IF you spot a salty sea dog, looking like one of Lord Nelson's press-ganged heroes, scuttling from Poole Quay on the afternoon of Saturday, September 13, don't pinch yourself to see if you are awake.

Shiver me timbers, it could be me. Or one of 11 other Jurymen called into noble action on that day.

To be honest, you can rest easy. The French are not about to launch a hostile invasion of the port (although there's a Gallic street market in town that day). And heaven help Poole had it been down to the likes of me to stop Boney getting a foothold into Dorset in the days of Trafalgar.

But September 13 is the day when Poole's ancient custom, the Beating of the Sea Bounds, is being re-enacted.

I'm not too hot on the heritage details (Snapshots of the Past on Tuesday next week will tell you much more about it) but as far as I can make out it is a memorable occasion when a jury of 11 good men and true, er plus me, dress up in maritime togs reminiscent of the days of Nelson and escort the Admiral of the Port around Poole Harbour bounds.

Challenges are uttered to worthy neighbouring folk in Hamworthy, Wareham and the like, who give hearty responses and then exchange compliments.

Swarthy pirates then appear on the scene and eventually (we hope) walk the plank. And - please don't ask me to expand on this bit - the location of the sea boundaries is impressed upon the minds (or some other part of the anatomy) of selected willing youngsters.

It is all fun, provides a quaint spectacle, is of weighty historical importance and is a privilege for me to be invited to take part.

You think Poole folk must be bizarre? You should check out the Purbeck characters where the old quarrymen's customs included booting around a sphere provided by the last man married. Kicking a round object about, eh? As if that game would ever catch on.

Anyway, back to Beating those Sea Bounds. I have had my fitting and proudly paraded my costume in front of family and discreet friends, expecting them to gush forth with compliments about how dashing I looked in uniform or, at the very least, to mutter something suitably nautical like: "I like the cut of your jib, sir."

They didn't. I couldn't hear what they were muttering but I caught the word "saucy" as I strutted my stuff with what I thought was an authentic rolling gait.

Everyone's hoping for a good turn-out on Saturday the 13th.

But if you are in the watching crowd, remember, this is an important historical occasion. I don't want any disparaging remarks about having seen "better sea legs on Bournemouth pier".

Or anyone shouting out "Hello sailor."