Robert Twentyman

Tag: short-story

  • The Ferryman

    The Ferryman

    I’ve always wanted to take the Southwold ferry.

    It’s a 100ft boat crossing from Southwold to Walberswick, a fine alternative to the 1.3-mile walk around via the bridge.

    We finally did it on Monday.

    The ferry is a large rowing boat operated by one man who rows from the bow. A sign on board says ‘Maximum 12 passengers.’

    You reach it via a wooden jetty leading down from the road. Another sign instructs passengers to wait at the road until called forward. 

    So we did that. 

    The ferryman rowed over from the far side to collect us, and congratulated us on obeying the sign as he tied up.

    He was about 60. Wiry, tanned, and with a twinkle in his eye. He had the air of a part-time poet.

    He was very confident as he told us how to step down onto the boat one at a time and where to sit. I was wondering when to pay, but he had his patter off to a T as he said, “May I take your fares now, please.”   It was £2 each.

    He pulled away. I asked him how many crossings he does a day. He said they do a four-hour shift and that can be up to 40 crossings. We were impressed. 

    My mum remarked, “You must be fit.” 

    “Not really,” he said. “But you do need a certain amount of low cunning.” 

    I processed his words, wondering what he meant. He was reading my face well, and he explained that you have to be able to judge exactly how to position the boat depending on the tide, wind, and load.

    As he spoke, he angled the bow upstream of the landing stage – what kayakers call a ferry glide. The current carried us sideways across the harbour while he maintained our angle with subtle adjustments.

    He added that he had to make 32 crossings whilst the harbour master watched before he was permitted to work the route.

    I noticed a small outboard motor on the stern with a life ring hung over it – clearly not required under normal circumstances. I asked when he uses it.

    “It can be useful sometimes,” he said, offering nothing more.

    As we approached, he angled the boat further into the flow. The oars came inboard and the current laid us alongside the landing perfectly. All without breaking his chat.

    Two quick flicks of rope and we were tied off. He helped us out, steady and kind.

    My mum asked how far away the bridge was.

    He looked at her with a cheeky wink. 

    “We do not speak of that here.”

  • ROC Bunker

    ROC Bunker

    I’ve enjoyed visiting my in-laws a lot more since they moved to the countryside a few years back.

    Whenever I walk my dog from their place, I pass a Royal Observer Corps Cold War monitoring post. It’s been decommissioned since 1991. Sat in the corner of a farmer’s field next to a busy A road, you wouldn’t really know it was there.

    There’s space for a couple of cars just off the road. Most people who park there have no idea how close they are to a Cold War time capsule. Takeaway wrappers, NOX bottles and a sadistic-looking Richard III discourage you from taking the narrow path that leads up to it.

    There’s a concrete box rising from the ground with three steps built into it. A green metal lid sits on top. It has two hasps, one on each side where it would once have been locked, but they’re long since cut. It still opens easily, well designed with a counterweight, though these days it makes a painful graunching sound.

    Under the lid is a white-painted, concrete-lined shaft with a metal ladder set into the far wall. It goes down about fourteen feet into damp-looking darkness. I went down for another look on Sunday. This time the lid wouldn’t stay open, so I let it close gently. There was still light getting in, so there must have been air.

    I climbed down halfway; it was getting dark. My imagination ran away with me, wondering if there was anyone waiting for me down there. I held my breath and listened. When I switched on my torch, I could see where I’d be landing, so I carried on.

    At the bottom there’s a toilet or store cupboard on one side and the actual bunker on the other. Only a small space, about the size of a single garage. The walls were once white but are now covered in graffiti. The floor was a mess of smashed-up wooden pulp – presumably what’s left of the doors and shelves. It had a musty, dirty stench. Surprisingly, I could still hear every passing vehicle on the road above. I’d expected silence.

    I looked up at the metal flange on the ceiling that once held the monitoring equipment. Shining my torch into it, I saw a pipe running up to the surface.

    There would once have been a wall of communications and recording apparatus. Now there are only a few wires and holes where it was ripped away when the post was decommissioned.

    A minute or so was plenty. I appreciated the fresh air and sunlight when I lifted the hatch and climbed out.

