Not Winnie…

Posted on October 20, 2024 by Grace Lessageing

For our third day at Bagwell Farm we’re off on another walk- in the other direction this time but again, from the site, starting off up a hill and eventually coming across Fleet and old Fleet church, tiny and charming with its own miniature churchyard. You can go inside, too, which I do and there are just a few pews, an altar and everything a church needs. A left behind cardigan slung over the back of a pew signals that the church is used. We have a sit on a stone bench outside. There are glimpses of the water through the trees.

Then we’re following the lagoon behind Chesil Beach again, coming round the coast path to an enormous, white hotel, Moonfleet Manor, sitting in an imposing position overlooking the sea. It’s a warm day and we’ve been walking so when we spot an ice-cream sign it feels rude not to investigate. But we have to work for it! The obvious entry point to the hotel is embellished with ‘no entry to hotel’. We backtrack. We must enter through the garden, which is behind a wall. It’s very lovely, with raised beds full of all kinds of interesting plants, but there’s no sign of an ice-cream. [It occurs to me that recent posts must convey the impression that I am on a constant search for ice-cream, although on this occasion it’s Husband’s idea…].

Getting through the garden is not the last part of the quest- we need to circlumnavigate the entire hotel building until we find the cafe at the top of a great lawn and there, finally, is the ice cream machine. We get our reward, a brief interlude before the hike back to site. It’s the last day before we move so we give The Red Barn- the site’s own pub/cafe, a try. The food on offer is mostly pub grub, ie burgers, battered fish, lasagne- all with chips, but it’s good enough for a cook-free evening after a long walk.

Next we’re off into Devon, our next-door county and to a site called Pooh Cottage in the village of Knowle, near Budleigh Salterton. On arrival to the site, off Bear Lane, we trundle up a slope and are met by loops of caravans and motorhomes immaculately parked on hard standing pitches round manicured ovals of lawn. Reception is in a kind of log cabin. it’s quiet- eerily so.

We’re led off to our pitch by the owner- who I’m tempted to call Mr Pooh but I manage to suppress the urge, although we’re allotted a pitch in a field at the back where there’s just one other unit. It feels a little second class here in a featureless field with tall hedges but no matter. The village of Knowle is down the lane, across a busy road and down again. There isn’t much to Knowle but it does have a pub, at least! And it is walking distance to Budleigh Salterton, where we’ve been before but will revisit.

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

Bus Trials [again!]

Posted on October 13, 2024 by Grace Lessageing

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

Posted on October 6, 2024 by Grace Lessageing

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

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…

Dorset Day Trip

Posted on April 2, 2023 by Grace Lessageing

The winter sun excursion to Cape Verde was over. I’ve mixed feelings about it as a holiday destination. Yes, there is much to love- the colourful culture, the [mainly] great restaurants and bars, the wide, wild coastline; but also much that is less enjoyable- the constant wind, the too-numerous roaming, wild dogs, the many abandoned building sites, scruffy with litter and dog poop. So, all in all, despite its frequent comparisons to the Caribbean, I’d certainly prefer the West Indies- which is more expensive, of course.

Back at home, we begin to think in terms of campervan trips. Husband enjoys pimping the van, sending for bits and pieces and always looking for ways to enhance van life. After the winter it feels like a good idea to get the van out for some day trips and get back into the swing of using it by some local travel. Even on cold, inclement days it’s a pleasant experience to park up somewhere, preferably with a good view, make some lunch, put the heating on and relax with a book.

So it’s on a grey, gloomy Sunday that we opt to drive out in the van, down the coast westwards to Weymouth for the day. Weymouth is a bit like Bournemouth’s poorer cousin, though the reasons aren’t clear. True, many seaside towns are impoverished and run down but it’s difficult to see why Weymouth would be. It has all the advantage that Bournemouth has, including stunning, sandy beaches. It has a direct rail link to London, albeit further down the line. It has charming, character architecture- including a beautiful Georgian seafront. It has a gorgeous harbour flanked by pretty, pastel coloured buildings; yet so much of the back streets and narrow lanes is unloved and in dire need of restoration.

