As many of you will know, I like to write a bit of poetry. I’ll never be a Walter de la Mare but I enjoy the creativity, especially if linked to a photograph. This is my latest offering :)! The picture was taken during a wonderful walk this week and inspired the poem.
BENEATH THE TREE
Sitting below this bower’s shade
With dappled light upon the glade,
The wind’s caress is all around,
The roots wind deep into the ground,
Dependable, strong, always free,
A delightful spot beneath the tree.
Branches above me joyfully wave,
The way to heaven they seem to pave,
Quivering leaves, a tremulous sight,
Always cheerful, springtime bright,
New life around for all to see,
A delightful spot beneath the tree.
The playing of squirrels above me, around,
A haven for lambs when the rain comes down,
Views down the valley, oh so green,
What better place to sit and dream,
Sweet singing of birds to serenade me,
A delightful spot beneath the tree.
With balmy sun upon the lea,
What better spot than beneath a tree?
Be blessed!
Thanks for stopping by and reading the ramblings of The Dorset Rambler.
Until next time,
Your friend
The Dorset Rambler.
If you would like to contact me, my details are on my website which is http://www.yarrowphotography.com – comments and feedback are welcomed.
All photographs, poems and words in this blog are the copyright of The Dorset Rambler and must not be reproduced without permission.
Sitting here in my office on a dull, dreary day, gazing out of the window across the local park, my mind wanders back to a delightful walk that I took recently. It was in many ways a literary walk taking in some wonderful Dorset countryside and several wonderful old Dorset churches. It was a walk to inspire the imagination! Join with me and we will walk together.
It started in a delightful area of woodland, made all the more special by the dappled light and amazingly fresh spring colours in the trees. Verdant new life that just takes your breath away! As I walked along the track that wound its way through the woodlands accompanied by the bird song all around, I could not help but think of Thomas Hardy’s Tess. I could picture her walking these ancient tracks with her friends as they made their way to church in their Sunday best dresses with Angel Clare not too far away. It was sad that the event that led to her demise came in a similar glade at the hands of Alec d’Urberville! Thomas Hardy wrote of such tragedy that seems to contradict the joy of this location.
The countryside of Tess
With these typical Hardy woodlands and the nearby open heathland that once covered the whole of Dorset, it is not surprising that his novels come to mind because sandwiched betwixt wood and heath stands Hardy’s Cottage. Built by his great grandfather, this is where Hardy was born in 1840 and where he started his writing career so it is fitting that he wrote of the area that surrounded him. The cottage, now delightfully preserved by The National Trust, could have easily jumped out of one of his novels. Looking across the garden, you can just hear Gabriel Oak’s voice drifting out of the open window saying to Bathsheba, ‘And at home by the fire, whenever you look up there I shall be – and whenever I look up, there will be you’.
Thomas Hardy’s Cottage
Passing on down the narrow lane that seems little changed since Hardy’s day, I passed the first of several orchards, beautifully adorned with blossom and bluebells. It would have been a great place to ‘stand and stare’ awhile…….but there was a walk to complete !
A beautiful orchard
Not that I got very far because just down the lane I came across a very friendly lamb who needed a bit of fuss! So I obliged ! Well, it is unusual to find a lamb who comes towards you rather than running away.
A very friendly lamb
In fact it was one unusual sight to another because I hadn’t gone half a mile further before I saw the nest box below. It seemed a somewhat random place to hang a nest box. Needless to say, it was empty.
A random nest box
But there was more to come because just a little further along the track I passed the sheep below – for some reason all clustered together under a small clump of trees despite having a whole field of lush grass! I wondered if they knew something I didn’t !
A ‘cluster’ of sheep
All along this walk you can see the ‘Hardy factor’. Passing through a tiny village I passed thatched cottages along either side of the narrow country lane, including the old school house and the old post office. These would have been two thriving gathering points in this small community in Hardy’s day but no longer. As with a lot of villages, these ‘centres’ are no more as they have been converted to private houses.
The Old Post Office
This was a spring walk and that was very evident too in this village with one of my favourite plants, the wisteria, growing over some cottages.
Wisteria
Passing on through the village, my route took me over a lovely old bridge which had the usual warning notice about transportation if anyone caused damage to it – these are often seen in Dorset although it seems a harsh penalty – and onto a delightful causeway between two streams. This really was a lovely part of the walk with the rippling stream on either side and a spectacular display of beautifully delicate cow parsley, not to mention a swan with a family of tiny cygnets.
The riverside walk
This was such a varied walk as the river led on to some lovely water meadows, rife with buttercups and with many relics from the past, including the old sluice gates and channels that would have been used to flood the meadows in spring. This was the method used to raise the ground temperature ready for the planting of seeds to ensure a speedy germination. Although derelict, these sluice gates are still in place, part of the heritage of past generations. I often wonder what life was really like back in those days – I would love to visit but I fancy I would want to come back to this century!
