Guys, I don't mean to worry anyone, but I'm pretty sure there's a Bond villain living in Titchfield.
I know, I know, it's probably unlikely. However, logic suggests that they have to live somewhere so why not the Hampshire coast?
Let me explain how I have come to this conclusion and I'm sure you'll see the sense in my theory.
In the absence of any great, exotic travels, I have made the executive decision to try to explore more of my local area. To try to search out interesting places that are just on my doorstep, but where I may never have previously ventured: my mission is to discover the jewels in the journey that are so close to home that I've never thought to look.
And so a sunny Sunday morning took me through fields and winding country lanes to the shingled shoreline of Titchfield Haven. Even the name sounds idyllic, and indeed, the sun gives everything a glow of positivity. I walked along the prom and I walked along the stones. The best way to spend a Spring morn.
A fair distance into my walk, as I was sandwiched between the waves and the back markers of a line of unnaturally long gardens, a plain, grey shape, bobbing slowly on the waves, caught my eye out to sea.
This was no normal boat.
It was steel gun-metal grey; the sort of shade that you only see as a tiny plastic boat ready to be torpedoed on a Battleships board. It was smooth but blocky in shape - a rounded body with no edges. There was a plastic control shelter that looked like the top of a submarine such was the even, industrial shape. Save for a few black lines, there were no other markings at all. No name. No numbers. Nothing. Someone was trying to be incognito.
As I stood on the beach, blatantly ogling the strange sight, a rumbling started behind me. Turning around, I was met by the sight of a motorised trailer emerging from one of the long gardens. The metal frame was led by two small wheels at the front. These pulled a large gas tank that sat atop a single large wheel at the back. The whole contraption was about the length of a transit van. Mouth open, I stared as the metal monster trundled independently down the shingle of the beach towards the shoreline.
There was no driver and no line. I glanced towards the grey shape circling just offshore. The trailer must've received word from its sea captain. It was responding to the call.
Steadily, it approached the water's edge and still it kept going. Front wheels submerged. Back wheel submerged. Until I thought the gas tank was going for a dip too. But it stopped, perfectly positioned. The driver (I'm not a sea-goer by trade - is that the right term?) of the boat spun the grey vessel around in a rude-boy style so that it didn't seem so lumbering any more. It was now lined up to dock with the trailer. The driver edged it towards its target and the engine pushed against the waves to force the boat easily into the frame. The squeaking of rubber on rubber announced that the seabird was nestled in place.
Then this mysterious driver (maybe captain is a better term) whipped out the controls that had done all the communication. They were no larger than a toy remote control, albeit a high end toy. A black box held in both hands with four dials was all that was needed for one man to land a damn heavy vessel back onto dry land.
With a flick of a dial, the free-wheeling fame lumbered back through the shallow waves and up the incline of the stony shore and up to the garden to be safely stored away in the secret shed.
Now, I'm not an evil genius by any means, and nor do I know the details of their code, but I'm of the opinion that villains should keep their business secret. When this guy takes his boat in or out, EVERYONE stops to look. Or to take photos. Not a good plan for keeping your evil goings on low key. So many men, women, children and dogs were fascinated by the event.
The fact is that this whole process of using the remote control to wheel your trailer in and out of the water speaks to everyone who once played with a remote control of some type. Anyone who had a remote controlled car wanted a remote controlled truck. And anyone who had a remote controlled truck wanted a remote controlled plane. Once you had that, where was left to go? Apparently a ten-foot remote controlled boat trailer, that's where.
The mere concept delves into that childhood need for power over technology. One man I witnessed, stopped to talk to the villain (NEVER talk to the baddies!) and was visibly bursting with boyish excitement. He was smiling the inane smile of a kid in a sweet shop as he asked questions and basked in the glory of being in the same air space as the spy boat and radio-controlled trailer.
During the whole 'interaction' with our villain, I was pleased to see the villainous, covert entity stayed in character. He answered questions in simple responses, never elaborating; the baseball cap stayed on; the collar stayed upturned; the obligatory dark glasses were stuck to his face; the expression on his face was constantly resting as a slightly grumpy mannequin; all of which kept his identity more or less indistinguishable. But at the same time, he was never rude or villainous to the caller hovering enthusiastically on his boating doorstep.
Well handled dear villain.
Titchfield may not be the most exotic of places, but sometimes "nice" is all you need. Nice can be everywhere if you know where to look. The walk along the beach in the sun was nice. Watching countless dogs playing in the surf was nice. Clearly, the ice cream that I was forced to indulge in was nice. Even the Bond villain was affected by the sun and was being nice to the drooling fanboys who stopped to admire his boating infrastructure.
Twenty minutes from my house and I could find a haven of my own. Sometimes these places are closer and more obvious than we think. Even the places where villains hang out are less hidden when the sun shines. And he didn't even seem to mind that much. Courteous but curt. That's all I want from a villain.
Well, and a finely-groomed moustache to twiddle fiendishly. One can dream.
