Gertsamtkunstwerk

A drive through the Cotswolds

Nothing quite went to plan, but I think we got to see a fair sweep of The North Cotswolds, one way and another.

After another hearty breakfast, we set out on the start of our epic journey through the gloriously sunny Gloucestershire countryside. First stop Sezincote, a house and garden, open to the public, highly recommended by our Lonely Planet guide. Unfortunately, it's closed on Sundays. Time to replan.

Our plan took us via Fish Hill. Fish Hill is a steep descent into the outskirts of Broadway. Don't take my word for it

At this point, it becomes 3-lane and descends steeply through some sharp bends - the second one, going downhill, a near hairpin.

A rural trunk road, you'd expect the speed limit to be 60mph. It was actually 25mph. There were numerous signs and road paintings urging 'slow', 'use low gear', 'beware cyclists', 'careful now', 'oh sheeeet'.  Lots of signs with black and white arrows indicating sharp bends. Not one but two escape lanes. Although, in a trucknetuk discussion, someone says yeah thats right but i dont think they would help you on that gradient!!

There are videos on YouTube, eg this from a lorry

 

or a motorbike

 

This is some hill. But it took me a while to persuade my other half, a very safe and experienced urban and motorway driver that that number of "Careful! Mind yourself!" signs kind of means they're not messing around. We survived, however, and agreed it was an awesome descent.

We ended up in Broadway, Worcestershire, the 'Jewel of the Cotswolds'. What a lovely town! Although, for some reasons, I failed to take any photos. In a sense there's nothing to see, but what makes the town truly outstanding is their parking policy. Simply put, there is no parking on the main road, all cars are directed to a car park. Admittedly, by the time we were leaving, it had reached a 'one out one in' situation, but whoever thought of that rule had their head screwed on. 

To be honest, there isn't a great deal to see in Broadway but shops. It was too early for tea so we went for coffee. Fairly randomly we chose Prego. Of course, it's impossible to judge a restaurant solely on the basis of coffee, but I've rarely been sent such positive messages on service, decor, presentation. Even the Ladies' loos - spotlessly clean - had an understated elegance about them. Reviews on TripAdvisor seem to confirm my judgement.

We thought we would head for Moreton in the Marsh, but when we got there, it was packed. We didn't hold a hope to get parked. Perhaps the crowds from miles around were drawn by the junk - euphemistically labelled 'vintage' - market. We got out of town via the Fosse Way. Cars were queueing for several miles to enter the town. We knew there would be no turning back! The road just went on and on, straight, for miles, crossing the border into Warwickshire. By now we were hungry. Momentarily we toyed with the idea of Stratford-upon-Avon for lunch, but considering it was a sunny Bank Holiday Sunday we quickly changed our minds. We nearly went to Shipston on Stour. I went there with my father thirty years ago, on the way back from dropping my sister at college, as an alternative to touristy Stratford. Then I noticed on the map that we could go to Chipping Campden via B roads.

The guide book and Wikipedia paint Chipping Campden to be elegant, a delight for architectural eyes, one of the prettiest towns in the Cotswolds. I found it hideous. They have a one-way system and encouraged parking in the school carpark, just a few minutes stroll from the high street. However, they didn't discourage on-street parking, and the village centre was nothing but a mess of parked cars, poorly driven 4x4s, their incompetent owners distracted by the desperate search for a parking space. Very unpleasant.

Chipping Campden's one saving grace was the Badgers Hall Tea Room. A gem of a place, worth visiting especially to go there. Almost as if the dream tea room I had concocted from various novels had finally come to life under one roof.

It was run by a couple who were just this side of eccentricity, in the nicest way. A new girl had started just that day to wait; they were up front about this. I'm sure she has done well - I asked whether the quiche contained meat. Her answer "I'll go and find out" and she returned with the information I had a choice of quiche. I'm sorry I didn't take a photo, because it was beautifully presented and delightful to eat, texture perfect, good portions. Indeed, Jimmy ordered a soup and something else, and, actually, was really quite full. I asked the proprietor whether it was too early to order a toasted tea cake. He assured me it's never too early!There was a big table in the middle of the room filled with tasty-looking homemade cakes - proper cakes, not cupcakes and brownies masquerading as cakes - but somehow, a toasted tea-cake was just perfect. Tea came in a variety of blends, but this was before I began to care passionately whether it was bags or leaves, I can't truthfully say. Overall, I thought it was a lovely place, as if someone had somehow bottled the best of the 1950s, and enveloped it in the best of contemporary values. Wonderful! Some fairly decent visitor photos on TripAdvisor and Flickr

We did try strolling the streets of Chipping Campden but it wasn't just that pleasant because of all the cars, so we beat a retreat and returned to our hotel for a couple of drinks and a lie down.

On Golden Cap

I referred to my book of Short Walks in Dorset and decided on Golden Cap. The house pack also recommended a walk there, starting and finishing at the house.It is said to be the highest point on the South Coast of Great Britain. I suspect that that sentence should end 'if you exclude such-and-such which doesn't technically qualify'.