Sluice gates and buttercups in the meadow
Fortunately the weather has been drier so the meadows were easy walking. Before long, I found myself passing Hardy’s other home, Max Gate, currently shrouded in scaffolding as the National Trust carry out renovations. From here, my route took me down a lovely track that Hardy must have walked many times when visiting his friend and fellow author William Barnes. They were near neighbours when Barnes was resident at the Came Rectory.
En route to visit William Barnes
And of course this part of the walk would not be complete without a short detour to take in the old church where William Barnes was rector. Standing in this church, you could just imagine Barnes preaching from the pulpit. He must have had a broad Dorset accent as he wrote in the same dialect – not easy to read even for a Dorset born and bred man like myself.
Memories of William Barnes
And in the churchyard, another literary giant comes to mind – Thomas Gray in his Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard wrote, ‘Beneath those rugged elms, that yew tree’s shade……..Each in his narrow cell forever laid’. Such a great descriptive poem, and death is so final……..or is it?
Beneath the yew tree’s shade
And almost right outside the church was the loveliest display of ramsons and bluebells. A fitting tribute to a famous Dorset author.
Ramsons and bluebells
It seems that I am forever passing strange sights…..or maybe it is just that I am always on the lookout for quirky and unusual things. The picture below is no exception ! This is something I have seen a number of times before where the corner of the field containing horses is essentially blocked off. I can only surmise that it is because horses fight if trapped in a corner so any potential areas are blocked off but I don’t know if that is the case.
A strange fence
Having walked cross country for a time, I reached civilisation again when I came to a lovely unspoilt hamlet with just a cluster of cottages, a tithe barn, a manor house, and a delightful little church. This is of course the make up of many Dorset hamlets.
A delightful unspoilt Dorset hamlet
The church, dating from the 12th century and of unknown dedication, is set apart from the hamlet in the middle of a field. It really is a beautiful sight and is another church being cared for by the Churches Conservation Trust who do a great work. The scene below is just so typically English, but the sign always makes me smile – it seems to be somewhat stating the obvious ! Even here there are literary connections as it was in this little church that William Barnes preached his first and last sermon. For me, the peaceful churchyard made a great place for lunch in the company of birds and sheep.
A delightful church
Having had my late lunch in the churchyard, it was time to press on along country footpaths, accompanied by skylarks singing their sweet lilting songs overhead – isn’t it amazing that they can make such glorious music whilst flying (it must be like us trying to run and sing at the same time). Such a lovely sound that just lifts any stresses away and takes you into another place. The sound is so joyful you feel that they belong in church. And it wasn’t long before I came across the next church on this walk. Another lovely unspoilt village with a very old church that had been modernised inside to create a lovely light, airy worship space – a real ‘ancient and modern’.
Ancient yet modern
My route after leaving the village took me across farm land and quiet country lanes with verges that were breaking out with a myriad of different spring flowers, eventually crossing a railway line. Here I thought I’d try something different so I crouched down in the gateway and waited for a train to come along, which it did very soon……..and very quickly too! In fact as it passed, the air pressure created almost knocked me over ! Well, it had to be done !
Whoosh!
I was nearing the end of the walk now but there were still more interesting things to see, such as the old King George post box buried in the hedge below.
A King George post box
And as I approached the end of my walk, Thomas Hardy returned as I negotiated a particularly muddy section of the track. It brought to mind the scene from Tess of the d’Urbervilles where Angel Clare carries Tess and all her friends one by one over the mud so that they didn’t get their clothes dirty. What a gentleman!!!
Where is Angel Clare?
And yet another scene came as the forecasted rain began to fall – I’m sure that is Joseph Poorgrass’ horse wandering free on the heath. He’s probably at the inn again!
Joseph Poorgrass’ horse?
Before we finish, let me take you back to a meadow near the end of the walk – what a lovely relaxing sound.
What a great walk! So much to see and hear, and so many connections with our literary giants. I hope you enjoyed walking with me.
Be blessed!
Thanks for stopping by and reading the ramblings of The Dorset Rambler.
Until next time,
Your friend
The Dorset Rambler.
If you would like to contact me, my details are on my website which is http://www.yarrowphotography.com – comments and feedback are welcomed.
All photographs, poems and words in this blog are the copyright of The Dorset Rambler and must not be reproduced without permission.
Ah what a fabulous walk this was! For almost the first time this year I could walk on solid ground, not because there wasn’t any mud but because for once the mud was frozen. After the rain we have had seemingly all year, it was such a refreshing change to have seasonably cold, frosty weather which froze even the deepest puddles. So it was hat and gloves on, and a hot drink to have on the way!
Mind you, before I even got to walking, the camera came out as I passed the beautiful valley in the picture below – I thought it looked as if Santa had passed by in his sleigh on his way to deliver presents to all the lovely children !
