The journey started with an Uber to Surbiton, driven by a lovely Sri Lankan chap. Catering is not supplied onboard the train and so we bought alliterative breakfasts: bacon, bangers, bread, brown sauce. Except Helen had sausage and cheese. Who has cheese with sausage?
Exit row seats were available offering generous legroom for my left leg only. On the second train, from Woking, we had half the carriage to ourselves. This part of the journey was largely occupied by Helen playing Pokemon Go or doing some "here's what's in my head" doodling, while I dozed or played Fruit Ninja.
Brockenhurst next, for one last train change, to Lymington. Ooh look, boats!
And, much like Bergen or Prague, we got back on the same vehicle and immediately set off to where we came. Well, sort of. Our decision to go to Lymington Pier was not vindicated, as it turns out all there is is a terminal for the Yarmouth car ferry. Not even a nice walk back, so we alighted at Lymington Town. There is an excellent sign and some faded Union Jack bunting.
A big boat this is not.
A few minutes in there are sport sailors, with sponsorship and everything. This bloke goes at a fair old clip.
The Isle of Wight is over there.
The hoofing great ferry is quite intimidating from down here. Everyone waves at everyone else though.
This boat has run aground. They've been trying to extricate themselves for over an hour. The tide is going out. Oh dear.
Our captain was a young lad who I doubt has done or will ever do a day's work in his privileged life. Silver spoon present and correct. His commentary, such as it was, largely revolved around how expensive it is to moor expensive boats in the expensive marina. He also told the old local woman with her shopping bags that the RNLI do not have a shop. This is not true.
Back in town and, hey! There's a wrestling show on soon!
We need cash. In Lymington, ATMs come with damaging lasers, and mirrors.
They're proud of their iron gas lamps round here.
Beyond the baths, which look fun but are not photography subject material unless you're a 70s BBC entertainer, there are more boats and extreme danger.
By now we're kinda done with Lymington. At this end of town there's fuck all. We also have noticed there seems to be no beach, despite all the shops selling buckets and spades and other beach tat.
Now we're hungry, thirsty, and want to reward the Bosuns Chair's excellent signage with our custom.