharp emotions and memory stabs. Our collection of cavernous IKEA bags, long-time unregarded residents of the shoe cupboard, finally came into their own for moving day. Temporarily packed with bewildering items from Daughter No 1’s old and new existence, they played a key role in the home-uni transit arrangements. The bags and holdalls had to be relayed to the car in shifts and then crow-barred into the boot and seat wells. Jackie over the road looked out on the scene and said that they had to deploy their trailer, more often used for scout camps, when they took their daughter to uni. Last to come downstairs from DN1s bedroom was a famil