Good Spirits

Posted on December 24, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

By the time you read this post it will be Christmas Eve 2023 and by the time we go to Spirit Lake, near Jasper, Canada, our epic trip will be in its latter stages. We’ve booked a boat trip on the lake. As we queue to have our tickets scanned I feel we couldn’t have chosen a better day, since there’s not a cloud in the sky, the water of the lake is sparkling and the sun is warm.

The boat fills up quickly and we’re in the last seat at the back, which is a good thing, bearing in mind that I’ve had what is almost certainly Covid and we’re not sure whether Husband will succumb or not. In any case, once we’re out on the water there’s a strong, fresh breeze, meaning that the airflow is brisk!

We’re subject to the inevitable commentary, from a fresh faced young woman who clearly feels her next step will be featuring in a stand-up routine. Some of the info is interesting, but the scenery is the star of the show, the colour of the water a vibrant green-blue in contrast to the stark peaks of the surrounding mountains as we leave behind the jetty and the quaint boathouse to pass kayaks and canoes.

The boat motors through a narrower channel and around a bend and we’re in the real, spiritual part of the lake- or at least- the part that is spiritual for the First Nations. There’s a tiny island topped with a few trees that is sacred for them and although it’s possible to walk on to it we are not to. The boat pulls in for us to enjoy the view, which is stunning. While there are no bears of any description, there is, on the beach, a huge, colourful butterfly. It eludes my lens frustratingly but I snap it at last. We only have around fifteen minutes or so; I’m guessing this is down to the long queues back at the jetty, then we pile on board and head back.

After a coffee on the sunny decking of the cafe we walk back up to the van and take the winding road back to Jasper and our site.

We’re due to leave in the morning, although I’m alarmed when Husband begins to cough and sneeze as if he’s getting a very heavy head cold. We are wanting to go back to Banff via Lake Louise but have drawn a blank on finding a pitch in one of the sites there. The situation is critical but in desperation we opt for the only solution: We’ll need to get a hotel room for a couple of nights. There are hotels at Lake Louise but they are eye-wateringly expensive. Faced with this, plus Husband’s deteriorating condition we’ve no choice but to reserve a room- at the cheapest hotel [though it’s still dear]. At least Husband can confine himself to the room for a night or so until he feels better.

Having consulted our detailed guide book of the route, we start back with the aim of stopping off at some must-sees on the way to Lake Louise. Husband, by now, has a streaming nose but otherwise can cope- and there’s still so much to take in…

Alter ego, Jane Deans has written two novels: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend, both available from Amazon .

On the Way to Spirit Lake

Posted on December 17, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

Before driving to Spirit Lake we need to refuel the campervan. We’ve done this once, en route from Calgary to Banff, when we’d stopped at the service station where we should have turned off to go to MaCleans campsite on our first van day. I’d forgotten that to put fuel in your vehicle [here, as in the USA] you must first go to the counter and pay for it. This confuses me. Here in the UK, we pay for fuel after putting it in, otherwise, how are you supposed to know how much you want? On this previous occasion, when faced with the question, I’d said ‘I don’t know’, to which the checkout lady had suggested $100, much to my relief.

We noticed a couple of gas stations from the bus when we came into Jasper yesterday. We pull into one. This time we’d like to fill the van without having to say how much we are buying, but the self-service machine doesn’t explain how to do it. Lucky for us, the man at the pump in front is only too pleased to help us out. This is another occasion when we’ve been assisted by kindly Canadians- who we’ve found to be amenable and friendly wherever we go.

Then we’re off through Jasper, turning off and across a beautiful, rustic bridge and on to a winding road into the wilds. En route we round vast lakes and through majestic forests, but sometimes we’re confronted by huge swathes of burnt forest and land. It’s an upsetting sight and a sobering reminder of the devastation the summer wildfires have wrought.

