Tag Archives: footpath

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 River House

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I woke this morning and opened the blind to the view I’ve been treated to for the last two weeks. This morning the sunlight is dancing on the water as the river flows around this voluptuous curve in a sinuous meander, fringed by a border of mature willows whose grey-green foliage sways in a light breeze.

Across the meadow moles have toiled overnight to produce a smattering of brown hillocks. By the time I’ve descended into the living room a fisherman or two will have established a prime spot along the bank and will have organised the space with their equipment-a chair, a large, green umbrella and of course, their rods and landing nets. Some stay rooted to their chosen position all day, others wander up and down, trying various places by dipping the line in then moving elsewhere. A pair of swans cruise past in a nonchalant voyage up river and an occasional cormorant passes overhead.

Outside our back gate is a footpath that leads for miles along the river and across the path is a hedge marking the expanse of the private fishing zone. This hedge is a riot of brambles, nettles, buddleia, willow, hawthorn and wild fuchsia and is alive with small birds and butterflies-too many species to detail here.

Across the river another meadow sports a herd of cows who amble through at the same time each day, tails flicking, jaws munching, following the matriarch in an ordained timetable, their route taking them under a railway bridge. Every so often a train comes or goes behind the meadow, some to London or Manchester, some to Poole and Weymouth, making no impact on the cattle, the wildlife or ourselves.

A robin and a pair of blackbirds have already become confident enough to claim our patch of garden as their own, now that dogs and cats are no longer in residence. The robin perches on the rooftop of our new, rustic bird table and dips up and down in a proprietorial way. I have begun to reclaim the cherry trees from the suffocating killer embrace of the ivy that is strangling them and am undertaking a mission to clear the steep bank under our trees from the ferocious brambles that have had their own way for too long.

The small wedge of scruffy grass is responding to some regular trimming and digging-out of weeds by greening up and the pathways and decking are visible now that the accumulated leaves and detritus have been swept away.

So it is ours, this place; seducing us from the moment the removal men left us. We stepped out on to the balcony outside our living room on the hottest day of the year, took in the glorious landscape on our doorstep and all thoughts of our old house were swept away like a clump pf weed on the river. We’ve had to collect items wrongly delivered and return items wrongly removed from the old place. Otherwise it has become a mere stop along the bus route of our history. Now you know…