In the second in a series of features in which she takes up temporary residence as a council tenant in one of Swindon's communities, VICTORIA TAGG puts the magnifying glass on Walcot - and finds a community spirit beyond compare.

Come rain or shine, Walcot welcomed me into its warm community.

"Friend or foe?" joked a woman sitting in the Family Centre, responding to my desperate cry of "hello" through the window. It was 7.30pm and I felt woefully lost in Essex Walk.

"Friend. Do you know where number three is?" I asked, anxious to find my new council flat.

Despite the centre being officially closed, the woman, Helen, invited me in. Besides pointing me in the right direction, she asked me round for a coffee.

"We're open between nine and 10 every weekday morning for a drop-in session," said Helen.

Cheered by her friendliness, I forgot about the chill wind and my impending rendezvous with a sleeping bag on a cold, hard floor in a council flat.

Eventually I found it. But not before trying all five of my keys in someone else's lock.

A woman in her twenties, who it transpires is my neighbour, opened the door wearing a dressing gown and big fluffy bulldog slippers.

"Oh I thought you were my boyfriend," she said.

After apologising, I introduced myself and asked her about the area.

Nicky has lived at number one Essex Walk for five years, since leaving a hostel in Old Town.

She said: "It's not bad. I've certainly survived."

Helping me open my freshly painted door opposite, Nicky offered to show me round if I was ever looking for places to go.

These days most people scarcely have time to say "Hi", let alone take a complete stranger sightseeing.

As for my flat, it was spacious, airy and spotless. The net curtains were a homely touch and I looked forward to immersing myself in the beautiful big, deep bath. Just a lick of paint in the kitchen and lounge would make it a very decent apartment.

Before sampling the night life, I called on Nicky again. She passed my spare tea bag test with flying colours. In addition to a fistful of tea bags, she also offered me milk.

"It's not proper stuff, but will last you a few days," she added.

Her slippers reminded me of Walcot's notorious pub The Bulldog. Undeterred by talk of its tough reputation, I decided to take a trip there myself.

This meant walking through Sussex Square, where shops are shutting early because residents feel intimidated by youths who gather there after school.

Although I passed a few teenagers on bikes, and two sharing a skateboard, they were far from threatening. In fact one boy was extremely polite and helpful when I asked him for some Bulldog bearings.

Reaching the car park, all was quiet.

"Please remove muddy work boots before entering the bar area," stated a sign at the entrance.

Customers had clearly taken note because the carpets were very clean, as was the entire pub.

The place was empty, save for a group of lads playing pool and some locals perched on bar stools.

With Hi Ho Silver Lining playing on the jukebox, the mood was upbeat and I started chatting to Ray.

Ray Dean, 55, has lived in Walcot for 44 years. As a child he roasted chestnuts with the night watchman when the Bulldog was still being built.

He said: "We may not be rich. But there is real camaraderie here and we all look out for each other."

While Craig and Jimmy potted balls, Co Co and Boy Boy attempted a crossword (their nicknames have stuck since their school days at Walcot Secondary).

Ray's mum Edith, 82, also lives on the estate. She has never been burgled and has fond memories of her son using his home-made go-kart to move house 200 yards down the road.

Famous for his dart skills, Ray, aka Silver, organises a pub tournament every Friday.

But Ray has more on his mind.

"Drugs are a big problem here," he said. "I hate it and we want them out."

Ray said people can get any illegal substance within five minutes from his back door.

"It's bad. But what can you do?" he asked.

"I have sat in this pub and cried because no one can stop it."

He confided that a member of his family is caught in the vicious circle of drug addiction.

Another of Ray's favourite haunts is the Queenstown Club in Old Walcot. Despite being an all men's club, apparently one of only three surviving in the country, Ray has still managed to smuggle in his wife, Christine.

"My Christine is a very good darts player," he boasted.

Back in the Bulldog, I bumped into Alyson, a fellow Walcot newcomer.

Alyson has been living in the area for three weeks and likes the friendly atmosphere.

She came from Pontypridd, in Wales, where the drugs situation is allegedly far worse.

Before moving to Walcot, she stayed with her sister, Debbie, in Penhill.

"People say these places are dumps. It's not true. I feel safe here and everyone supports each other," she added.

Having also bedded down in Penhill, I agreed that you should never judge a place by its critics. For what Walcot, or indeed Penhill, lacks in swish architecture and flash cars, is more than compensated by the rich sense of community.