We’re motoring along through a wooded area when something wonderful happens. We’re flagged down by a ranger’s vehicle a couple of cars ahead because a moose is standing in the middle of the road with her calf. We are all halted and have a ringside seat as the moose poses, unconcerned next to the ranger’s car and her calf scampers backwards and forwards across the road. Here, where we live in the UK, next to the New Forest national park we are used to waiting for the wild ponies to shift from their middle-of-the-road positions and often think they do it deliberately, so perhaps this moose is the same: ‘This is my home and you can wait!’ We are delighted to wait as long as she wishes.

After a while the calf runs off up the steep side of the road and the cow saunters slowly after. Then they are gone.Eureka! Now I believe there are moose here. But I still think the bears are a marketing ploy and that none live here at all- except perhaps in zoos. And we were convinced to buy a ‘bear spray’ by the lady in the tourist office, too! What a con!

Having lunched in a roadside pull-off by a lake, we arrive to our destination. There are several car parks but it’s busy and we need to go to the furthest to find a space, before walking down to the lakeside where there are shops, cafes and queues for boats. The early morning frost has given way to bright blue skies and sunshine, which bodes well for photos. The first look at Spirit Lake is a reminder of why it’s so often used in travel and holiday marketing brochures. It is simply beautiful…

To find novels by Jane Deans, Grace’s alter ego, search Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads and other book sites. The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend are widely available. Visit my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063988575981

The Backwoods

Posted on December 10, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

The camp site just outside Jasper is wooded, with cleared areas for pitches. It seems bizarre to me that so many people have opted for the rustic, non-electric-hook-up, no-hard-standing pitches and all they desire is a fire pit and a pile of wood. As long as fires are lit using the braziers provided anyone is at liberty to toast themselves outside by a roaring fire, which appears to be the favourite activity here. If more wood is required there is a pile of it waiting to be chopped and axes for kindling. You have to trust that there are no raving, lunatic axe-wielding serial killers among the camping community. Given that the summer wildfires were so devastating it’s a surprise to find that outside burning is not only allowed, but encouraged.

A fair number of our fellow campers are using tiny tents, too, so, given that the night-time temperatures are quite low they are a tough bunch!

Since our arrival I’ve slumped in the passenger seat of our van and had a snooze. When I wake something feels different. I’m less ‘floaty’. I feel a bit better. Yes- I’m still coughing, but it’s a definite improvement. I wander round to a shower facility and it’s surprisingly good for such a rustic site.

We’ve continued to use the table/bed [me] and a mattress on the floor [Husband], for sleeping. During the night I wake to the sight of Husband, struggling to get up and disorientated. I lever him upright. He’s burning hot. It’s clear he’s succumbed to the dreaded Covid, as I did. Horrors! straight away I administer Paracetamol and swap beds; now he has the table/bed and I have the floor, which is not conducive to cosy slumber. By the morning though, he has rallied and feels ok for now.

On a recce of the site, Husband has spotted a different area altogether, purpose built for motorhomes and campervans. It’s hard standing and has hook-up, as well as its own shower facilities. Better still- and bizarrely- the hard standing pitches are cheaper than the rest of the site. There is one, spare spot- which we move to, gratefully. From our new position we can see the Jasper Skytram, a glistening dot travelling up and down the mountain. But there are still no bears…not one, single distant, furry form…anywhere.

The shuttle bus stops a few yards from our van, with hardly anyone on board so we hop on and go to have a look at the town. The first thing I notice is the railway tracks, a station and a couple of huge, historic engines displayed along the roadside. We get off at what seems like the main street, although it’s soon clear that Jasper, though cute and in a stunning location, is a tiny town. What there is is also set up almost entirely for tourists, the stores selling mainly outdoor gear for walking, climbing, hiking, skiing and other pursuits, with a few gift shops thrown in, one being ‘Bearbury, which would be more amusing if there were bears…

But there is a visitor centre where we book a visit to ‘Spirit Lake’ for next day, Husband going in to reserve it while I wait outside as I’m still coughing. After a search we do find a small supermarket, tucked away between the tourist shops.

