THE US marine braced himself ready for the hurricane, knee bent forward to meet the gale, his hand holding onto his white cap.

The downwash drenched him, buffeted him, tore at his clothes, hurled leaves and litter at his face. But he remained stock still, resolute in his pose.

As soon as he was physically able, he drew himself up to his full imperious height and the sharp creases on his dark blue trousers regained their shape. He came to attention, the helicopter blast still howling around him, and saluted.

The President of the United States of America, the most powerful man in the world, had landed on a former pit spoilheap in Trimdon Colliery. History was made.

The spoilheap was levelled about 30 years ago and is now a large playing field. Hundreds of Durham policemen in vivid fluorescent jackets ringed its perimeters, staring outwards.

Alsatians were held on the leash ready to roar into snarling action at a moment's notice.

A large red and yellow Teesside Airport firetruck, which had started its engine when the first of the four helicopters had clattered into view, was poised nose-first to the field.

Armed security men scanned the skies with powerful binoculars, guns hanging down to their knees. Lean, muscular bodyguards, with trademark shaven heads and dark glasses, whispered into their sleeves.

And at my back, a huge black Chevrolet, with Washington plates and the presidential seal on the door, had its motor running and its driver in place, ready for a quick getaway.

All were braced for disaster and catastrophe.

Then onto the Apocalypse Now filmset, casually strolled Tony Blair in an open-necked shirt. It was as if he'd popped out of his house, seen all the commotion - and giant Black Stallion Sikorsky helicopters make a hell of a commotion when they throb in over the trees, their downblast bowling policemen and police dogs off their feet - and wandered over to see what all the fuss was about.

Beside him on his stroll was his wife Cherie, struggling on a stick having sprained her ankle a couple of weeks ago reaching for something from the top of the Blairs' wardrobe.

As she made uncertain progress across the squishy field, the US Marine marched formally up to Marine 1, and ceremonially opened the doors, his pristine white gloves emphasising his every move.

"Hi-ya," beamed George W Bush as he bounced cheerily out of the helicopter, his greeting to Mr Blair clearly audible above the clatter of the copters' rotor blades.

The couples embraced, the US President tenderly touching the woman with the domestic injury, while the British Prime Minister appeared more diffident, as if he were worried about spoiling with a smacker the perfect Baby-Doll make-up of the US First Lady. The party seemed perfectly at ease with each other, despite the hundreds of anxious eyes straining skywards.

"Wahey," screamed one of the US bodyguards, ripping off his dark glasses all of a sudden. His colleagues visibly stiffened, every sinew taut, desperate to see the source of the threat.

"Where the hell they going?" shouted the alert bodyguard. Mr Blair and Mr Bush had inexplicably veered off the course of the plastic sheeting which had been placed over the mud to lead them safely into Myrobella.

Mr Blair had spotted his next-door neighbour's daughter, 26-year-old Jemma Grieves - you know, her dad Eddie has the butcher's just up the street.

Jemma too had heard the commotion, and had popped out of her house to get a picture, and there was Tony from down the road waving her over.

She'd known him since she was ten or 12, so she called for her three friends to come out, too, and they had a nice neighbourly natter, a good old chinwag, over the garden fence, Jemma, Claire, Eileen, Pat, Tony, Cherie, George and Laura all putting the world to rights.

"I really had no idea," said Jemma later. "Mr Bush was really nice, I said to Cherie my legs were shaking, which was blatantly obvious, so Mr Bush put his arms around me and tightened his squeeze to warm me up.

"He asked us about the protestors, thanked us for welcoming him, said how lucky we were to have neighbours like Tony and Cherie, and to be honest I can't really remember any more. I'm going to have to watch it on television."

After the chat, the Blairs and the Bushes got back onto the plastic sheeting and walked towards Myrobella, the Blairs' constituency home for 19 years. Mr Blair told Mr Bush about the history of the house and then looked up at the sky.

He wasn't, though, looking for in-coming missiles or hostile aircraft.

"Hey," he said, smiling at the sun. "It's turned out all right." Mr Bush opened his arms in agreement, and the two men disappeared behind the big wooden gates of Myrobella to talk terrorism and Turkey, and to gossip about the neighbours.

"Y'know that Jemma," you could almost hear them saying. "I've known her since she was this high and her brother, Edward, well he's doing really nicely for himself in London as a solicitor..."

Good neighbours and good friends. That was what it was all about - the visit of the President of the United States of America to a rural corner of County Durham.

Continued on Page