The book wasn't that good in deciding where to start the walk. Indeed, we started by walking down to the beach, before deciding that was the wrong direction. At the top of the beach carpark a house was being refurbished, including re-thatch; the workmen gave us directions.

I took a photo of a stream, even though I have no recollection of doing so, or how it fitted in relative to other points of interest.

We walked across a field, which was quite nice, as fields go. And through several stiles to set us on our path. Our path which was, basically, a quagmire. Everywhere in England was unusually damp, so it was no great surprise to encounter mud. Rather more surprising to find myself flat on my back in the mud. And, of course, really struggling to get up, every scrabbling effort covering more of my outer garments in mud. This happened again. The third time it happened, Jimmy declared that enough was enough and we were turning back.

We turned back and went to the pub, for a coffee. It was perfectly pleasant to sit outside, basking in the sunshine - and it was only March. Only a couple of days later, it snowed heavily in many areas, causing massive drifts and creating severe problems for farmers with sheep that were lambing. Such a contrast.

My coat, trousers and shoes were covered in mud, so we decided to go back to the cottage for me to change, and we returned to the same spot for lunch.

But first, we played on the beach. Carefully, of course.

We ate lunch outside, and very nice it was, too. The Anchor's a good pub, and perhaps unique in that I was recommended it by my brother (but I had already been) and it has also been visited by an internet friend and someone I work with!

From here, I took Jimmy on a magical mystery tour, all the way to West Bexington. West Bexington lies hidden at the bottom of a cliff below the scenic Burton Bradstock to Abbotsbury Road. It was pleasant to spend half an hour so there, and I'm sure it's even nicer to visit in summer. However, they warn 'swimming is recommended only for strong swimmers'

     

 We decided that we wanted Afternoon Tea, but first, I needed cash, and Jimmy wanted something or other. So, off the Morrison's. Morrison's is a large supermarket on the outskirts of Bridport, and, like all such places is surely covered by CCTV. At half four or whatever on a Friday it was pretty busy with customers and staff, including security staff. Inside is a branch of Santander, nicely carpeted, more staff, CCTV and an ATM. An elderly woman was using the ATM, so I stood back. Well back. Arguably, unnecessarily far back. Off the carpet. She sensed my presence and turned round to look. Fair enough, always good to know who's behind you at a cash machine. She did that three times, each time getting glarier and glarier. She finished using the machine and was taking her time putting away her cards, cash receipts etc. I made no attempt to move. I adopted a pose of utter indifference and extreme patience. And she glared at me as if I had coshed her over the head with a baseball bat!

I was still ranting about this as we drove down the A35 to our destinations. "Bet the bitch hasn't even earned that money. Bet it's her late husband's, and she drove him to an early grave being a bitch". I can be a bitch myself in private. JImmy said I was being unfair. I was. But she had glared at me like I was a criminal, even though I had done my utmost to be entirely non-threatening.

And a flash goes off. Chideock has a horrendous traffic problem, even reaching Wikipedia: Chideock was the first village in England to have two speed cameras installed in response to perceived excessive speed. Basically, vehicles come down a long steep hill in a 60 zone, into the village with a 30 limit. Absolutely right to have speed cameras installed and working there. And, for the first time in over 40 years of driving, JImmy ended up with speeding points. All my fault. And the afternoon tea place was closed. And we even messed up the refundable pay-and-display parking tickets when we reverted to Plan B, cakes from Waitrose!

Slaughtered

An afternoon in Lower and Upper Slaughter! After we had exhausted the sights of Bourton-on-the-Water, it was time for lunch. We had no clear idea where we wanted to go, and, in any case, with a 7pm reservation at the Wild Thyme, we didn't want anything too substantial. I spotted a hopeful sign; following it took us to the village of Lower Slaughter. We quickly realised that the Luxury Country Hotel was not for us. 

Apparently, the main/only road in Lower Slaughter was voted the most romantic street in Britain in 2011. I admit it's really quite nice, but, seriously, I think there must have been an orchestrated local campaign to write-in.

We stopped at The Slaughters, delightfully situated on the banks of the River Eye, with a beer garden and lawn sloping down to the river, It was fairly busy outside, with more than its quota of screaming kids and unleaded dogs, so we went inside. I ordered tea and a sandwich. The menu stipulated that the sandwiches were available in white or granary. I ordered granary. It came on white, with an explanation that they were out of granary. Fine, places run out of things, it happens. And the white bread was quite nice, certainly not processed rubbish. But, it did strike me  a little bit casual just to assume!

The church opposite the pub had a banner outside inviting people in to see their flowers. A generous move, I thought. Unfortunately, nice as the vases of flowers were, they were few, and I think more money had been spent on the banner. The church looked moribund, no Children's Corner, no evangelising notice board, no Parish Notices. No sign of their having been a wedding this Saturday of a Bank Holiday weekend at the start of half-term. Wikipedia refers to the church being "13th century" but largely built in 1866. So no historical or social purpose as far as one can see.