Then it’s back to site on the bus. The night is cold and we’re glad of the heater, although our neighbours are all sitting outside by their blazing log fires, knocking back wine.

In the morning when I step outside there’s a layer of frost over everything! Frost in September! This is not something we are used to in the UK. It does, however herald a blue sky and a bright, sunny day, so we anchor all loose items in the van and set out towards Jasper for our day trip to Spirit Lake.

Tunnel Mountain and the Lonely Road to Jasper

Posted on December 3, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

It’s a relief to get into Tunnel Mountain campsite at Banff, another vast site, but properly in the mountains, in a beautiful setting. It’s popular and we need to queue to check in and pay our national park fees. Then we’re off around to our pitch, this time with electric hook-up. There are also clean, warm shower blocks and there’s a free shuttle bus to the town. It’s all good- except that I’m feeling worse than ever, with cold symptoms joing the fever and cough I’ve picked up, even if I’ve stopped feeling like I’ve swallowed a razor blade. A nasty, niggling suspicion creeps in; could this be the rampant new Covid variant that’s running riot across Canada? Then I remember; someone in a seat near us on the Rocky Mountaineer train was sneezing and spluttering for the two days. Hmmm…

If I have the Covid variant there’s nothing much to be done. We’re not able to access tests and we’re pretty isolated as it is. So far, Husband has shown no signs of succumbing, so he’ll be ok to enter shops etc. Retiring to bed isn’t an option, either. I decide to adopt the action we were advised to use in Iceland and stay outside away from others during the day.

But there are beautiful views from our pitch and the wildlife is lovely, with nonchalant deer roaming and tiny, cheeky red squirrels scampering in the pines. It’s also warm and sunny enough to sit outside, which is what I do.

We’ve done much better with the bookings now and will be returning here after our road trip. The next morning we’re up and dealing with the housekeeping- emptying and filling- like pros, now we know how to do it all.

We’re driving on up to Jasper, where again we have a pitch on a site. At the start of the drive, while we’re on the dual carriageway the weather looks threatening and there’s some rain, but then we find our turning without much trouble and the sun reappears. As we wend our way towards Jasper National Park the terrain becomes wilder and it feels remote. There are stretches where signs warn us there’s no phone signal and between Banff and Jasper there’s only one gas station, so it’s advisable to be stocked up on everything. In this direction there are few places to pull in and stop, although the other side seems better served and it takes some time to find a lunch stop.

It feels a long drive, however the notion of distance is different for us, coming from the UK, where we’re no more than a day’s drive from most places and in reality, the loop we’ve opted to do is not vast. But the campervan is wayward, as I’ve described and I’m glad we didn’t attempt anything more lengthy.

We arrive at Saskatchewan Crossing, the one and only place for fuel and for a limited selection of foodstuffs between Banff and Jasper. It’s almost exactly halfway and busy but we get a space, overlooking the snowy mountains. It’s all bathed in sunshine and warm enough for poeple to be sitting outside with picnic lunches, one family feeding a small baby in the seats around a map pointing out the sights. A little further along is the stunning Athabasca Glacier, a frozen river splayed out against the mountainside and glistening in the sun. Opposite is a visitor centre where a purpose-built, red snow bus does tours, but we need to get to our destination so we press on. From here the road climbs and winds but it’s without incident and at last we’re nearing Jasper.

There are several sites here, outside the town but it’s easy to locate ours, just off the road and easy to check in. We find our pitch. There’s little here except for a wood pile, a fire pit, a table and bench and a cleared area to park. We’ve had to forego electricity to get the pitch.