But first, lunch. We need somewhere to park that does not have a low barrier and will be out of others’ way- and we find it, on the outskirts of the town, a large car park by the nature reserve- perfect! We can have lunch and a walk round the reserve, which has a sizeable lake and reed beds. It’s a short, circular walk but the cormorants are posing.

Then we’re off into town, to the seafront with its iconic clock tower and the sand artist, who has a permanent, sheltered stand these days. I love the buildings along the front, higgledy piggledy and characterful. The old harbour is also picturesque. Years ago there was a wonderful museum at Brewer’s Quay called ‘The Time Walk’ which was thrilling for children of all ages but no longer exists.

Rain has threatened all afternoon but we dash into a coffee shop as it begins to fall, then make our way back to the van for a rain-swept drive home…

A Journey in Itself

Posted on March 27, 2022 by Grace Lessageing

Having cut short the Sussex trip, [https://gracelessageing.com/2022/03/20/cutting-it-short/], due to the Plague we made a second attempt at an early spring jaunt, this time even closer to home. We are back at Tom’s Field, Langton Matravers in the beautiful, Dorset Isle of Purbeck. We’d been encouraged by a promising forecast of warm sunshine. This is a rustic campsite that has existed for years and years and one we’ve been patronising for years, too. The services, while oldish and not luxurious are clean and efficient, the showers powerful and hot. There is also a campsite shop, not comprehensively stocked this early in the year but open and useful. We’ve only booked for three nights, midweek but I’m sure that by the time the weekend arrives it would be packed with vans and tents. The site does not accommodate caravans.

The dose of Covid that prompted our swift return from Sussex has been a bit of a journey in itself. Initially I felt shivery, achey and tired. I coughed. I was lethargic. At home I lolled around, did nothing and kept falling asleep. After isolation finished I managed some pottering in the garden, then by the weekend I was able to go out and about- to the theatre and to spend an evening with friends.

Then the sunshine prompted a packing of the van. Despite having felt well enough to get around I slept badly, waking often with a blocked nose and a hacking cough. It seemed that The Plague had moved into another phase. Loading the van was an effort but we made the short hop to The Isle of Purbeck in unbroken, warm sun and joined the 3 other vans in the south field. The site only opened 2 days ago.

Having spent yet another night propped up and blocked up, I staggered awake and did very little until Husband suggested a walk to the excellent Square and Compass pub at Worth Matravers to get lunch and a drink. I wondered if I’d manage the short walk across the fields and along the Priest’s Way but sitting outside the old hostelery with a pasty felt worth the effort. For a description of this wonderful, old pub click here: https://gracelessageing.com/2021/09/19/short-and-sweet-in-dorset/

Then another uncomfortable night followed and I decided against joining Husband for a favourite walk over the hills and down to beautiful Dancing Ledge, where the sea would be sparkling on this warm March day, opting instead for a doze on my lounger, catching up on missed sleep and watching the antics of the blackbirds chasing each other in and out of the ivy hedge.

I made it down to the lovely old KIngs Arms for something to eat, then trudged back for the next long night of sleeplessness. We’ll have to hope the next van trip of 2022 is less dogged by mishap. Third time lucky, perhaps?

December Fiction 2

Posted on December 26, 2021 by Grace Lessageing

Today’s post sees the conclusion of a short story. You can read the first part in last week’s Anecdotage. Lena has a puzzling encounter, Imogen learns some home truths from a surprising source and Richard astonishes his wife with some revelations she does not expect.

A Neighbourly Manner [Part 2]

We saw nothing of our new neighbours in the ensuing two weeks, but before we’d left that afternoon I’d elicited permission from Jackson to walk our dog, Molly, in the grounds of the manor and for Richard and me to continue to walk across them as a short cut to the pub.

‘Do as you like, my dear!’ he’d roared, throwing a gangly arm around my shoulders, ‘It’s Liberty Hall!’