I don't especially advocate the widescale demolition of redundant churches; on the other hand, I do feel they serve only two purposes. I imagine that having an "old" church - half a century newer than my house - in a village helps maintain house prices - three bedroom semi, £635k and it serves the Establishment and especially the Church of England that while their buildings remain dominating the landscape, dying or redundant, they seem Relevant to people's lives and Entitled to dictate how those lives are led.

We strolled around the village. A mixture of older houses (16th & 17th century according to Wikipedia), and many modern ones keeping with the local sandstone but otherwise non-descript. We strolled along one bank of the river, noting how the picturesque nature of the village was marred by ubiquitous motor cars.

We walked as far as the  19th-century water mill which has an undershot waterwheel and a chimney for additional steam power. Attached to this was a tea-room and a shop. It was one of the strangest shops I have ever seen in a tourist place. It included local ice creams and other artisan foods, local guide books, and local souvenirs such as staddle stones, but also a seemingly random collection of vaguely hippy clothes, some cheap/over-priced costume jewellery and an eclectic collection of books that should have been remaindered weeks previously - Fifty Sheds of Grey, anyone? Annoying on Twitter, even at the height of the 50 shades craze, but imagine that someone used paper to publish this, and expected people would buy it.

We walked along the opposite bank of the river

We passed the quaint old school house

We also passed the building at the top of the post. If I recall correctly, it's a former library and was hosting an Arts Show. With no little irony they advertised this with an ugly banner perched like vandalism on an interesting old building. I can only conclude someone in the village makes these banners and forces community groups, from the church to the artists, to buy them, or else.

It is suggested that one walks from Lower to Upper Slaughter, which is a fine idea if you're up to it. The downside of having a car is that any walk from A to B must also necessitate  B to A. Instead, we drove, and having strolled around Upper Slaughter, I knew I had reached the limit of my walking endurance.

Upper Slaughter is even more delightful than Lower. We explored the church, which had slightly more signs of life than its neighbour, although hardly a thriving place. From the churchyard, we looked down on the former Manor House, now a hotel with a Michelin star restaurant.

We were puzzled that the churchyard seemed to contain no War Memorial. I only later found out that, despite its name*, Upper Slaughter, is one of only 52 Thankful Villages and one of 14 Doubly Thankful Villages.  A Thankful Village was one which had lost no men in the Great War because all those who left to serve came home again. (England and Wales)

I write this on 4 August, the day when two people are finishing their visit to all 51 -  some confusion about the numbers. See more details here. I have never heard of any of the others (with the possible exception of East Wittering - I've heard of West Wittering but never stopped to consider the existence of East). Upper Slaughter is really very small, for example, there doesn't seem to be be a village pub or any suggestion that there has been one recently closed. I guess the others are similarly small; every community of any size lost men in the First World War.

The graveyard includes relatively recent and well-tended graves of young children

We strolled through the residential area, across the Ford and a few yards along the river. The weather was just perfect - warm, but not hot, hard to recall the low grey skies and teeming rain of twenty four hours previously.

For a few moments I imagined myself living in such a rural idyll. But, aside from the fact that  Cotswolds house prices are beyond the reach of ordinary people, even newly gentrified Brixtoners, I soon realised that a place that's lovely to visit would not be so nice to live in, lacking the most basic services. Still, it's good to have these thoughts and remember to appreciate home!

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Upper and Lower Slaughter - the Cotswolds, England

Seaton and Beer

When we were in Dorset, it seemed only right to venture over the border into Devon. The nearest places were Seaton and Beer, sitting as they do in Lyme Bay, much of which is in Dorset. I have a mug at home, from the Seaton Cider Company, which my parents brought back for me in 1987. The Seaton Cider company is no more and its premises lie derelict, but my mug remains*.

Out of season and on a weekday, the Seaton Tramway was not running. I suggested that we explored the Nature Reserve just outside the town, but it was put to me - not unreasonably - that sitting in hides waiting for birds that I can't distinguish from other birds is not my thing.

We walked along the beach, which was pleasant enough, but when we reached the small marina, the signs made it clear that we were not welcome.

Seaton struck me as being quite an elderly person's resort, and, indeed, after I returned, I discovered that a friend's parents have retired there. I can certainly see the attraction - for a relatively small town it's reasonably well served by buses and supermarkets, and isn't difficult to move around. And we enjoyed shopping at a well-stocked delicatessen: eggs and cheese, souvenir shortbreads and marmalades, and lots of fudge!

But, I have to admit, I found very little attractive about the town. It's not picturesque or photogenic, and it was quite a challenge finding a decent place to drink a coffee. The Terrace Arts Cafe was late opening and a coach party arrived just as we were stood opposite, so we went elsewhere and were disappointed.

