Priestley’s glowing description of Southampton in the 1930s

These were often hurried encounters, the necessary bookends to voyages that swept him across the seas. 

Yet, it was in the year 1933, a time when the world grappled with economic shadows, that Priestley was afforded the luxury of a more lingering gaze, an opportunity to truly absorb the spirit of this maritime gateway. 

His subsequent reflections, far from mirroring the era's gloom, radiate an infectious optimism for the golden age of ocean travel and the unique character of a town that seemed to defy the prevailing despondency.

Recounting his earlier brushes with the port, Priestley painted a picture of transient utility. 

"I had been to Southampton before, many times," he would later write, his mind’s eye scrolling through a catalogue of arrivals and departures. These were not visits that allowed for an appreciation of place, but rather functional stopovers, mere punctuation marks in a life of movement. 

He recalled a poignant departure during the Great War: "The last time I sailed for France during the war was from there, in 1918, when half a dozen of us found ourselves the only English officers in a tall crazy American ship bursting with doughboys, whose bands played ragtime on the top deck." 

The memory, though tinged with the gravity of conflict, nodded at the port's role as a conduit to the wider world. Post-war voyages to the sun-drenched Mediterranean and the electric energy of New York had also commenced from these same waters, as had his return from Quebec.

Yet, for Priestley the novelist and keen observer of human nature, Southampton the town remained an undiscovered territory. 

"It had no existence in my mind as a real town," he confessed, "where you could buy and sell and bring up children; it existed only as a muddle of railway sidings, level crossings, customs houses and dock sheds: something to have done with as soon as possible." 

It was a place of function, not of feeling; a logistical hurdle rather than a destination in its own right.

But the Southampton that unfurled before him in 1933, approached with fresh eyes down London Road, was an entirely different revelation. 

"The place I rolled into down London Road was quite different, a real town," he enthused. He lauded the "fine approach, very gradual and artful in its progression from country to town."

Priestley, peering from the window of a motorcar, witnessed the gentle metamorphosis of the landscape. 

"You are still staring at the pleasant Hampshire countryside," he described, "when you notice that it is beginning to put itself into some order." 

This subtle shift, the first whisper of urbanity, then blossomed into the green expanse of Southampton Common. 

Here, the town’s inhabitants were already making their presence known: "the next minute you find that it is Southampton Common and that the townsfolk can be seen walking there."

The transition grew more intimate, more detailed, as he journeyed deeper. 

"And, the minute after, the road is cutting between West Park and East Park," he continued, painting a charming vignette of daily life, "and on either side the smaller children of absent pursers and chief stewards are running from sunlight to shadow, and there are pretty frocks glimmering among the trees." 

And then, with a final flourish, the town embraced him fully: "and now, in another minute, the town itself is all round you, offering you hats and hams and acrobats at the Palace Theatre." 

The mention of the Palace Theatre, once a popular venue for entertainment, injects a sense of vibrancy and conviviality into his appreciation.

Priestley pondered the almost imperceptible boundary where countryside yielded to town. 

"It would be impossible to say where Southampton itself really began," he mused, yet he offered a poignant marker: "though I should like to believe that the true boundary is that corner of East Park where there is a memorial to the lost engineers of Titanic, to prove that there are dangerous trades here too." 

This solemn tribute, the Titanic Engineers' Memorial, served as a stark reminder of the perils and heroism intertwined with the port's seafaring identity.

The journey continued, tracing a path through the town's historic core. 

"Further down, London Road changes into Above Bar Street, then the traffic swirls about Bargate itself," he noted, referencing the iconic medieval gatehouse that stood as a proud sentinel to centuries of history. 

"Then once through or round the Bargate you are in High Street." This thoroughfare, the town's backbone, pulsed with life.

As one ventured towards the water's edge, the maritime allure became irresistible. 

"Another quarter of a mile or so, at the bottom of the High Street, you must go carefully," Priestley cautioned with a twinkle in his prose, "otherwise you may lose England altogether for, you see, you can catch Berengaria or Empress of Britain at the end of this High Street."

The names themselves – Berengaria, a grand dame of the Cunard Line, and Empress of Britain, a jewel of the Canadian Pacific fleet – evoked the majesty and romance of transatlantic travel, a world of luxury liners that made Southampton a globally recognised name. These were not mere ships, but floating palaces, symbols of an era when the journey itself was as much a part of the adventure as the destination.

His overall impression was one of genuine admiration. 

"Not a bad town, this," he declared with characteristic understatement that nonetheless brimmed with approval. He catalogued its virtues: "That fine approach and the heartening spread of common and park; this long bright bustling street; the genial air of the place, with its hint of a festive Jack’s-in-port life." 

Even the ambitious engineering feat of the "gigantic new graving dock" – likely the King George V Graving Dock, opened in 1933 and a testament to Southampton's leading maritime status – captured his attention.

In a world increasingly shadowed by the "universal depression," Priestley saw in Southampton a spirit of resilience and a unique charm. 

"Here was a town that had not let the universal depression master it and that was contriving to enjoy its unique location, between forest and heath and blue water, a lovely bay window upon the wide world." 

It was a place of connection, an interface between the English hinterland and the vast expanse of the global seas.

His final verdict was both a personal reflection and an inviting proposition: "It was not bad at all. Given a job to do and a bit of money in our pockets, you and I could live there and be reasonably happy." 

In these simple words, JB Priestley captured the appeal of Southampton – a port not just of passage, but of surprising and heartfelt welcome.