There’s still some sun filtering through the windscreen. Husband goes off to explore the site, meanwhile I grab a pillow, slide down in my seat where the sun is warm and close my eyes…

To find novels by Jane Deans, Grace’s alter ego, search Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads and other book sites. The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend are widely available. Visit my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100063988575981

Cold…and Hot

Posted on November 26, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

During the evening of our first night in the campervan on MaCleans camp site I begin to feel hot, then hotter…and I’m burning up. We’ve managed to concoct a meal with the help of our neighbours, who donated us a spare lighter for our non-self-igniting hob. The high temperature I’m experiencing is certainly not to due the outside air, which is cold, although one thing that does function in the van is the heater, for which we are to be very glad! The water heater and the shower seem to work, thank goodness.

Our neighbours stay outside long after dark, sitting by the log fire. The sight of camping Canadians toasting themselves by fires becomes familiar and it’s clearly a favourite activity for them as it happens wherever we go.

It’s clear I’m incubating something, so I take some Paracetamol, which eases it, and we consider how we’ll cope with the sleeping arrangement. There are two mattresses [thin, hard and cold] above the driver cab, which we do not plan to use. We knew when we booked that the van would be designed this way and had taken an optimistic view that we would cope, but we’re not going to be clambering up and down from the lofty bed.

The benches either side of the table convert to a bed, however it doesn’t accommodate two. Hmm… Since I’m not 100%, Husband volunteers to sleep on one of the top mattresses in the aisle, where there’s just about room, so we make the beds and settle down. The sleeping arrangement is far from perfect, the floor position, in particular making for an uncomfortable night.

The next morning is cold, with watery sunlight through the tall pines and I get out and stand in a patch of it.

The next challenge is to get to grips with emptying and filling the van. We’ve seen the video and we know where to stop so after stowing everything we trundle around to the van station and join a queue. Once it’s our turn we pull up by the drain and pull out the hose. The system is not like our own, where we’re used to emptying a cartridge which slots out of the side. Here there is a hose- first for the toilet waste then secondly the grey water. We learn our first lesson: ensure the valve is switched to the correct outlet before undoing the cap-

In a horrific gush, the effluent from our toilet floods out across the tarmac, to the accompanying shouts of disgust from fellow campers. Yikes! Husband manages to switch- but not before we’ve caused a substantial mess, which I must then use the water hose to clear up. We’re mortified, but were not to know and will not make the same mistake again. The water filling, more straightforward, goes ok.

We’re off back to Banff, because Husband has managed to secure us a pitch on a site in the national park called Tunnel Mountain. Besides the pitch price we must also pay national park entry and stay, but it’s a profound relief to have somewhere to park up. It’s easy enough to get back onto the main highway by retracing our steps and we’re even getting used to the van wobbles, but we narrowly avoid a serious incident as we approach Banff. The road in this direction splits and we find ourselves in a lane leading to some ticket booths- the park entrance. Somehow we’ve missed the [one] lane which is just the continuation of the road. Husband begins to reverse the van and then, at the highway, he signals right…but NO…no, no, no, no, no!! We’re on the wrong side- facing the traffic!!

There’s a lot of flashing and hooting as we make a swift reverse back round the corner, crisis averted, then look for a way. We need to turn left and take the exit road then cross the highway via a bridge, a diversion we have to take twice before we spot the one lane that’s a continuation of the highway- the extreme right, beside the park booth lanes. But at last we make it…

A Further Unravelling…

Posted on November 19, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

From the Fairfield Inn, Calgary, we’ve managed to get our first night’s campsite sorted, had a respectable meal at a nearby pub and we prepare to sleep. As I begin to drift off, a small, irritating cough sets in, interrupting my slumbers and making for a less than restful night.

In the morning we’ve a few hours left before we can collect our rental campervan from Cruise Canada, so having done our best to make tea in the plastic beakers, Husband suggests we try and get some mobile wifi working on our gadget, by visiting a nearby telecoms shop which is located in a central shopping mall. In France, we’ve become used to collecting a SIM card from Orange and it seem’s logical that we could have a similar arrangement, although by no means guaranteed.

We find the shopping mall and the store, where we draw a blank but are redirected, then redirected again to more telecoms stores. In the end we opt for a local SIM card in my phone, as nobody is able to get our gadget working. We return to the hotel where we pack up and order a taxi to the rental depot.