This block of flats really summed up Seaton for me. Stunningly ugly, yet, situated on the seafront, south facing, affording a wonderful place to sit and soak up the sun even on a chilly March day.

We left Seaton and started to follow the signs to Beer, but the signs were less than helpful and we ended up getting lost. This was the occasion where I realised that an Ordnance Survey map that includes both Brixton and Brixham is not ideal for navigating B roads, and phone-based maps are entirely dependent upon having  a phone signal stronger than 2G.

But we got there and immediately concluded what a lovely little village it is. Very steep, though! We parked the car on a slope overlooking the yacht club. Rain was threatening so we made immediately to The Seafood Platter. We hadn't booked, so we were lucky that they could squeeze us in - they later explained that the local caravan site had opened just that day. Now, I want to make it clear that the staff at the Seafood Platter were warm, welcoming, polite, friendly, and service was fine. I do have to laugh at a paragraph on their website

At the end of March 2009, Robert and Eva fulfilled their dream by emigrating to New Zealand with their three lovely children Maximilian, and the twins Constantine and Soraya. Then in July 2011 they had Caspian.

Also, the youngish man running the place, charming and otherwise unfailingly polite, addressed everybody as "You guys". At one point I was definitely the youngest person in the place, and until a 20-something couple,arrived the average age must have been 60+. I really really wouldn't address retired ladies as "You guys". 

The food was excellent. I started with Potted shrimp, which was delicious in itself, and was accompanied by a salad of the highest quality. Look at the juiciness of those tomatoes, the crispness of the lettuce, and the vinaigrette, topped by the crunchy sweetness of the red onion and peppers. Eye-catching, and exactly how a side salad should be. I ate and enjoyed it. In many pubs etc, I'd've just left limp leaves and tasteless tomatoes for the compost bin.

My main course was, if I remember correctly,  Fillet of Hake with sauce vierge. It came with sides, too, but sides rarely photograph well. As you can, a chunky piece of fish, cooked to perfection, and presented elegantly with just enough sauce to enhance, but not drown the fish.

This must count among the top pub meals I have eaten, and the prices seemed very reasonable for fresh, local seasonal quality ingredients, seemingly cooked to order. It's unlikely I shall return to Beer in the near future, but if I do, I would head straight here.

We managed to dodge the rain for long enough to take a short stroll up the cliff gardens and enjoy the views.

I couldn't resist calling this photo Beer Garden

The fishing boats and tractors were eye-catching

I was puzzled why someone started a fire on the beach, but no one seemed to mind

We had a slightly strange experience as we climbed up the cliff-front garden. The garden is terraced, and the terraces are linked by steps. At each level there is a clearing, often with a bench. We were in no hurry and we paused at each level. Three times this group of rather odd looking women came and joined and stood a little bit too close to be, well, normal. The first time, we felt somewhat pressured into moving off. On the second occasion we lingered, to give them the chance to overtake us. On the third level I made loud pointed remarks about personal space and weird people. It wasn't like it was a narrow passage that we were blocking them from passing. And I appreciate that they wanted to pause and see the view at each level, just as we did. But their behaviour was borderline aggressive. And just rude. I think they were walking the coastal path to Seaton. I only hope they got well and truly drenched.

There's a semi-culverted stream down the main road

And a local pub provided a preview of what has turned out to be a leitmotif of the summer of 2013

The rain began to get heavy, and we decided to leave town. I don't know why, but I had it my head it was some quaint little village. To be honest, it wasn't much. And then I directed my driver to drive across country to Honiton to pick up the main A35 back to Bridport. He didn't much like driving across country. He's so urban!

* I realise I ought to bring you a picture of said mug, but it's in a cardboard box, under the stairs, and not on the top level.  Life is just too short!

Wild Thyme Chipping Norton

When I booked a weekend away in the Cotswolds, I had Gloucestershire on my mind. Only after booking a Gloucestershire Inn did I realise its postal town was Chipping Norton, Oxfordshire. I apologise to the majority of blameless citizens of Chipping Norton, but it does have certain connotations.

It wasn't difficult from the internet to determine which is the most highly thought of restaurant in the area, so I booked a table with pleasurable anticipation, yet tinged with some anxiety. (outside photo taken from restaurant's own website - I believe this to be fair use for the purpose of review)

It is very difficult to find anything to criticise about Wild Thyme. The biggest downside is it is so very small, and understandably, they've tried to maximise the number of people who can fit in. We were at a table between the service station and the kitchen. On the one side the manager was confirming reservations for the next few days, on the other side, a constant procession of waiting staff knocking on the door of the small kitchen (to ensure no one was in the way when they opened it).