Where is Santa
I arrived at the starting point of my walk and parked in a delightfully picturesque village with its picture postcard cottages and leafy lanes. With the dappled sunlight, it made a beautiful start to the walk – but later, the darkness would reveal something even more special!
Dappled light on a village street
Leaving the village, the first mile or two took me down one of those quintessentially timeless Dorset country lanes. With the crisp frost and the dancing sunlight, it seemed that I was walking in an age more familiar to my grandparents and I almost expected to see a horse and wagon come by on their way to market. It is truly wonderful how some things just don’t change, especially in this fast moving 21st century technological society that we live in. How grateful I am for these timeless places, these quiet moments, and for the ability to enjoy them.
Timeless
Turning off the lane, my route took me onto a farm track, passing the farmhouse on the way. Seeing this farmhouse bathed in sunshine on this crisp day made me understand afresh the pleasures of living in a rural area. I know there are ‘disadvantages’ to being a farmer like having to get up at 4.00 am every day but, hey, as they say, ‘every silver lining has a cloud’! Hmm, or is that the other way round !
The farmhouse
But just standing there gazing at the view…….well, you couldn’t help but sigh and drink it all in. With the frost in the foreground echoing the shape of the fence, and the gentle mist settled over the valley in the early morning light, it was magical What a morning, what a view! Stand there with me and realise afresh the truth of the poets words, ‘What is life, if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare’!
‘What is life, if full of care, we have no time to stand and stare’
But, move on we must, before the cold freezes us to the spot! From here, the route winds its way across farmland…….and loses its way a little! A lack of signposting and some poor stiles can make it difficult to follow the path, especially when one field looks much like the next, but this is all part of the enjoyment of a good walk, creating some small challenges along the way and making the compass and map worth carrying.
We have a good system here in Dorset, a system that allows any problems with the footpath to be reported to the local authority – you can love or hate the Internet, but how did we manage without it? Within days of my sending through the report, I received an email advising me that the corrective works had been commissioned so next time I walk this way, the path should be clear again ! I bet they love me!!
One of the things I love about this county of Dorset is the variety of habitat and terrain. After the farmland, the path gently winds down into a lovely area of woodland with the frost clinging to the trees and shrubs creating a fairytale land. If you let your imagination go, you could almost expect to see little snowmen running free. And then, it is out into the open hillside again to be greeted by the most wonderful view.
Across the open valley
Lunch time was beckoning and I knew that there was a lovely village church not far away. That is significant because it is always nice to sit down to eat but that is not something that is straight forward in the winter when the ground is so wet. However, most churchyards have a bench or two which solves the problem ! I often think it would be nice if more farmers would provide a seat or two beside footpaths crossing their land – it doesn’t need to be a padded sofa, just an old log or two will do ! But on this day, it was a churchyard, and a beautifully peaceful one at that, and as I sat there, the weak winter sunlight falling on the delightfully coloured gravestones caught my eye.
In the graveyard
On these cold days, it is always nice to have a hot drink so I usually carry either a flask or my small camping stove which in many ways is even better because it means I can brew a hot drink whenever I want to. And today I wanted to! Sat in that peaceful churchyard with food and a hot drink reflecting on life is one of the pleasures even on a cold day like this. And so often, these country churchyards are a haven for wildlife too.
The second half of the walk crosses some pristine parklands, with two old stately homes to pass, with the usual array of cottages. I think the one below with its mansard roof and country garden must be the perfect place to live.
The country cottage
And then a little further on, another old and now disused but beautifully positioned building which probably housed farm workers in time gone by. Its days of usefulness are long gone and it looks forlornly out across the land that its inhabitants once served. And yet it still has a picturesque beauty that enhances the distant view, and a heritage that stretches even further.
Empty but beautiful
Climbing up onto the ridge just as the sun was setting, my route took in some amazing views across the valley. The evening mist was creeping stealthily across the low lying land creating a mystical atmosphere which was lit by the gentle pastel colours that are typical of a Dorset winter evening. And the frost that had lingered on the ground all day, grew crisper as the temperature dropped even further.
The evening mist settles across the valley
And as I dropped down off the hillside again, the village of Evershot was sat in shade with the blue mist creating a winter wonderland.
A winter wonderland
Passing through the village and out into the countryside again, I looked back to see the last vestiges of the milky sunset reflecting off the smoke from the bonfires in the cottage gardens.
Bonfires in the sunset
The last two miles took me across the most perfect parkland with its landscaped grounds and beautifully laid out trees. One in particular seemed as if it was standing out from its peers, like a lookout on the ramparts of a hill fort.
The lookout
And as darkness fell and the frost grew heavier and whiter still, I walked on alone apart from the many deer that roamed free. They were my company for what I often think is the best part of the day.
The parklands
And of course past the old mansion itself, now looming out of the darkness.