By the time we arrive at Cruise Canada I’ve begun to feel a little lethargic and under par. The depot is closed, presumably for lunch and we settle to wait on a bench facing the various vans and motorhomes, along with a German couple with whom we share plans. They have very wisely reserved their pitches from home, a strategy I now wish we’d adopted!

At last the place opens and soon we’re wading through pages of paperwork and agreements before being taken to ‘our’ van. We get a peremptory look along with stern warnings regarding emptying and cleaning prior to return, then we’re directed to fetch our bedding packs from an adjoining store. Other than this, it’s left to us. Husband climbs into the driving seat to have a go- he can take the vehicle for a couple of circuits of the car park, but it’s easier said than done. ‘I thought you said you had your own camper’, the weary woman showing us observes. But this, this campervan is nothing like ours, as we are increasingly to discover…

I watch as Husband lurches the vehicle around the car park, then I get in and we exit the depot in search of a supermarket. It’s immediately clear that the van cannot/will not/does not drive in a straight line, rather swerves in unnerving lunges, making steering hard work. There are, allegedly, supermarkets around here…but where, exactly? We take a few turns and then backtrack a bit, my heart in my mouth as Husband juggles the idiosyncracies of the van, the unfamiliar roads and the traffic. Yikes!

On our way back down the road I do spot a grocery store, ‘Hello Fresh!’ and we pull in and park, much to my relief. Inside we pick up as much useful shopping as we can, stow it and make our way towards what is, hopefully, ‘Highway 1’. By some miracle we get on to it and begin to exit Calgary, back on the road we came by bus- and yes- I’m relieved to spot the Olympic Ski jump, now on the left as we go out of town.

Now to locate the camp site. It should be easy enough, shouldn’t it?

I have the location of the site on my phone, yes, but we’re unused to the distances of this vast country. Coupled with the wobbly nature of the van it leads to us overshooting our turn-off by quite a bit, as we discover when we stop at the First Nations’ casino and gas station to ask where on Earth the site is.

This results in a long trek back along the highway, then a meandering journey into the wilderness. This time I’m more trustful of my phone’s navigation and we follow the tiny dot, turning where indicated, then, EUREKA! We reach the site’s entrance and drive up a winding track, then we have, in fact, arrived. There’s a car park by a store, which also serves as reception where we check in. Phew! We’re also able to supplement the lamentable equipment in our household ‘kit’, which lacks, amongst other items, a kettle and a coffee pot.

The pitch we’ve been allocated is accessed by another long, winding lane; the site being arranged in ‘loops’ off the lane. It is massive, but we get there and park up in a kind of wooded cul-de-sac, where we are almost, but not quite, alone…

Like any typical British adult, I’m gagging for a cup of tea, so I fill a saucepan [as I said, no kettle] and attemp to ignite the gas ring…which solidly refuses to comply…Hmmm…

A Little-Trodden Footpath

Posted on September 17, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

At South Lychett Manor camping and caravan site they’ve thought of everything. There’s a shop and cafe [open until late], various food vans arriving to dispense pizzas, burgers or fish and chips, direct hook-up to TV, toilet blocks in every field [it’s vast]; not that we require many of these things, having shopped en route and not wishing to watch TV. But it’s good to know.

We’re directed and instructed, this being that kind of site. We’re used to the vagaries of sites, some regimented and unaware that you’ve stayed in more sites than they’ve had hot dinners, others lackadasical and laisse faire [park where you like!]. Out on the open field we’re surrounded by enclosed, clusters of tents housing extended family groups and it’s a great sight. I love to see families camping in tents, recalling the sheer magic of sleeping under canvas as a child, the shivering excitement of it and the gentle wafts of air as a breeze ruffles the fabric as you lie in your sleeping bag.