That aside, no criticism. Good service, appropriately attentive  - they responded in a timely manner to our requests without trying to rush us or to interrupt our conversation to parrot a robotic "Everything alright, you guys?". I'm sure I was the youngest customer, and JImmy may have been the second  youngest, and possibly the only man not in red or yellow trousers. I would expect such a clientele to be quite conservative, but the menu certainly wasn't. Modern British, in the best way. A starting point of fairly classic dishes and using seasonal local ingredients (or those with provenance) to take them beyond 'staid' into 'refreshing' without reaching 'quirky' or 'frankly bizarre'. Portions generous enough to satisfy Jimmy, not so huge as to daunt me or leave no room for pudding.

  I started with Tian of dressed Cornish white crab meat, asparagus, poached quails egg, pink grapefruit hollandaise. 

Generous portion for a starter, and attractively presented, with each element given its space to shine, but not driven by the elements alone. This was the same with the taste, some distinctive flavours rolling over the tastebuds and yet blending into a coherent whole.

This was followed swiftly - minor niggle, possibly a tad too swiftly - by Sauté Cornish monkfish tails, brown shrimp, lemon, capers, ratatouille, braised haricot blanc, pesto.

What I said about the starter can also be said here. Choose good quality fresh ingredients, blend them intelligently, and prepare them perfectly. Chef either has a good palette, or, at least, one in tune with me. I had been unsure about both ratatouille and haricot blanc but neither was overdone and they acted as good base, without overwhelming the monkfish. The dominant taste was salty; I don't mean that negatively. I really don't like food with lots of salt added artificially/unnecessarily, I'm quite averse to it, and this was about the natural saltiness of the monkfish and shrimps starring in a way I found most attractive.

I nipped to the loo and searched the corridor and loo walls for photos of celebrity clientele. Assuming they have taste - and perhaps that is too big an assumption - I suppose Cameron, Clarkson and Brooks will have dined here on occasion. To my relief, there were no ghastly reminders of their existence!

We finished with poached pear. Such a risk. I'm sure we all remember poached pears from childhood which resembled nothing more than a once-decent piece of fruit boiled to within an inch of existing. This was the antithesis of school dinner pears, surely a signature dish, an elite pudding, and something I won't forget for a long time. It was on the menu as Vanilla poached pear, ginger ice cream, rice pudding, Nick's raspberry jam and peanut brittle. I was surprised at how well the ingredients combined, whilst (again) maintaining a clear separation. Vanilla poached pear would be to die for, I can conjure up a memory of the taste two months later. The rice pudding and jam added subtle waves of flavour. Outstanding! I may be misremembering but I'm pretty certain the ice cream was injected into the pear!

We finished dinner somewhat earlier than I had expected. We had had little time to linger between courses. But, also, the need to drive constrained our drinking, so perhaps speeded us up. Our drive back to our lodgings was spectacular, as an orange ball of fire slowly sunk into the Evenlode Valley, illuminating local landmarks, ranging from Bliss Mill, to Churchill church, to the nursing home at Kingham.

I wanted to stop the car, but being extremely squiffy (though well within the legal limit) I assumed that Jimmy, the driver, also well within the limit would also be squiffy and not wanting to stop. Actually, he wanted to get back to our digs, park the car, and have a drink!

Bourton-on-the-Water

The first full day of our Cotswolds Mini-Break. Decent breakfast at the country inn, although I've had better. A promise of sunshine later in the day, and the forecast set to be decent all weekend. 

I had bought a book called Short Walks in the Cotswolds, one of a series. I decided that we would do the walk nearest to where we were staying, a stroll round the outskirts of Bourton-on-the-Water. I suggested that maybe we could find a coffee shop to start the day off. 'Somehow', we found ourselves in a field, with all-day parking available for a fiver, just a short stroll from the town centre. One thing led to another and we spent the next three and a half hours in Bourton. 

A lovely town, delightful to visit. I would hate to live there. It was quiet when we arrived, not many people around. When we left at 2 pm, the pavements were crammed with visitors, and cars were queuing along the main A road to turn into the village. 

They call it the Venice of the Cotswolds, a lazy description, because it looks nothing like Venice. Venice is sited on 118 small islands separated by canals and linked by bridges. Bourton has a small stream running through its centre, which goes by the name of the River Windrush, and has five bridges across that river, that would prevent boats passing along, if the river was navigable, which it isn't. 

I was briefly struck by the name 'Windrush'. We use it in Brixton. Our town square is Windrush Square, named after the MV Empire Windrush, the ship that brought the first group of immigrant workers invited over from the Caribbean to assist in rebuilding Britain's post-war economy. The Windrush was one of a series of, often secondhand, ships named after minor English rivers - Windrush had previously been a German cruise ship and then troop ship, and was captured and taken as a prize of war.

After coffee we wandered along the river and found ourselves at the Model Railway Exhibition. Photography forbidden - fair enough - so no photos. Basically, it consisted of three rooms, each with complex and intricate model railways. By this, I mean glorified train sets, but not disparagingly. Fascinating, wonderful amount of detail. I'm sure if I returned I would spot many things I didn't notice on this visit. You get the opportunity to control some signals and points, allowing the trains to move along their various tracks. Particularly good fun if you get to elbow small children out of the way*.