The old mansion
Eventually, I walked back into the village I had started from and it was there that the darkness brought to light that ‘something special’ that I mentioned at the start. It was a beautiful nativity scene set up in the window of one of the old cottages, lit up and glowing with its warm light shining out into the cold, darkness outside. I stood and looked, and thought what a great message, light shining into darkness, and a what a wonderful reminder of what this Christmas time is all about!
Be blessed!
Thanks for stopping by and reading the ramblings of The Dorset Rambler.
Until next time,
Your friend
The Dorset Rambler.
If you would like to contact me, my details are on my website which ishttp://www.yarrowphotography.com – comments and feedback are welcomed.
All photographs, poems and words in this blog are the copyright of The Dorset Rambler and must not be reproduced without permission.
Since I am a photographer you might think I am a visual person, and I am. But I am also very much an audio person and I love sounds, not only music but all sounds – well, perhaps not literally all !! Many years ago I listed my favourite sounds so I thought I would share some of them with you.
The sound of surf washing over shingle
This is such a beautiful relaxing sound, especially at the end of a long walk as the evening light settles over the coast and everyone has gone home – the time when in the words of the poet, ‘All is left to darkness and to me’. Sitting in the solitude on one of Dorset’s shingle beaches with the gently washing surf is special.
The sound of the skylark singing on a warm summer day
To me, this is a quintessentially Dorset sound when walking the chalk uplands and it just typifies summer. I will never forget the evening at the end of a great day when I was walking along the coast with the skylarks singing on one side of me, the surf washing gently across the shore on the other, and a fantastic sunset straight ahead of me. Magical! Just lay on the grass and listen to the skylarks singing. I love it so much that I wrote a song about it once – perhaps I’ll share it one day.
The sound of children playing
What a cheerful sound this is! Children have such a sense of wonder and adventure, it is such a shame we lose it as we get older……not that I have ever lost mine as I am still a child at heart and I deliberately try to keep my sense of wonder and passion as you will probably have sensed from my blog. The innocence of children as they play is one of the wonders of the world.
The sound of a steam train
Maybe it reminds me of my youth. We don’t see them so much now but fortunately we have enthusiasts who still run preserved steam railways like the Swanage Railway in Dorset or the Toddington Railway in the picture above. I know they were slow and dirty but I can forgive all that for the wonderful sound they make!
The sound of a finely tuned bicycle wheel
This may seem a strange one but when I was younger I was a racing cyclist and I had lightweight aluminium wheels and tubular tyres on my bike and when you got up a good speed whilst racing, the wheels would just sing with the friction of the road and the air through the spokes. It was a great sound and a great feeling……but you would probably have to be a cyclist to understand it!
Sounds that travel on a very still summer evening
This is another ‘end of walk’ favourite. Occasionally we have those very still, balmy summer evenings and it is really great to be walking the hilltops just listening to the sounds that travel across the valley, sounds like dogs barking or cows mooing in the far distance. Normally you wouldn’t notice it but sounds travel a long way in the still summer air and they have a different quality.
The sound of push/pull lawn mowers
Its strange how whenever you sit down in the garden for a quiet read, there’s always someone who decides to mow their lawn! These days nearly everyone has either an electric or a motor mower, the former makes this stress inducing whine and the latter just makes a din! The old push/pull mowers like the one in the picture above have such a lovely relaxing sound……..when the neighbours are using them of course !
The singing of the blackbird
Always the last to sing as darkness falls, and usually from a favourite perch high in the tree. Such a beautiful sound!
The crackling of a blazing log fire
In the freezing cold depths of winter, there is nothing better than a blazing log fire that crackles and makes all sorts of strange patterns and pictures as you gaze at the flames. No need for a television or music, a log fire is entertainment all by itself. If its not in the hearth, a bonfire is equally good, or as in my garden, a chiminea! Wonderful…….even if everything does smell of smoke after – well, I can’t smell it anyway! When I was young, I used to take my dog Rex out for long walks and then together we would sit beside a blazing fire with the lights out and the room being lit by just the dancing flames.
The plaintive cry of the curlew
Walking through the mudflats at low tide with a myriad of different waders is fantastic, and there is no better sound than the lonely, plaintive cry of the curlew. It sends shivers down your spine!
The sound of seagulls
I guess they remind me of holidays long ago spent at the west country seaside or harbours. The sound to me just takes me back to holiday time when I was young.
My wife’s singing
She has a beautiful voice although she doesn’t think so!
So what are your favourite sounds? Have you listened to what is around you recently, I mean, really listened?
Thanks for stopping by and reading the ramblings of The Dorset Rambler.
Until next time,
Your friend
The Dorset Rambler.
All photographs, poems and words in this blog are the copyright of The Dorset Rambler and must not be reproduced without permission.