And so it was the next weekend, while walking with Molly down the driveway, pausing to admire the view of the house with infinite swathes of daffodils surrounding it that I spotted a figure striding along ahead of me, dressed in a voluminous raincoat, wellington boots and a sou’wester hat; a vigorous, purposeful gait, head erect, hands in pockets.

‘Not Jackson Agnew’, I surmised, since he was taller and I’d the distinct impression that it was a woman; yet the figure lacked Imogen’s neat style, from the rear at least.

Our gregarious Jack Russell terrier had rushed ahead to greet the walker, who stopped and bent to the little dog. I could see from the profile it was indeed female and not Imogen. As I drew close the woman grinned as she made a fuss of Molly.

‘Good Morning! Friendly dog! I am Kristina and I guess you must be our neighbour-Lena, perhaps?’

I may have looked as confused as I felt, for she waited for my response, continuing to grin in an abstract, good natured way. Since she appeared older than Imogen I assumed she must be a relative, possibly a sister of Jackson’s, except that she spoke in a heavy enough accent to demonstrate that she was not of British origin, perhaps Scandinavian. She had a flamboyant, Bohemian look; red curls escaping from the sou’wester, bare legs between the Mac and the boots.

We strolled on together. A scud of spring rain began to sprinkle us. ‘Are you here for long?’ I asked her. She tilted her head to the sky, allowing drops of rain to fall on to her face and into her open mouth.

‘Isn’t this wonderful?’ she laughed. ‘I love English weather! We are just here for the weekend. My daughter must not be left alone for too long. She is supposed to study for her exams but without supervision, well I guess you know what teenagers are like. But these builders, they must also be supervised.’

We were almost at the house, which was encased in the cage of scaffolding that had arrived and been erected during the week in readiness for the replacement of the roof, a renovation that had prompted Richard to describe Jackson Agnew as having money to burn.

I remained silent, absorbing the ‘we’. Imogen had also used ‘we’. Was she here at the manor too? Who was Kristina? She was surely too old to be the stepdaughter Imogen had mentioned.

We parted company with a ‘see you again’ from Kristina as I made my way around to the rear of the manor, where Jackson’s BMW was parked, though not Imogen’s Fiesta. ‘She could be out’, I thought, ‘she could be shopping or running an errand’ but I felt this couldn’t be true. The most likely thing was that she was working.

Richard, when I described the events of my walk declared that he was neither surprised nor interested in ‘that man’s affairs’, but I was disappointed not to have seen Imogen, who I’d hoped to involve in village life. I’d saved some literature for her about parish activities and was hoping to have a conversation with her about the village History Society. I couldn’t help wondering if she knew Kristina was there, or even if she knew of the other woman’s existence.

We left Chiddlehampton and the UK a few days later to spend April in Marbella with our son, who works there as an architect. We prefer to visit in spring or autumn when the Spanish temperatures are less sweltering than in summer.

On the day following our return I collected Molly from some friends in the village who look after her when we are away and decided from her disgruntled expression and affronted manner that I should offer a brisk walk as a placatory gesture, so I combined this with a route through the estate. I was keen to learn what changes had occurred and who might be in residence.

In our absence the mature trees in the grounds had taken advantage of the balmy May sunshine to burst into blossom so that intermittent drifts of white or pink petals showered across in a light breeze. Scaffolding was still in place around the creamy walls, although the roof replacement looked to be almost complete.

Around the back in the car park area I noticed that an unsightly, corrugated pergola had been removed to reveal a semi-circle of elegant columns, a stunning feature. Jackson then had not been idle. His car was parked next to one of the sets of French windows facing the lawns. I loitered for a few minutes in hopes of spotting him or Imogen, or even Kristina, but with no obvious signs of human activity I continued through to the meadows with Molly.

That evening, when Richard suggested we stroll down to the pub and catch up with some village news, I needed no persuasion. Since the evenings had drawn out and drawn the locals out, the garden of the Cuckoo was as busy as the two bars, making it tricky work getting to buy a drink. I noticed that most of the tables were occupied with diners, too.

