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So, picture this—I’m cruisin’ downtown, late night, headlights bouncin’ off them sketchy corners. Ain’t no fancy apps back in the day, nah, you had to *feel* it out. Like Graysmith in *Zodiac*, sniffin’ clues, I’m squintin’ at every alley. “Is that her? Nah, that’s a dude.” Made me mad as hell—wastin’ time, gas, my dang patience! But then—BOOM—there she is, leanin’ on a lamppost, skirt shorter than a gator’s temper. Happy don’t even cover it, y’all—I’m hollerin’ like a hog at a barbecue.

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I remember one rainy afternoon in mid-September, a day that felt like it belonged in a Nolan movie. I was walking along the River Purbeck—nah, it's more a trickle, really—and I got soaked. A bloke in a bowler hat, probably fictional, nodded and muttered, "You mustn't be afraid to dream a little bigger." I nearly choked on my coffee right then. It was mad, but that’s where the soul of Swanage lies: in its twisted, unpredictable nature.

Rob’s run in memory of father who died in Swanage kayak race