Have you ever considered clouds? They are truly amazing and beautiful, almost a landscape in themselves with their ever changing shapes and shades. They are so mysterious and transient. You can really let your imagination run wild and free, seeing all kinds of things – I once saw one that looked just like a crocodile.
Whilst I was walking, and taking photographs of course, it occurred to me how they are never still – in fact I waited for them to get into just the right position in my photograph below so that they echoed the shape of the hills. Then, without stopping, they continued on their merry way. Its amazing to think that someone else might have taken a picture with this same cloud formation, maybe someone from another county or even country.
Well it inspired me to wax lyrical and compose another poem as I walked so I thought I would post it today. Hope you like it !
Clouds
Little cotton wool balls, way up high,
The fluffy white clouds scud across the sky,
Leaving no trace, just the blue,
Of where they have been or where they go to.
Where do they go when they are gone
From my view, having moved along,
To another place, another scene,
To other eyes and lands so green.
They have no time for standing still,
But they go nowhere of their own free will,
Carried aloft on warmth and wind,
With never a thought, never mind.
Like ships afloat the changing tide,
They have no engines, they just glide,
Where do they come from? I cannot say,
Where do they go at the end of the day?
You and I can sit on a stile
To take in the view and rest awhile,
Clouds do not have that luxury,
They just move on, constantly.
To hidden places a secret from me,
Perhaps not England, another country?
Those clouds that have enhanced my view
May feature in others’ pictures too.
And when their journey is finally done,
Do they die or just fade with the sun?
Thanks for stopping by and reading the ramblings of The Dorset Rambler.
Until next time,
Your friend
The Dorset Rambler.
All photographs, poems and words in this blog are the copyright of The Dorset Rambler and must not be reproduced without permission.
Sometimes, well very occasionally, I like to try my hand at a bit of poetry. I say occasionally because I’m not very good at it, but would like to be. I’d love to be able to write fluent, flowing and expressive poetry. Anyway, on a recent walk I found some inspiration when I passed a drystone wall which set my thinking, and the creative juices flowing. I always carry a notepad so I composed this poem as I walked:
The Drystone Waller
One on one on one on one,
The drystone waller’s day’s begun,
Stone on stone on stone on stone,
Lots to do ere he goes home.
A solid build as ‘fits his trade,
Every stone securely laid,
Sweating brow and breaking back,
Another stone goes on the rack.
Perfect symmetry, line on line,
Locked together, looking fine,
From random stones, different shapes,
A cohesive whole he creates.
The master’s hand the holding glue,
Nothing more, forever new,
Come wind come rain ’twill strongly stand,
And remain a part of this ancient land.
These scattered stones have become a wall,
So solid, dependable, standing tall,
For years to come ere he’s gone home,
An epitaph to a job well done.
It just struck me that these random stones just laying around on the ground, in the hands of a master become something useful and strong, something that has a real purpose. Makes me think of people!
Thanks for stopping by and reading the ramblings of The Dorset Rambler!
Until next time,
Your friend,
The Dorset Rambler.
The photographs on this blog are all the copyright of The Dorset Rambler and must not be used without permission.
The butterfly, a cabbage-white,
(His honest idiocy of flight)
Will never now, it is too late,
Master the art of flying straight,
Yet has- who knows so well as I?-
A just sense of how not to fly:
He lurches here and here by guess
And God and hope and hopelessness.
Even the acrobatic swift
Has not his flying-crooked gift. (Robert Graves)
I heard this poem for the first time on the radio many years ago when I was in my car and it struck a chord immediately. So when I got home, I looked it up and subsequently used it as an opening to a sermon. You see, to me, there is a message in it! Most of the poem is about how useless the Cabbage White is because it just can’t fly straight – it just flies randomly in all directions with no direction at all. It even compares it very unfavourably with the swift which has such amazing aerobatic skills.
But then right at the end it turns it around and says that far from being useless, it has a real gift for ‘flying crooked’ ! You see, its all about how you look at it – which led me to question, how do we look at ourselves? You may not be able to ride a bike like Bradley Wiggins, or wield a tennis racket like Roger Federer; you may not be a Mother Theresa or a Martin Luther King – the Cabbage White is not a Swift……but he has his own gifts and strengths, as do we all! Its all about how we see ourselves !
Flying crooked!
Both pictures were taken on a recent walk – full blog to follow. The second one was of course modified in Photoshop !
Thanks for stopping by and reading the ramblings of The Dorset Rambler.
Your friend
The Dorset Rambler
All photographs on this blog are the copyright of The Dorset Rambler and may not be used without permission.
PERCHED on my city office-stool,
I watched with envy, while a cool
And lucky carter handled ice. . . .
And I was wandering in a trice,
Far from the grey and grimy heat
Of that intolerable street….
So said the poet, Wilfred Gibson. Well I am not on a stool and I’m not in a city but I am in my office that looks out onto my very green garden on a dull day and my mind wanders back to the one sunny day last week and a wonderful walk.
