One of my favoured Wareham haunts is the Quay - this paved space adjoins the river, just before the bridge, with its three shallow arches - yachts tie up here in the summer - they motor up the winding river, half hidden by man high rushes - downstream are the shallow lagoons and wooded islets of Poole Harbour -
Opposite is a wide grassy bank, with wetlands and water meadows beyond - last winter, there were floods - you could see swans, gathered in moody gangs, guarding the submerged pastures - sea gulls whirled down from the leaden sky -
But the July afternoon Anne and I were there, the sky was a dazzling blue - I was brown from the sun - we'd heard the jet stream had moved southwards - perhaps now we were living within a sci fi novel - we might see jewelled lizards, basking outside Saint Martins on the Walls -
Families, with rugs and labradors, were camped upon the scorched grass - chubby young boys, like glistening seals, threw themselves into the warm river - slim girls sunbathed - young men brooded - couples canoodled -
A pleasure boat from Poole, the Dorset Queen, was moored to the Quay - its passengers were drinking cappuccinos in The Granary, or supping dark ale in The Quay Inn - a few braved the insolent sea gulls whilst they snarfed hot vinegary chips -
Later, we watched the boat spring off the Quay - the bravo at the helm was very skillful - he spun the hull around, to face downstream - his crewman coiled the warps upon the tremulous deck - I saw a tanned aunt take photographs with her digital camera -
The Dorset Queen made its way down to the harbour, its wake churning the rushes - if I half closed my eyes, I thought, I would see men in boaters, women clutching parasols -
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