We’d just managed to gain access to the counter and the attention of the bar staff when I felt a rangy arm clamp around my neck and winced as a deafening voice boomed in my ear.

‘Well, well! The wanderers have returned! Welcome back you two. Did you have a good time? You must come down and see all the changes we’ve made. You won’t recognise the place! We have a table over in the alcove. Come and join us. You will let me get those, won’t you, old chap?’

This was addressed to Richard, who’d not turned his head during the greeting, but responded while taking a note from his wallet and handing it across the counter.

‘We only came in for a quick one.’

I could have predicted my husband’s reply, however I was not about to allow an opportunity to talk with one of the two women pass me by.

‘But we’ll come and say Hello. Where are you sitting?’ A quick scan of the tables revealed no one resembling either of them.

We picked up our drinks and followed Jackson through the throng to the alcove. A woman was seated there, not Imogen, not Kristina; a young woman with a mane of dark curls and a heavy pasting of make-up, dark, sooty eyelids and a scarlet gash of lips. Jackson introduced us. When she stood she revealed a swell of cleavage above the line of her blouse.

‘This is my friend Liliana. She is an architect and has come to help with the interior design plans.’

The woman placed her hands on Richard’s shoulders and kissed his cheek, one side followed by the other, continental style. Her fingers, resting on my husband’s upper arms were long and tapered, nails topped with the same livid red as her mouth; as she leaned to offer the same treatment to me I caught a whiff of sweet, pungent perfume.

‘I am happy to meet you’ she breathed; her speech coloured with a strong Latin accent which was confirmed by Jackson’s adjunct.

‘Liliana is Italian.’

Beside me on the bench, Richard was silent, concentrating his attention on his pint of Best as Jackson continued.

‘She is also a terrific artist. We’ve brought some of her canvases down to see where they’ll hang. You must come and take a look.’

As he spoke the woman’s lips smiled in their red slash, her eyes narrowing until I thought she might purr like a pampered cat stretched on a hearthrug. To fill the conversational void I murmured something non-committal and took a sip of my wine. Richard lifted his glass and tipped it back it in uncharacteristic gulps before turning to me.

‘We can’t be too long, Lena. Don’t forget Bob is coming round this evening.’

As we walked back along the lane I asked him, ‘Who on Earth is Bob?’

‘No one. Anyone. What does it matter?’ he replied, ‘I just couldn’t spend any more of my time with that insufferable man.’

The May weather turned unsettled as some gusty showers blew over in the middle of the next week and it was during a heavy downpour on Wednesday evening that the bell rang. I’d been clearing up the kitchen and Richard was upstairs in the study editing his latest batch of Spanish photographs. I hadn’t heard a car pull up so I assumed it was someone from the village as I opened the door.

It was Imogen, though barely recognisable as the radiant girl of six weeks ago. With her hair plastered to her head and her thin shirt stuck to her, soaking, she looked bedraggled. She also appeared to be in some distress, from her red-rimmed eyes and stricken expression. I reached out and all but tugged her inside the hallway, where she stood dripping, her thin shoulders shuddering. I wasted no time.

‘Whatever has happened?’ I asked her. ‘Come into the lounge. I’ll put the fire on!’

Her mouth opened to speak and produced only a shivering sob as she allowed me to tow her into the living room.

‘Wait here,’ I told her, ‘I’ll get you something dry to wear.’

I went upstairs and hissed at Richard’s enquiring face as I grabbed a towelling robe then I dashed back and pulled it around her before sitting her down in an armchair like a child. ‘I’m going to put the kettle on,’ I said, and by the time I’d returned my husband had seated himself in the chair next to her. He glanced at me.

‘Let’s all have a cup of tea,’ he suggested.

As I left the room she began to mumble in halting sentences dotted with ‘sorrys’ and ‘thank yous’ until Richard leaned forward, put his fingers together and asked her, ‘Can you tell us what is wrong?’