It started on the famous Sandbanks peninsula, said to be the forth most expensive real estate in the world with properties valued in millions. It is just my parking place though and I am quickly transported to another world. The transport is a chain ferry that runs to and fro across the entrance to Poole Harbour, apparently the second largest natural harbour in the world. The journey is but a few hundred yards but it saves a drive of around 30 miles and it takes me from urban to country in a matter of minutes! And it is an interesting experience to boot!
The Sandbanks Ferry
I’ve been travelling on this ferry all my life but it never fails to give me a kick. There is something magical and escapist in this ferry, maybe because it takes me back 60 years to when I was a child and we went to the beach, our wilderness area to explore and lose ourselves in…..ah, the wonder and simplicity of childhood! The Sandbanks Ferry is one of those quirky things of Dorset and something to be blogged separately but for now, it’s on with our walk.
The ferry takes me across to Shell Bay, in my view one of the loveliest and most unspoilt beaches in Dorset. It marks the start (or finish) of the 640 mile walk around the South West Coast of England – but my walk will cover just a few of those.
Shell Bay
Stepping onto the beach brings back very fond memories from my childhood. We used to walk the 5 miles from our home in Parkstone to spend the day on the beach, and when I say ‘we’ I mean the whole family, my parents, me and my 4 brothers (apart from when I was in a pram of course), grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins – we all used to go to the beach regularly. We would spend the whole day there and then walk home again – well, we had no cars and with such a large family my parents often couldn’t afford the bus fare.
The Dorset Rambler and family (I’m the baby of the family and that’s my pram behind)
The sand dunes became our mountains to climb and whoever reached the top first would sing out, ‘I’m the king of the castle, you’re the dirty rascal’ ! We would then kneel down and pulling ourselves along with our hands, make grooves like railway lines all around the beach. There were great football and cricket matches, lots of sand castles and my father always took an old lorry inner tube that was either rolled hoopla fashion down the dunes or became our boat for further adventures! It amazing how creative we were and how the simple things could become such an adventure. I think that sense of wonder and excitement that we had as children is something to be treasured and carried with us even into old age, even if it does take more effort. So many people lose that as they grow up and they are all the poorer for it!
In the sand dunes today
For this walk, I didn’t linger on the beach – that was to be my way back. My way out was along a very quiet path known as the Heather Trail. This is a lovely route that winds through the heathland behind the dunes and it can be a very colourful walk at the right time of year. This is the Egdon Heath of Hardy novels such as The Return of the Native. With the accompaniment of the skylarks, it is a lovely place to be.
The Heather Trail
It also skirts past swampy areas of heath with decaying trees – when we were younger, we used to imagine crocodiles and all kinds of snakes here. There aren’t any of course – the adder is the only ‘dangerous’ snake we have and they don’t usually live in swamp areas.
The ‘swamp’
Eventually the path comes back out onto the beach again…..and a part of the beach that needs care! This is Studland Beach and part of it is noted for being an official naturist beach. Walking this part, the camera usually stays firmly in its holster, although on this occasion, the skies were so amazing that I couldn’t resist taking a few pictures! Clearly someone inland was getting wet but where I was, it was sunshine all the way !
Heavy skies but the sun shines on the righteous
Having passed through Hardy country, the walk took me on to another famous author as Studland is very much Enid Blyton territory. Most of her novels were based here with the Famous Five and Secret Seven having their adventures around this coast. In fact, with her husband, Enid Blyton owned the local golf club. It seems strange that such an iconic children’s author once had her work banned by the BBC who described her on occasions as a ‘tenacious second rater’ whose books were ‘stilted and long winded’. She was also felt to be racist and sexist! Ah but we as children didn’t care what the critics said, we loved her books! In the two pictures below, I’ve tried to create something Blyton-esque – pictures that might perhaps have appeared in one of her novels.
One goes on an adventure!
The coastline at Studland is interesting and varied. As you can see from the pictures above, the cliffs are sandstone with a beautiful array of warm colours, tones and patterns, and a few shallow caves too. Later, this sandstone turns to chalk as we reach the start of the famous World Heritage Site – the Jurassic Coast of Dorset, so designated by UNESCO in 2001. Perhaps that is a subject for a future blog too. It is an amazing coastline and one which I never tire of visiting.
Walking along the beach, I am always struck by the peace, the gentle lapping of the waves, the calling of the gulls overhead, the lovely sound of the children playing in the distance, but it has not always been so peaceful. There are several reminders of less peaceful times. One is above the beach and one that we will pass later in the walk but one is right on the beach – it is an old Second World War pill box which nestles at a crazy angle on the sand. This is a feature in many places along the coast and is perhaps a stark reminder of what our ancestors went through to bring the peace that we now enjoy.