We wander along the road to the nearest pub for a beer and discover that tomorrow night’s meals finish at 6.00pm, but there’s another one a little further away, serving until late. Result!

For our day here we’re getting the bus to Wareham. The bus stops [each way] are directly outside our site entrance. We have our usual, leisurely morning then climb upstairs to the top of the bus, which sways and rocks its way round the lanes and back streets, stopping outside Sandford Holiday Park, where our driver alights to have a cigarette. In the seat in front of us, a small girl is being copiously sick, vomiting into a carrier bag, although the parents don’t seem perturbed enough to move downstairs, where the motion would be reduced.

Behind us an elderly, single man complains, huffing and puffing about the hiatus and the driver. I’m unsure whether he’s moaning and groaning to himself, or merely to himself. All life is on the bus!

At last we arrive to the outskirts of Wareham, where we search for the alleged footpath, locating it by a miniscule sticker on a lampost. To begin with, the path leads up and on to Wareham’s old city walls, but we overshoot our turnoff and have to backtrack to find our the way we’ve chosen, which heads out past meadows, through a copse and on until we reach the Wareham river. We stop for a look then turn right along by the river itself, at which point it gets tricky.

Reeds almost obscure the narrow path and tower above, almost meeting in the middle. Further on, nettles and brambles get added to the mix and it becomes ever more difficult to avoid either getting torn to shreds or stung. Both of us have worn shorts- and I have a vest top, too. We plough on though, stepping over, stepping on, shuffling sideways, gingerly pulling fronds out of the way. In concentrating on watching your feet, you risk stings and skewers at shoulder height. There’s no let up, except for an occasional clear pocket where a tree grows, but we persist, as there comes a time where it would be harder to go back than forward. We catch an occasional glimpse of the water through the curtain of reeds, nettles and brambles. It’s busy with river traffic today.

As we are nearing the end of the path we encounter a couple weaving their way towards us and we do our best to step back to allow them to pass, The woman is carrying a bunch of dock leaves and I desist from saying that these will offer no more protection than a lipstick against the menacing nettles. We have a short conversation with them, which results in their changing their minds about plunging along this footpath [which is reputed to be ‘major’].

Later on we get to relax in the pub with a hearty roast dinner with onlly a few tingly areas where skin was stung and a few scratches from brambles, but hey- we did it!

Grace is the alter ego of novelist and short story writer, Jane Deans. To date I have two published novels to my name: The Conways at Earthsend [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Conways-at-Earthsend-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B08VNQT5YC/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2ZHXO7687MYXE&keywords=the+conways+at+earthsend&qid=1673350649&sprefix=the+conways+at+earthsend%2Caps%2C79&sr=8-1 and The Year of Familiar Strangers [https://www.amazon.co.uk/Year-Familiar-Strangers-Jane-Deans-ebook/dp/B00EWNXIFA/ref=sr_1_1?crid=2EQHJGCF8DSSL&keywords=The+year+of+familiar+strangers&qid=1673350789&sprefix=the+year+of+familiar+strangers%2Caps%2C82&sr=8-1 Visit my writer Facebook page [https://www.facebook.com/search/top?q=jane%20deans%2C%20novellist%2C%20short%20fiction%20and%20blog or my website: https://www.janedeans.com/

The Best Laid Plans

Posted on September 10, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

We’d planned to move from Symondsbury, Dorset, to Portland for a night or two. Our three nights were up and Husband’s idea was to stay at a pub stopover, where we’d be able to park up for a night for the price of a meal we’d get in the hostelry. We’ve done this before when travelling long distance and it worked well when we drove up to Shetland. On this occasion, however, we draw a blank. The pubs that had seemed to be offering overnight parking on Portland have been prevented- by what, we do not know- a by-law, perhaps?

Portland, of course has become famous- or infamous- for having to host the hostel barge, the ‘Bibby Stockholm’ where asylum seekers would be moved from their hotels. Opinions differ about the rights and wrongs of housing the refugees on the barge although those who’d moved in subsequently had to be moved again due to disease-ridden conditions.

