Brading: Alight here for a bit of a walk to a Roman Villa. But I stayed on, as did almost everyone else on the train. Inside the station building I could see a special permanent Railway Heritage Exhibition and Visitor Centre, curated by the local town council, detailing the history of Railways on the Isle of Wight. I watched as an old lady volunteer stood alone in the centre of the room, shuffling some exhibits, waiting patiently for a non-existent visitor to come and look at posters or hire a bike or buy cakes. I almost felt like rushing off the train to make her bank holiday worthwhile, but my guilt abated and I left her to a lonely afternoon. Please, if any of you are ever passing through, do pop in and ease my conscience.
Sandown: Not the Surrey park with the racecourse, but one of the Isle of Wight's three major southern resorts. Sunshine and shelter give this coastal strip one of the UK's finest microclimates, although the bank holiday weather I suffered was atypically grey, misty and damp. Not that the holidaymakers who'd decamped here for the week were going to let the underwhelming weather get them down. Admittedly absolutely nobody was hiring a deckchair or striped sunlounger, staying away from the beach in favour of chips on the promenade or a look round the shops. But many had found solace on thepier, firing money into the slots or wandering around the indoor "adventure" miniature golf course. I don't think I've ever walked through quite so many amusements prior to escaping out onto the boardwalk of a pier before (oh look, saucy postcards with cut-out faces, and dodgems, and yet more amusements). "Spare a pound, sir?" asked various helmeted members of the local lifeboat crew. They looked crestfallen when my donation slipped through my fingers and rolled across the pier's wooden slats, but then put on a magnificient rescue operation to retrieve the coin from a narrow crevice above the waves. Impressive rescue skills, guys.
Lake: Strange name for a station, especially when there isn't a lake in the vicinity. Lake is a quiet clifftop village, a carpet of bungalows with a gloriousview across the sweeping curve of Sandown Bay. At least I think it's a glorious view - I couldn't see all the way round on Monday through the murk. Neither could I see the crumbling sandstone cliffs beneath my feet, nor the dinosaur bones scattered liberally amongst the unstable strata, nor the row of off-white beach huts way down below. But I did appreciate the lost grandeur of BatteryGardens. This clifftop expanse was once a thriving summer haunt with ice cream kiosk, tea rooms and extensive terraced flower beds, but on a grey bank holiday afternoon in 2008 I was the only visitor. It seems these well-tended municipal gardens are now too far from Sandown's commercial centre to make any impact, and I felt like the sole mourner at a funeral for the traditional English seaside holiday as I passed through.
Shanklin: I immediately recognised the architectural style at this station [photo], with its wooden canopy and twirly monogrammed ironwork, as something very similar to that of Bromley-by-Bow much nearer home. Outside the station I had to trek down a couple of suburban backstreets before there were any clues that Shanklin was anything special. But once I reached the hill down the Old High Street, weaving between a handful of picturesque thatched cottages, the contrast with London E3 was extreme. Close by was the entrance to Shanklin Chine, a leafy river-cut ravine leading down to the beach. Publicity outside the entrance failed to convince me that £3.75 for entrance would be well spent, although looking back now (mmm, waterfall) I suspect I may have missed out. Instead I headed down the cliff via the cheap zig-zag route to explore the delights of the beach. Proper sand, more beach huts, and a whole additional street at almost-sea-level in the shelter of the sandstone escarpment. A bright orange land train waited to take lazy visitors up and down the Esplanade, from a starting point adjacent to where the pier used to be (until the great storm of 1987 blew it away). But I was most struck by the astonishing clifflift, a sheer vertical shortcut between the town and its beach, standing tall like a freestanding white periscope. Shanklin's first hydraulic lift was installed in Victorian times - this is the 1960 replacement. But millions have crammed into the two tiny carriages over the years, and there's photographic evidence pinned up inside to prove that Frank Sinatra, Margaret Thatcher and David Beckham have all come along for the ride. [esplanade-y lift-y photo]
Ventnor: Alas, the Island Line doesn't go to Ventnor any more. It wasn't thought worthwhile to keep open the final bendy stretch of railway track through the chalk, so now the only way through to the island's premierresort is by road. I didn't trust the bank holiday bus service so I never got this far. But next time I return to the island, and there's stillsomuchIdidn'tsee, I'll leave the trains behind and explore by bus.
Sandown: Not the Surrey park with the racecourse, but one of the Isle of Wight's three major southern resorts. Sunshine and shelter give this coastal strip one of the UK's finest microclimates, although the bank holiday weather I suffered was atypically grey, misty and damp. Not that the holidaymakers who'd decamped here for the week were going to let the underwhelming weather get them down. Admittedly absolutely nobody was hiring a deckchair or striped sunlounger, staying away from the beach in favour of chips on the promenade or a look round the shops. But many had found solace on the pier, firing money into the slots or wandering around the indoor "adventure" miniature golf course. I don't think I've ever walked through quite so many amusements prior to escaping out onto the boardwalk of a pier before (oh look, saucy postcards with cut-out faces, and dodgems, and yet more amusements). "Spare a pound, sir?" asked various helmeted members of the local lifeboat crew. They looked crestfallen when my donation slipped through my fingers and rolled across the pier's wooden slats, but then put on a magnificient rescue operation to retrieve the coin from a narrow crevice above the waves. Impressive rescue skills, guys.
Shanklin: I immediately recognised the architectural style at this station [photo], with its wooden canopy and twirly monogrammed ironwork, as something very similar to that of Bromley-by-Bow much nearer home. Outside the station I had to trek down a couple of suburban backstreets before there were any clues that Shanklin was anything special. But once I reached the hill down the Old High Street, weaving between a handful of picturesque thatched cottages, the contrast with London E3 was extreme. Close by was the entrance to Shanklin Chine, a leafy river-cut ravine leading down to the beach. Publicity outside the entrance failed to convince me that £3.75 for entrance would be well spent, although looking back now (mmm, waterfall) I suspect I may have missed out. Instead I headed down the cliff via the cheap zig-zag route to explore the delights of the beach. Proper sand, more beach huts, and a whole additional street at almost-sea-level in the shelter of the sandstone escarpment. A bright orange land train waited to take lazy visitors up and down the Esplanade, from a starting point adjacent to where the pier used to be (until the great storm of 1987 blew it away). But I was most struck by the astonishing cliff lift, a sheer vertical shortcut between the town and its beach, standing tall like a freestanding white periscope. Shanklin's first hydraulic lift was installed in Victorian times - this is the 1960 replacement. But millions have crammed into the two tiny carriages over the years, and there's photographic evidence pinned up inside to prove that Frank Sinatra, Margaret Thatcher and David Beckham have all come along for the ride. [esplanade-y lift-y photo]