The pill box – with a robin on the top
It was as I was walking along this part of the route that there was another reminder of both war and peace, it was the faint drone of a plane’s engine growing louder as it came closer. This was a troop carrying plane that often flies over this part of the coast, plying its trade to and fro, dropping paratroops out of the back – it looked like some giant insect giving birth as it flew with its new-born offspring gliding to earth. I often envy the troops their view as they glide slowly and effortlessly down in the silence just carried by the warm air and breeze. I’m not sure though that my envy would be quite so evident if I was stood at the back of the plane and about to leap out into the unknown!
Giving birth
The next stage of my walk took me away from the beach and up onto the clifftops….and to an altogether more agile flier than the cumbersome troop carrying plane. Walking along the beautiful grass covered cliff top, I decided to rest and just enjoy the scene. I sat on the grass and watched hundreds of martin’s wheeling through the air with amazing skill. In fact I tried to watch them through the binoculars but they were just so fast, constantly changing direction, that I couldn’t follow them. I guess they were making the most of the sunshine and having their dinner on the wing, swerving here and there to catch insects in flight. It was a wonderful sight! And the wild flowers were amazing too, almost as if someone had planted them – but then, I guess the great gardener himself did just that !
On the cliff tops
It was time to move on and it wasn’t long before I reached Old Harry Rocks, the point at which Ballard Down reaches the sea. There is some debate over how it got its name – some say Harry is named after the devil who took a nap there, and others say he is named after Harry Paye, an infamous local smuggler. Either way, it is a beautiful and breathtaking place.
Old Harry Rocks
It is impossible to get onto the stacks themselves but with care you can go down that slope to reach the tip of the ‘mainland’, a point known as St Lucas Leap – this was named after a greyhound who went over the cliff whilst chasing a hare. Hmm, I can feel another blog entry coming on there too !
St Lucas’ Leap
On the way back down the coast path, the memories from my youth and the remembrances of war came together. I passed the cottage in the picture below – it sits right on the cliff top with fabulous views over Studland Bay. It reminded me of a day in the 1950’s when I passed it whilst out (grudgingly) walking with my parents. My father recognised the owner who was working in his garden and fell into conversation with him. During the war my father was in Italy for three years as a driver in the army and this man was the colonel that he used to drive around. He hadn’t seen him for many many years! As an aside, I never knew what went on in wartime as my father never talked about it!
Well as I sit at my desk typing this blog, the rain is pouring down outside – yet again!!! It’s been one on those years so far in England, just rain, rain, and more rain with just the odd better day in between. Ah, the good old English summer – lazy, hazy, crazy days – don’t you just love ‘em! We wish! Actually I don’t mind walking in the rain if it starts raining when I’m already out, but there seems little point in going out if it is raining already…….but I miss walking when I am trapped in by the weather. Still, without it what would we English have to talk about !
I did manage to get out recently for a great walk through some lush countryside and some beautiful meadows, not to mention a couple of hill forts and an old mill. It started with a lovely woodland walk with some gorgeous dappled sunlight filtering through the foliage (sadly the sun wasn’t to last long though )
Through the dappled forest
And part way through the woodlands I came across a rather unusual tree that was playing host to a whole load of ferns. Walter De La Mare’s poem, The Listeners, refers to ‘the forest’s ferny floor’ but maybe this should be changed to ‘the forest’s ferny trees’ ! The tree was still living but was clearly decaying and moss covered, giving the ferns a foothold – or is that ‘root-hold’!
The forest’s ferny trees
Out of the woodlands, my route took me down another of those oft seen ‘Smuggler’s Lanes’. I haven’t been able to establish whether it really was a smuggler’s route or whether it was just named that because it was quite a secret and hidden path. It wasn’t near the coast but I guess contraband needed to be taken well inland so it might well have seen illegal traffic in the long ago past. Ah, if only those trees could talk, I’m sure they would have many a tale to tell! For me though, it was just the beauty of the path that I enjoyed.
Smuggler’s Lane
I told the story in my last blog entry of my ongoing battle with butterfies that taunted me constantly as I tried to photograph them. Well on this walk I fooled them and I actually managed to grab some shots before they took off rather than after!! The picture below shows a Meadow Brown butterfly wearing his rather nice fur coat. He clearly knew what the English summer was going to be like !
Meadow Brown
There were butterflies everywhere along this route, partly because the hedgerows were so thick with plants and flowers, I saw so many different varieties. It is amazing when you look at these delicate ‘flying flowers’ to think that some of them actually migrate and have flown a thousand miles to get here. They don’t look capable of flying that far or indeed of flying in any specific direction – as the poem says, they have a definite gift of ‘flying crooked’!