We’re stuck with a conundrum. There’s just one night before we are due to move to a site nearer home and we’re out of time on Ernie’s Plot. After some research it becomes clear we’ll have to move into Somerset and to a pub with a campsite not far from Yoevil. It’s a pretty village and pub, although the rain confines us to van until we go to eat. Again, the pub provides a delicious meal and the site is fine for a night.

I’m impressed by the German family who were eating in the pub- a couple with two teenage sons. They emerge in the morning, after a rainy night, from two, tiny Quechua pop-up tents which [the parents] quickly fold away into the boot of their hire car before they all sit at a picnic table for breakfast; truly a minimalist trip!

It so happens that we’re close to Montacute House, a National Trust property with lovely grounds. We pack up and head off there, having coffee in the van then wandering the house and gardens which are formal and elegant. Built in 1598, the house belonged to an Elizabethan lawyer, Sir Edward Phelips. It’s popular today in spite of the intermittent rain, with children playing on the games lawn and the cafe courtyard busy with people lunching. We return to the car park and have lunch in the van before heading off to yet another National Trust property, Tintinhull Garden, a mere 7 minutes away.

We park and follow a path through an orchard meadow, through a gate, across a road to a lovely old manor house. The garden lies through an archway, a network of 7 garden ‘rooms’ in arts and crafts style. It’s far quieter than Montacute, a peaceful spot with a graceful pond and gazebo and wonderful large beds with rows of flowers and vegetables all mixed up together. Through a gate is a wilder area with fruit trees, including a mulberry tree groaning with fruit.

Our third site is to be much closer to home, back into Dorset to a village near Poole. It’s South Lychett Manor, an enormous, family friendly site with every convenience you can think of and quite a few you can’t. There is a grand entrance through wrought iron gates and a long driveway, an extensive shop, a pizza van and cafe. It’s a far cry from Ernie’s Plot but variety, as they say…

Affronts on Several Fronts

Posted on September 3, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

The day after the bramble debacle at Symondsbury, Husband’s wounds are on the mend, however we select the road option, rather than the footpath, for a walk into the village and a look round. It is all very cute in an ‘olde English’ way, yellow stone cottages with roses round the door, a rustic church, apple trees laden with fruit. Many of the cottages, though are holiday lets.

A signpost points to Symondsbury Estate and while I imagine this to be an unglamorous, new development on the outskirts of the village it is, in fact an attractive collection of buildings clustered around a square of gardens with a cafe, gallery and craft shops.

The gallery is so new as to be still in the setting up process, but is clearly displaying the work of a single artist and he is there. He’s painted the same view, a forest, many times over in different seasons and weather conditions. ‘Like David Hockney’ I say, since I know that Hockney has himself done this at his Normandy home- painted the same woodland scene in different conditions. The artist snorts in contempt- ‘David Hockney!’ he splutters. But a nearby woman [his wife?] quietly tells him that Hockney has produced some paintings this way- and he becomes silent. I feel it’s time to leave and we continue to the next unit, which has a collection of lovely textiles and items made from them.

From here, we find a path that leads into Bridport. This time it’s not a lethal mud slope to tip us into the brambles, but a meander across grass fields and an ancient sunflower field then on across a river and up a lane. Then we’re on to the outskirts of Bridport. We’ve visited quite a few times, so we’re not exploring on this occasion but take a short stroll up the main street, searching for a bakery without success, before returning to the supermarket to pick up a couple of items before climbing on the bus for a convenient ride back to our site.

We’ve booked a table at the village pub for our evening meal, [open tonight, unlike last night]. The Ilchester Arms has a modest menu but everything is delicious and I’m glad I chose the smaller portion of chicken for my main meal. Neither of us can cope with desert.

For our second day we’re off to Lyme Regis, again by bus, although when it arrives to our camp site stop it’s already almost full. Lyme is a very popular destination for summer visitors and when we arrive in the centre, the driver having negotiated the narrow, twisty street, the pavements, promenade, street and shops are all teeming with tourists.