By the time I’d set the tray down she was into her dismal story, which was no less depressing for being predictable; a whirlwind, fairy tale romance rising from a chance meeting with a charming, wealthy, practised, older suitor who’d promised the world before exposing her fully to the circles in which he moved. Circles which included a whole host of other women; ex-wives, of which Kristina was one, ex-partners, ex-girlfriends, ‘friends’ who would like to be girlfriends, ‘friends’ who were ‘helping with the designs’ like Liliana, married women, single women and all with one purpose-to be Jackson’s wife.

Having swapped a ward shift and wangled a couple of days off Imogen had planned to turn up without warning and give her intended a surprise, but when she left the car and approached the house she looked in at the un-curtained window and saw him with Liliana; the two of them dancing in the stark emptiness of the drawing room, one of his long arms around her waist, another with a glass of wine in hand. She’d stood in the rain and watched them, watched as they laughed together at the intimacies he whispered in the woman’s ears making her throw her head back in delight. She didn’t know how long she stood in the rain watching. She’d felt panic rising, welling up, threatening to overflow into a scream and then she’d run, back along the curving drive and through the gateway up the lane to our front door. The girl’s breathless narrative ground to a halt as she sniffed; taking another tissue from the box I’d placed beside her.

Richard sat back in his chair, crossing one of his legs over the other and turning his head a little in Imogen’s direction without looking at her face. He began to speak in a quiet monotone. He told her that she may feel distraught now, but that she would recover. He reminded her that she was a strong, independent woman and had proved it by raising a child on her own and following a responsible, highly valued career. He said she must remember that she’d led a good, happy life before Jackson and would do so again; that she must never allow any man to control and manipulate her feelings or treat her as an object to be owned and cast aside like a painting or a house; that a relationship should be based on mutual love and respect and she should look at me, Lena for an example of a resilient, capable woman; that our marriage might not look glamorous but he’d never been in any doubt that he’d chosen the right person. Throughout this monologue she sat motionless, her shuddering sobs subsiding, her narrow shoulders lowering, her eyes fixed hard upon Richard as if he were dragging her from a swamp.

‘Right,’ he concluded, ‘it’s far too late for you to be driving back tonight. You can stay in our guest room, which is always ready’. He looked up at me. ‘My wife can lend you anything you need. Shall we open that bottle of brandy we brought back with us? This would seem to be a suitable occasion to try it.’ He winked. I have a feeling my mouth was hanging open.

He asked Imogen for her car keys, declaring that he would fetch her car from the Manor.

Later on, I ran a hot bath for our guest, after which she was subdued enough to submit to being tucked up in bed.

I extracted a promise from Imogen as she left next morning that she would under no circumstances email, ring or visit Jackson Agnew, neither should she respond to invitations from him, all of which she agreed to with a solemn nod. Her puffy face and red eyes showed that she’d wept the night away, but as she drove off Richard assured me it would pass.

‘Let’s go out for lunch,’ he said and I knew the subject was closed.

Some unspoken agreement kept us from cutting through Chiddlehampton Manor’s grounds for a couple of weeks and we were relieved to see no sign of Jackson or any of his paramours in the pub, or anywhere else in the vicinity.

It was June when we returned from a week in Torquay and saw the sign on the gate at the end of their drive. ‘For Sale- Grade Two listed Manor House with OPP for eight apartments’, it read. It was to be sold by the agent ‘Knight and Rutter’ who are known for their upmarket properties.

Doctor Jackson Agnew and his entourage, it seemed, had moved on.

Wishing all regular readers and visitors a very happy and peaceful New Year

Grace is also known as the novelist, Jane Deans. Her new novel, The Conways at Earthsend is now out and available from Amazon, Waterstones, Goodreads, W H Smith, Pegasus Publishing and many more sites. Visit my website: janedeans.com or my author page on Facebook: (1) Jane Deans, Novellist, Short Fiction and Blog | Facebook.

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