All around the village were signs that indicated that dwellings were holiday lets. Such a high proportion must rip the heart out of a community, even it does, I suppose, provide some low-paid local employment.

We spent quite a time strolling around, watching people in and around the river, basking in the sun that grew warmer.

We didn't go in the Motor Museum but enjoyed its exterior.

Jimmy bought an ice cream

The local hardware shop played up to the quaint olde-worlde image (1950s-ish) I think the village would like to project.

These girls walked fearlessly through the water. Small boys yearned to join them but were held back by over-anxious parents.

We finished our stroll along the river.

We finished off our half-day trip by visiting a Model Village, for which Bourton is famous. I have this idea in my head that I've been to loads of model villages, but I'm not sure I have. I do recall one near Bexhill in 1972, which I guess is Hastings, which reportedly closed in 1988, and Tucktonia, visited in 1980, which closed in 1986. Bekonscot is supposedly on my list of Days Out, but it's a long way to go for the day, and Bourton Model Village, delightful as it is, has probably fulfilled any residual need for half an hour in a model village.

 

 

     

 

Seeing how the town was filling up with coach parties, locals, and weekend visitors, we knew it was time to leave town. 

We returned to the car park where I was briefly amused by this sign

The next day we passed the entrance to Longborough Opera House, so the sign's origins were (probably) explained. On the other side it said "Parking all day £5".

I was entertained slightly longer in the car park by these beauties

A striking feature of our long weekend was the high number of well-preserved old cars we saw. Many older then these, and many from the early 70s (the days when I could name most makes and models) in seemingly pristine condition. At first I assumed there was some sort of Old Car convention but concluded that it's all the rage in those parts to own and drive old cars.

We drove away from Bourton-on-the-Water for a late lunch. But that is another blogpost!

* joke

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Corfe Castle and Swanage

I have a little book called Short Walks in Dorset, and thought it would be a splendid idea to walk these modest strolls whilst in Dorset in March.

I selected the Corfe Castle walk, because we had seen Corfe Castle on our visit two years ago. I wanted to travel on the steam train, but, realistically that was not going to happen on a March Monday.

It's a bit of a drive from Bridport to Purbeck but not unpleasant when the roads are not too busy. We thought to stop for coffee en route, and I thought that Prince Charles's model village, Poundland, would be an excellent place. We drove around it but could not find anything that resembled a café, tea room or anywhere else for refreshment. Now, if I were designing a new village, I would make damn sure that I created a village centre with a decent café, village shop, Post Office and pub. Not just shops selling beads and artisan furniture. But it seems that Poundland is just another dormitory town designed for people to drive away from, and into historic Dorchester.

We didn't explore Dorchester to any great extent, so it would be unfair to comment in detail. It didn't seem that inspiring, but we did find somewhere open for morning coffees and preparing for lunch. Nappers Mite is a strange name and has a fairly interesting history. My coffee was perfectly satisfactory and I'm sure if we'd been hungry we could have found something to meet our needs.

Onwards to Corfe Castle. The National Trust car park is some distance from the castle. The pay-and-display machine was broken, and the Visitors' Centre was uninviting, so we set off on our walk which originated across the road from the car park (take care crossing).

 The walk took us along the Corfe River. There were some helpful signs of what wildlife to look out for. Aimed primarily at children but interesting, too, for adults who lack any particular knowledge.

 

The path crosses the river and I made the mistake of following the signs to the castle and village rather than referring to the walk instructions. Having looked at the book again for the purpose of this blog post, I have just realised that as we didn't even park in the 'correct' car park, our chances of following the route were virtually zero. And reflects as much on the poor quality of the instructions as my incompetence in reading them. Hmm.

The path took us along the bottom of a cliff, with the ruined castle looming above us

 

A pleasant enough walk until some ghastly woman and her companion galumphed past, sneering loudly at people who stop to take photos of sheep. Very rude. I can only pity her if she must rush everywhere and miss seeing anything. But, mainly, rude.

The village is twee and very consciously a tourist destination. A shop dedicated to Enid Blyton, who visited Purbeck and  - possibly - based Kirrin Castle on Corfe Castle. Quite interesting to look at; startling that someone can make a living from selling all sorts of Enid Blyton tat, including lots of golliwogs. 

There was a museum which held our attention for nearly five minutes, and a model village which didn't appeal (too many children, apart form anything else) and a selection of pubs.

We chose the Fox Inn, worth a visit to have a look in. There was a roaring fire, in what's claimed as a 14th century firepalce, and some people were eating what looked like well made meals. The beer wasn't great, clearly wasn't getting the turnover at that time of year. Reviews are mixed, to put it mildly.

We strolled up up to the castle entrance but were staggered at what they were charging just to walk round a few old ruins with no really significant history (despite what the marketing people claim). So, instead we walked round the village before heading off to Swanage.