Husband has suggested pasties on the beach for lunch today- an idea I’m not about to dismiss, so we head to the nearest pasty shop- one of about 5 pasty outlets along the main street- and take our still-warm pasties to the pebbly beach. We perch on the sea wall and keep a close eye on the marauding gulls which swoop and stalk around us in a menacing way. I’ve read that you should stare them out, which does seem to be successful in keeping them at bay.

We have a quick stroll then we’re getting the bus again, this time on to Axminster, which we’ve driven through many times but not stopped to examine.

It doesn’t take long to realise there’s a reason we’ve not stopped here before. Poor Axminster, whilst not unpleasant, has little to offer. A swift walk around the tiny centre, with its nice enough church, an attempt to get a coffee in a courtyard cafe where the woman serving is too busy chatting to akcnowledge our presence and a visit to the community hub-that’s about it; except for one outstanding feature. Down on the path to the station there is a patch of the most delicious blackberries we’ve tasted for years…

Then it’s back to Symondsbury-

The Plunge, the Path and the Prickles

Posted on August 27, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

Ernie’s Plot is a tiny, 8 pitch site for motorhomes, campervan and caravans. just outside Bridport in the south west of my county, Dorset. On a farm in the outrageously gorgeous village of Symondsbury, the pitches all face ‘Colmers Hill’, a hill rising up in the distance with a pathway leading up and a fringe of trees at the top. It becomes clear that it is also a local landmark, featuring everywhere on paintings, photos and much more.

On arrival to Ernie’s plot we are invited [by a notice on the gate] to enter and pitch up. Our pitch number is chalked up on a board and inside a tiny shed there are slices of Dorset Apple Cake in a basket for us to take as a welcome gift. Wonderful!

The 8 pitches are almost all occupied and ours is the end one. We all face a field of brown and white sheep, with hens in the background- a restful and bucolic scene, which, as it happens, is exactly what we need!

Once established, we opt to amble to the village pub, just down the lane and have an early evening beer. We make what transpires to be a wrong decision in choosing the footpath across the field instead of the lane. It’s fine at first- a narrow path along to a field with more sheep, across to the far corner, over a stile and upwards on a somewhat muddy and sloping track flanked by trees on one side and banks of brambles below. It’s tricky walking on a muddy, sloping path. As usual I have my camera in hand and I’m following Husband when he disappears from view, accompanied by a crashing sound and faint cries of ‘help, help!’.

Oh…I catch up. To my right, and below me, Husband is lying across the bramble patch, caught in multiple places and with blood running down his hands, arms, legs and head, much as if he’s been leapt upon by a hungry tiger. Horrors! He is unable to move, since bramble thorns have secured him firmly to the bushes. He is also below me, where I stand on the sloping, slippery pathway. It’s like the scene in ‘Alien’ where crew members are caught up in the creature’s web ready for consumption.

This is a conundrum. We are also alone. I’m aware I must not slip, as he has, as two of us caught on the brambles would not improve the situation. I move as far towards him as I dare and extend a hand, wondering if I’ve the strength to pull him out, then I can at least hold him and prevent further incarceration. Small movements cause him to yell as the thorns dig deeper but whilst holding him I can just about use my right foot to stamp one aggressive briar out of the way.

I exert all my strength and he manages to grasp a branch then prise himself forward in a gradual freeing from the brambles, until he is out, standing, bloodied but released. Phew! I delve into my bag, where I keep all my contingency items, one of which is a pack of wet wipes. Between us, we mop him up, which takes some time and at last he’s presentable enough to go to the pub [outside, at least]. it’s only a few yards to the lane and a few more to the pub…which is closed today…

Later, relaxing in the van, my principal regret is that I did not photograph Husband in the brambles, for which. dear reader, I am extremely sorry…

Anecdotage

Views from the Descent

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