The hedgerows themselves were thick with wild flowers and were so beautiful to walk through, it was a delight, especially in the warm summer sun. I think it is difficult to capture in a photograph because you need to use all the senses to fully appreciate the beauty, to feel the sun’s warmth, to hear the birds and the rustling of the leaves and to feel the gentle breeze. I did take a couple of pictures though……and tried to find a different angle too !
Hogweed
For some plants, you have no choice but to lay on the ground, like the Common Spotted Orchid below.
Common Spotted Orchid
This was a real walk of variety and the next part took me up onto the hilltop, well in fact, up onto two prehistoric hill forts. The first was covered in lovely meadow grass and wild flowers – it would have taken me a long time to identify all the different varieties. And the views from the ramparts were spectacular on this clear day. There were cattle and sheep grazing and I thought, ‘What a great place to eat’ – so I joined them! I ate sandwiches of course, not grass !
Across the ramparts
Then it was down into the valley and up onto the next hill fort and an even bigger surprise. At the top was a fantastic field of poppies. It was a photographer’s paradise! And clearly a few had been there before me as quite a lot of the flowers had been clumsily trampled down ! Well of course I managed to take one or two pictures as well although I am always careful where I tread. The code of the country says ‘Take nothing but pictures, leave nothing but footprints, kill nothing but time’ but sadly not all observe that!
The poppy field
The colours were really vibrant in the now hazy sunlight, although despite their beauty, it is still quite difficult to get a satisfying composition for a photograph. I guess you are always left with the feeling that you just haven’t done it justice – well how can you! Further along the hill, there are more ramparts, and well defined ones too. It seems hard to imagine that these ramparts were dug out by men with primitive tools. As you stand looking at the views though, you can see why they ‘built’ the fort and with the wind whipping up from the valley, you can perhaps imagine a little of what life must have been like up there in those bygone days.
On the hill fort
Dropping off the hill, my route passed through probably the worst part of the walk and yet there were still lovely things to see. I had to walk through a farm and as often is the case, farms=mud! And there was mud aplenty! Not only that but I had to plough my way through the most overgrown footpath that I think I have ever walked! It led me the next day to make a few phone calls to see if the path could be sorted which is something the local authority will do if you report a problem. However it was not that simple.
There are a number of types of byway – 1) the public roads, 2) public footpaths and 3) all vehicle public routes (these fit somewhere between 1 and 2 and are often farm tracks or old lanes/drove trails. My overgrown footpath fitted into category 3 which is dealt with under roads and highways and whilst they have a budget to maintain the public roads, they have no budget to maintain the lesser routes such as mine. So basically there is a budget to maintain the roads and there is a budget to maintain public footpaths, but there is no budget to maintain the routes that fall between the two extremes! Ah well, I tried.
I did in the end make it through the overgrown lane and came out into a clearing where there was an old mill – I suspect that the overgrown lane once served the mill. This is now a private dwelling but as I looked at it, I could just picture in my minds eye the miller leaning on that stable door getting some air and clearing his lungs of the flour dust that would have filled the mill in those days.
The old mill
Apart from the old mill, one of the other lovely things I passed on this part of the walk was a gorgeous barley field. These fields are always great to see but especially so when there is a bit of wind and as you stand watching the barley waving its heads in the breeze, you can almost feel you are standing before a huge lake with gentle waves washing across the water.
The barley field
My walk was almost completed but there was one more crop to pass, another cereal crop which I thought was particularly picturesque with those curving tramlines running through it. The sun had long since gone by now but at the end of a great day in the Dorset countryside it made a beautiful sight.
Down the tramlines
Another magical day in Dorset, and one to be savoured as I look out at the still falling rain!
Thanks for stopping by and reading the ramblings of The Dorset Rambler.
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The Dorset Rambler
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Just a single picture today, taken on a recent walk. This is the church of unknown dedication in the lovely Dorset hamlet of Whitcombe. The famous Dorset poet William Barnes preached his first sermon here in 1847 and his last in 1885, and in between that he went on to become rector of Winterborne Came just a few miles away. William Barnes is known mostly for writing his poetry in the Dorset dialect – I must say, it makes it difficult to read even for a Dorset man!
And where are the souls?
As I was processing this picture, I was listening to an album by the Celtic Christian rock band Iona – I love their music. One of the songs that came on was called Beachy Head (there is a link to the song below) and is about all the people who over the years have committed suicide by jumping or driving off the high cliffs onto the rocks below. It basically asks the question ‘Where are the souls?’ of all those who have died. It just seemed a perfect title for this picture since I couldn’t help but question ‘Where are the souls’ of all those who have worshipped in this church over the 500 or so years since it was built? There would have been people of all ages, races, occupations, personalities etc from the Lord of the Manor to the farm labourer – but now the church is empty and redundant, partly because the village has shrunk to the tiny hamlet it now is! I can’t help but ask as I always do in these places, ‘Where are the souls?’ The song answers the question – only God knows!
Thanks for reading the ramblings of The Dorset Rambler!
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