Tag Archives: Dorset

Over and Out…

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On leaving Chickerell, where we’ve had a couple of nights in the well equipped site overlooking Chesil Beach, we head towards Weymouth and the famous, much loved tourist hot spot of West Bay- a bit of a jewel in the Dorset coast’s crown. Husband, apparently, has always wanted to stay at West Bay. I feel sceptical that we’ll get a pitch in the site by the tiny harbour- a ‘holiday park’ type of place with only a few marginal spaces for tourers like ourselves. ‘But it’s not high season yet’ he protests. And of course, the school summer terms are still running; however I know we don’t stand a chance. We pull up into a prohibited space by reception and he goes in. And comes out. And we don’t stand a chance. So while I wrestle with the challenge of biting back ‘told you so’, we make our way out of West Bay. It will have to be visited in a lower season even than this.

Back we go to find somewhere else, turning right down a track that leads to another huge, ‘holiday park’ type of site at Freshwater Bay, just around the corner from West Bay. This time we are in, allocated a pitch on a massive field housing about a dozen campervans, motorhomes and caravans, all fairly isolated from each other. motorhomes and caravans and after a lot of searching we find our pitch.

Much of the site is reserved for static units, most here seem unoccupied, Opposite us and along there’s a huge shower block with dozens of massive shower cubicles and when I go in I’m alone in there.

The site has a chain grocery store, an amusement arcade, a bar offering such thrills as Bingo and an upstairs cafeteria type place with limited offerings- except I can get a prawn salad. There’s a view of the bay though not the sea. Next day Husband can walk to West Bay, which he does.

We’re looking for one last stop before we go home, settling for one on a dairy farm on the way home, located in Portesham, a picturesque village with an excellent pub along the road. The weather is hotting up again as we arrive. It’s busy and we’re directed to a pitch at the end, although not too far from the showers and services!

Before we go to the site though, we drop into the village farm shop, which had looked inviting as we’d passed it en route. It would be great to stock up a bit for our last couple of days. Inside the shop though, there’s little of use! A poor, meagre selection of salad, vegetables or fruit, no meat products and nothing else we can make a meal from except some overpriced quiche in the cafe. Hmm…Appearances can be deceptive. We get some quiche and go to the site- which does offer some interesting vending machines of its own- pizzas, milk etc.

Opposite our pitch, a solo woman arrives and begins to set up a tent. There are several solo women camping here- which gladdens me in some way…

But the woman is struggling. By now the weather has heated up to another heatwave, with relentless sun, not conducive to much activity. She has an inflatable tent- ie it has hollow spines that need to be blown up to support the fabric. But her hand pump is failing to inflate the spines, which keep collapsing. I ask Husband to help [he’s a little reluctant] and he locates our pump. But the problem is with the spine’s valve and only her pump fits. Another man comes to help. I feel an enormous sense of relief that eventually the problem is solved and her tent gets sorted! I so want this woman to enjoy her solo trip!.

We get to the pub later and it’s lovely. Then it’s time to go home. My next journey will be very different, not so pleasant and prevent travel for some time to come- but hey- One day I will get back on the road with more drivel…

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

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

Not Winnie…

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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!]

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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

A Little-Trodden Footpath

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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

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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…

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/

Affronts on Several Fronts

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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-

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 Plunge, the Path and the Prickles

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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…

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/

Dorset Day Trip

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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…

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/