     

Swanage seemed pleasant enough as out-of-season holiday towns go. Nice walk along the beach and stroll around the shops. The highlight was a bowl of mussels. I forget the name of the restaurant, but it had a front room with a counter, and a back room for dining, with lots of teapots on display and jams and chutneys for sale in the connecting passage. The mussels were excellent. We also witnessed an incident which turned 'very annoying parent of toddler' into something quite amusing. The toddler was called Oscar.

The father of the child seemed desperate to show off to us and a couple of old ladies what a marvellous father he was. He spoke to Oscar in the way that one might speak to the child of an acquaintance - stiltedly, and bombarding them with questions and statements, rather than in that desultory way of half-finished sentences that people use when close.

Mother seemed uninterested, her body-language hostile and uninterested. She said nothing. Until, suddenly, loud show-off Dad announced "I'm Oscar's favourite Daddy". Hurriedly, Mum said "Oscar's only Daddy". Too hurriedly, too desperate to emphasise the point. I sniggered. He looked daggers at me. I'm so bored with these absentee fathers who spend so little time with their kids - often for good reason, sometimes for not - and then feel the need to show other people what good dads they are (they imagine) rather than actually be a good dad!

We had another annoying parent-of-toddler incident in the Red Lion at Wareham. We were the only people sitting in what is a large bar of a hotel, and this couple arrived with their toddler, and sat at the next table to us. The mother - who was about 6 or 7 months pregnant - demanded the man went to get her 'another' large glass of wine but he was too busy playing with the toddler's noisy toy. We decided it was time to go. Inconsiderate and anti-social. 

On the way home we saw what I assumed was an albino peacock, as did this photographer (a year earlier), but it seems from the internet that white peafowl are actually bred as such!

Lunch at the Riverside

Two years ago, a delightful trio of puddings at The Riverside in West Bay sort of got me back into photographing my food. More importantly, we had good memories of a tasty lunch, in a restaurant where the relatively few children present were under control. We decided to repeat the experience.

When we visited in June 2011 the weather was pretty awful - windy and rainy and not very warm. This time it was sunny enough to take phots, and not especially chill.

Again, we had a very good meal. I started with a seafood souffle

I followed with grilled fish - which variety I forget now, in a leek and mushroom sauce, which was delicious, but, unfortunately, didn't come out well in a photo. I so wanted a pudding, my desire made even more so by seeing the eye-watering temptation of, this time, a quartet of puddings. But I had eaten so well I - uncharacteristically - had no room for any more.

Lovely restaurant, long established, with fresh clean paintwork lending it a nautical feel. We sat with views over the estuary of the River Brit. Pleasant staff, friendly enough but not intrusive. For a second time, we enjoyed Sunday lunch without the perennial South London risk of screaming toddlers running around. It's how it should be (if you want your kids to run around and be generally anti-social and disruptive, take them to McD's, away from civilised people. Or get them to sit at table, leave only with permission, and only with a specific destination, such as the loos. And teach them to walk, not run).

Afterwards we felt we needed a brisk post-prandial stroll. This seemed a fine idea in principle but I felt heavy and lazy. A few droplets of rain fell, and we agreed it was best to return to our holiday cottage and vegetate.

A drizzly afternoon in Dorset

(Sorry that I have still not got back into the habit of regular blog posting. Life has this tiresome habit of getting in the way).

We visited Dorset in March. Previous blog posts on the subject are A winter break in Dorset and A rainy day in Dorset

We stayed in the village of Symondsbury on the outskirts of Bridport. An attractive village, with some of the advantages of rural life - peace and quiet,and long views. We ventured to the village pub, The Ilchester Arms, one evening and found the Locals to be friendly. They must have guessed that we were in a holiday rental, and thus could have been justified in showing some resentment or suspicion - many rural communities are being decimated by holiday cottages. We were involved in a conversation and generally welcomed. I'm not sure how sustainable small pubs in small villages really are. Even on the Friday night it wasn't exactly heaving. They serve food, and the menu looked good, but unless a pub employs a chef ans markets themselves as food specialists, they're not going to get rich on it.

On the Saturday afternoon, after we had stocked up in Bridport, we went for a stroll round the village. If you look carefully in just about any setting, you can always find things of interest. But you do have to get out of your car and walk. Also, it would have been better if I had better light. But it had been raining on and off all day, and time was marching on towards sunset.

I was mildly fascinated by the semi-culverting of the River Simene, allowing it to run under the road. I have a passing interest in Lost Rivers - so many minor rivers in London have been lost to sight (near me the Falconbrook and slightly further, the Effra). I have subsequently visited many places where the river flows down or across Main Street forming an important feature of the village or town.

