Tag Archives: Chickerell

Woolly Musings

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We don’t want to linger long at home after our Cornwall trip, so we’re soon off again- and again in a westerly direction within our own county of Dorset.

The village of Wool, near Wareham is a small community, but has a railway station, two pubs and a convenience store, plus a camp site. The site is across the road from the railway, which must be crossed before accessing one of the two pubs [which Husband has deemed the better from his exploration of the village]. The snag is that there’s a barrier to climb over and a bridge with a lot of steps. Still…

It’s surprising to see so many permanent units on the site, with people coming for the weekend and leaving again- most arriving to caravans by car; most with dogs. Wool village is not especially characterful and has little in the way of visitor attractions. Having said this, there is a well known tank museum nearby at Bovington and also ‘Monkey World’, a rescue centre for all manner of apes, which had its own TV series at one time.

This is a very doggy site, with dogs the main topic of conversation. One man for whom his golden retriever is clearly the centre of his life stops to chat as we loll about outside our van, wanting to relate their experiences of a local dog show that was on this weekend. ‘He came second!’ he boasts, as the dog cocks his leg against the refuse bins. Once he’s realised that our interest doesn’t stretch beyond polite he moves swiftly on.

Husband sets off walking [with camera] and I settle to a book. Later I tackle the challenge of getting to the pub, breaching the barrier and mountaineering the steps up and down the railway bridge- which I do.

The pub here [The Ship Inn] has a good looking menu. The food and the beer are splendid and although the garden is bathed in sunlight, we choose to sit inside in the shade.

It has been a pleasant couple of days but we’re moving again, for a return visit to Chickerell, near Weymouth. It’s a huge site, once a huge farm. It’s a fairly extensive operation with many staff, a well-stocked shop, a bar/restaurant with basic pub grub and access to the wonderful coast path which also fringes gorgeous Chesil Beach.

We get tucked into a spot by a hedge with a view down to the sea. Husband can meander down and along the path [which, to be fair, I have walked before when my legs worked] and we can take advantage of the barn bar. There’s also a couple of paddocks with amiable donkeys, gregarious goats and noisy geese. While Husband is off on his wandering, I hobble along to the enclosures and sneak a couple of carrots to the donkeys and goats. While a sign says it’s not allowed to feed them, it isn’t chips or anything unsuitable.

The weather has turned a little overcast, but nothing too unpleasant so we just need to find one more site for a couple of nights before we return home. But it’s easier said than done.

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com

Bus Trials [again!]

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So it transpires that our neighbour at Bagwell Farm camp site, Chickerell, Raymond, is something of an institution, as having sorted out the electricity problem, he’s off hobnobbing with all and sundry. Clearly, he spends a great deal of time here and is to be spotted most of the day, sitting outside his caravan awning chatting to other ‘regulars’. It’s that kind of site. In contrast, the single man in the caravan the other side of us is reclusive to the point of hermit-dom, appearing rarely and furtively [and clad only in scruffy shorts].

But we’re here to enjoy the walks and the coast path and having undertaken quite a hefty hike yesterday, we’ll take a day off and get a bus to Abbotsbury, which is famous for its swannery, of course, [https://abbotsburyswannery.co.uk/ ] but has other, lesser known bits of interest.

It should be easy. We’ve used the bus service on many, many occasions back and forth along this part of the coast. And the bus stop is down on the main road, near the unpatronised Victoria pub we’ve already investigated. Husband, who is the maestro of all things timetable, has looked at bus times and selected one for us. We stroll down the field and to the stop by the silent pub and the busy road. A man rides out behind us on a mower and begins to cut the grass around the pub. We wait…and wait. An inspection of the bus stop timetable affords no help- since not only do the times bear no relation to Husband’s online timetable, they bear no relation to reality-

I begin to tire of standing still. We begin to discuss how long we should wait. I sit down. It’s a warm afternoon. After about 40 minutes [far too long!] we opt for returning to site. We get as far as the gate to the field and…yes…there is a bus. It pulls up at the stop. We make our attempt to run towards it in full view of the driver…we get to within 50 yards of the bus…and…it pulls away.

Having returned to the van and regrouped, not to be beaten, we try again, even though the afternoon is slipping by and we’ll need to return at some stage.

Finally we get on to a [very busy] bus and get to Abbotsbury, where we alight and attempt to discern the timetable for the bus back to Chickerell. I need hardly say that it is all nonsensical. We wander the lovely, picture-perfect village. We don’t have long, but we stumble upon Abbotsbury Abbey, which is delightful, with a ‘cut-your-own’ flower shop, a beautiful mill pond, the semi-ruined abbey and a cafe which is just about to close but will sell us drinks and cake to take away [hooray!]. We settle at a bench in the sunshine by the pond.

It’s time to meander back to the dastardly bus stop, opposite the pub. The bus stop bench is occupied so I lower myself on to a log by a gate from which chickens are coming and going- a more interesting diversion than the mower. At least this time there are fellow hopeful passengers. Husband bemoans the fact that we don’t have time for the pub, which appears a great deal more inviting than the Victoria.

At last, however, a bus comes. Perhaps there is some mysterious deity after all…

Coast and Country

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Those who’ve followed Anecdotage for ever will have detected a change in our trips lately. We’ve not undertaken any lengthy, meandering van Odysee, rather dashed out for short stays, some local, others made by air. This is due to a deluge of NHS appointments [National Health Service for overseas visitors to this blog]. This means having to sandwich travel trips between doctor interventions and checks. Ho hum…

After Valleyfest we dash home, then there’s time to clean the van and do laundry before we’re off again- this time to west Dorset, to a massive site, Bagwell Farm near Chickerell [which is near to Weymouth]. And it has direct access on to the lovely coast path, right where Chesil Beach passes by on its way to Portland.

Like so many sites these days, there are dozens of permanent and semi-permanent vans and caravans. It’s a rolling, hilly kind of camp site, our own allocated pitch up high on a terrace with a view towards the sea and sandwiched between two caravans. The first thing that happens is that we blow the electric point with our plug-in lead- a mishap which has dogged us all of this year. The occupant of the caravan to our right, ‘Raymond’, emerges and strides down to reception, declaring that this is a regular occurrence here. Little does he know! The reception woman comes to reset everything and miraculously, we have electricity. So sure were we that we wouldn’t have we’ve brought our gas fridge, which is now redundant.

At Bagwell Farm they’ve thought of everything, with donkeys and goats, a well-stocked shop and their very own bar/restaurant. It’s not gourmet but will do for a lazy night. There’s also a pub nearby on the main road, accessed by a footpath across a field, although when we explore, in spite of the conventional bar we can see through the windows, it doesn’t seem to be doing much trade. We’re quite a way outside the village here and the walk is along a busy road without a pavement or a verge.

We’re here for the walks, so we strike out down through the site, down a field and to the coast path, Chesil Beach in our view, then follow the path by the water. The weather is on our side, for once, making the water in the lagoon that separates the shingle bank from the sea sparkle. There are some climbs but they’re worth the effort for the views over the farmland and the coast.

We turn in and up a track, [stopping to look at the dry stone wall which is being repaired] which takes us to a village- Langton Herring. It’s quaint and picturesque and typically Dorset, with stone cottages, narrow lanes, a tiny church and immaculate gardens. We’re flummoxed about which way to go but spot a sign and take a path through a working farmyard and up across the field again until we come to a copse and eventually out to the main road and the entrance to our site. Phew!

Novels by Jane Deans [Grace]: The Year of Familiar Strangers and The Conways at Earthsend. Visit my website: janedeans.com