The world from my window

There is nothing quite like a steam train to get those nostalgic feelings surfacing. I was born next to the Chard branch line but can't remember the trains travelling along the track because it closed in 1962.  Apparently, though, I went on the last train, safely tucked up in a pram, with my parents and siblings. It's a nature reserve now, and well worth a visit. The old halt has been restored, and there's a lovely statue of a little girl who was evacuated to the village in the Second World War . There's something reassuring about a steam train, the sound, the sight and the smell of it taking people back to an age gone by, a period of time in which things seemed much more simple but probably weren't. That's what nostalgia does for you, it makes you look at the past through rose-tinted spectacles. So when I heard via Facebook that a recreation of the historic Devon Belle was going to pass through the main line closest to Lush Places - several miles from ...

There is a kind of smog above Lush Places this evening as we make our way through winding lanes towards the sea. The skies become bright blue the closer we get to it. On the left side of the road is undulating countryside rolling up towards Eggardon. On the right, the Marshwood Vale is laid out beside us like a patchwork blanket waiting for a picnic. We cruise into town, pass queues of people at the Electric Palace who've got here early to see The Proclaimers and then down past the marquees for the annual food and beer festivals and on to West Bay. It's way too choppy to go out on the boat, so we wander around the harbour and take in the sights, sounds and smells of a small Dorset seaside resort at leisure. Seagulls sidle up to children eating ice creams and mums and dad tucking into fish and chips from the roadside kiosks. Spaniels yank on their leads as overweight owners pant and wheeze and say 'stop pulling.' They might as well be telling the tide not to ...

The sound of church bells echoes out across the still, evening air. The six bells break out into a run of Whittington , named after the call by Bow bells to the medieval merchant, Dick Whittington: 'Turn again Whittington, Lord Mayor of London...' It is bell ringing practice night in The Enchanted Village and the novices are improving. I was one once, and never really progressed from call changes. The weight of the bell terrified me as did its potential to inflict huge damage. I had visions of the bell crashing down through into the ringing chamber and enveloping me for eternity. But I did like being in direct touch with history, making a sound with an instrument hundreds of years old. Now, though, I am content to hear the ringers from the safety of my own home, listening through the world from my window. The sound is different from yesterday, when a steam engine trundled through after stopping at the stream outside Posh Totty's house to take on water. The noise was enough...