    I find it fascinating that there were so many of these things – one every eight miles or so, enough to triangulate any blast and then measure the fallout afterwards. They were staffed by local volunteers; once a month they’d unlock the hatch and descend for training. In a real activation, three of them would have spent up to two weeks locked in, monitoring and sending signals.

    Most have been sealed up or filled in, some lovingly restored. Others, like this one, are probably getting a bit dangerous thirty-four years on. I don’t think I’ll go back inside again.

    Field Kit from This Trip

    If you are curious about my kit, here are some links to it so you can learn more and check the prices on Amazon. 

    Go Pro Hero 12 camera yes, there is a newer version, but this one is still awesome and great value for money.  I take it on all of my trips and adventures.  Tough but superb for quality.  

    Go Pro Amazon Basics GoPro Head Mount amazing value, does the job, what more do you want?!?  I’ve used mine a lot.  As long as nobody’s watching you wear it (or you just don’t care) then go for it.  If you want to be a bit more discreet, I also use this chest harness and highly recommend it.  

    Ledlenser Police Tac Torch I have had this torch since January 2023, it’s just the perfect hand held torch.  3 x AAA batteries, variable brightness, anti roll protection.  Tough, portable, just the job if, for example, you’re struck by the urge to explore a Cold War bunker as you walk past it.  

    Skellerup Quatro Insulated Super Safety S5 Wellington Boots I wear these most days for dog walking and outdoor work, they are the best wellies I have ever had.  You get what you pay for, these are well worth it.  Comfortable, warm, safe.  

    As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases. 

    Thanks for reading. If you enjoyed this review or spot anything that needs correcting, I’d love to hear from you — just drop me a comment.

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  • “The Dog Walker Saw It”

    “The Dog Walker Saw It”

    It’s about 7 miles cross country to the closest viable pub. So I don’t go there very often.

    There was football on. A group of lads stood 2 deep at the bar, making micro adjustments so they could maintain vision of the TV on the far wall.

    A bulky couple sat on bar stools, not watching the football. Her top was tight, dark in colour. It didn’t quite reach the waistband of her blue jeans. She had her back to me. I wondered whether she could feel the draught when the door opened. Maybe not. He wore a plasticky looking fleece, the zip only went down to his sternum. His head was square, his torso oblong. He reminded me of a child’s pencil drawing of a man. A favourite uncle perhaps. They were nice people, kind faces, she reached a friendly hand towards my dog. He wasn’t feeling very confident, or maybe that was me projecting. He ignored the hand and pressed his hip a little closer to my calf, his tail not only down but folded neatly underneath his belly. He much preferred the journey to the destination.

    I felt a bit the same so I ordered a pint of Wainwright and made my way outside. It was dark and about +1 degree but still preferable.

    I split up the remaining treats and put small pieces on my knees and the surrounding benches whilst William licked his lips. “Go on then”, he hoovered them up in adoration.

    The lady from the bar stool walked over. She had a cigarette in her hand as she came out of the door. She watched me and my dog for a few minutes then asked me about him. He didn’t much care for the conversation, his spine arched a little, I could tell he was feeling the cold. I tilted my torso back a bit and made my thighs into a lap so he could climb up and then wrapped my arms around him as we spoke. He felt lovely.

    The conversation started to falter and I turned away. A thudding sound made me jump, the poor woman had missed the bench with her backside and was laying on the floor. I stood up to help, she was up instantly, face flushed. We were both embarrassed, she said she was ok. We laughed nervously, she finished her cigarette and went back in.

    It was her partner’s turn for a fag. They must have been taking it in turns so they could keep control of the barstools.

    He was the more extroverted of the pair. He immediately commented on the falling over that had just occurred, he said “the dog walker saw it”, reporting it back to “him” in the third person.

    He told me about his dogs. Over ten of them. He’d always had dogs. As a child, his Dalmatian once found a whole bag of pound coins. And ate them. He said he had to follow it around the yard with a hosepipe the next day, washing the shite off of them. He gathered them all up. His grandad didn’t want them back after what had happened, so he spent them in the sweet shop.

    My lift arrived, and I left the remaining questions behind.

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