Most English villages have an Anglican church. This village also has a local Primary School which is an Anglican school. it puzzles me how the churches can be sustainable, as for a religiously selective Primary School at the heart of a village, it seems at best anachronistic and possibly anti-choice, as if imposing Religion, a specific Religion, and a very specific branch of that Religion from the top down - if you are an atheist living in such a village your choice is to send your child to the local school to be taught stuff you don't accept, or to find a properly secular school outside walking distance. But given that the Church is there, and, in this case, appears to have a history dating back to 1325, I totally accept that these are a permanent feature of the rural built environment. The Church didn't look open, and didn't seem to have sufficient interest to warrant a return. 

We often look at graveyards. I hope that Jimmy finds it interesting, because I'm rapidly losing my interest in them. It always strikes me that there are few if any recent graves. I'm not sure what that means. Perhaps the Churchyard is closed to new applicants. Perhaps people are generally opting for cremations. Even so, there are also a few graves that have clearly been visited recently. It's not something I do, and I don't really understand why other people do. I emphasise I'm not being judgemental, it's obviously a popular habit, and, except in extremis, does no one any harm. 

The most interesting feature to me was this construction. It took me a while to figure out what it was, until I saw a sign explaining. I thought perhaps it was some rudimentary but complex flood defence scheme, but it turns out that it's a bath for sheep, for use prior to shearing. I don't think that I had ever seen one before, but, as often happens, just a few weeks later, I saw a similar construction on Countryfile.

In the evening we ate at The George in Chideock. I think it has changed hands since we visited two years ago and remains a high standard. Homely food, well-prepared with fresh ingredients. Not necessarily presented in the most arty way, but I had very decent Butternut Squash soup, grilled fish with a variety of vegetables and chips, and a gorgeous treacle tart. I did take photos, but the ambient lighting was great for eating but not for photography, and I don't like flash in such settings.

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A rainy day in Dorset

When you book a week away in March, you don't plan on the assumption of good weather. I see a forecast of 'showers' as also being a forecast of extended dry spells. With a hire car, fold up waterproofs, and sturdy shoes, no excuse for not getting out.

Jimmy has an obsession with the sea. He says it gives him energy. I love the sea as well, although I think his obsession means that we don't spend enough time in the inland countryside. We headed to Hive Beach at Burton Bradstock for a morning coffee. However, although it was 'morning' to us, it was lunchtime to everyone else. We went into the cafe, and saw that there were two free tables each for two people alongside each other. I had this weird exchange with a rather odd young man, accompanied by his aged father. His words were that we could have a table each, but his demeanour, facial expression, body language and aggressive behaviour made it clear he wanted both tables. We decided to leave. This is absolutely no reflection on the management of the cafe, who were busy elsewhere and whose attention we didn't attract. Sometimes you just get a feeling it's not worth the hassle.

We walked down to the beach. We were there 21 months ago, and had walked in a North-Westerly direction both on the beach and along the cliffs. Last summer, horrifically, a young woman was killed by a rock-fall; the beach and cliffs now have 'Beach closed' signs up. This page shows that there have been further rockfalls. On the very day we visited there was a headline on the BBC News website 'Large crack' opens on Dorset coastline, albeit further along in Weymouth. Since our visit, the Dorset Echo has run Coastal path affected by new landslips near Lulworth Cove. Since we visited it seems that the clifftop path - coastal walk - has reopened, but the beach remains closed.

Instead, we went to the South East. Just us on the beach. Until we were joined by dog people. When I say 'joined by', I mean that, despite there being quite an expanse of beach to choose from, this man insisted on having his dogs run right up to me, repeatedly. If they had come any closer, they would have been touching me. Apparently, this is acceptable behaviour? He tried to make conversation with us about the weather. Of course, it's difficult when you're visiting an area - the locals tend to think of a beach as being their property, and, as a visitor, you don't say anything. Clearly the man was lonely, or disturbed. Probably one of those who think that people who use the social internet as being 'sad', needing to get a life. His life - harassing strangers with his dogs and not clearing up the dog's faeces. NB, not the people pictured below. I only noticed them when I focused the camera directly at them.

I don't let these people get to me. Instead I stood and watched the waves, and took photos of the beach. If you want one tip on photography, let it be this: do not assume that a sunny day is the best to take photographs. Yes, there is something magical about blue skies, but dark or threatening skies can be good, too!

We left Hive Beach and drove along the spectacular coast road to Cogden. 

Nobody in their right mind would install a pay and display meter in the middle of nowhere.  Unless, of course, lots of people want to park there. That pretty much sums up Cogden.

Well, yes, but...About three years ago we visited Milford on Sea in Hampshire on the Hampshire coast near the New Forest. Every where we went, pay-and-display was operated from the beginning of April until the end of September (or somesuch). However, we didn't even see the pay and display machine until we had decided not to descend the cliff to the beach.

Driving further along, I spotted a place called the Egg Cup Tea rooms. Interesting psychology, but if they had called it the Egg Cup cafe, would I have visited? If, in some parallel universe, I ran a tea shop, the Egg Cup would be exactly how I would run it. Pity I didn't think of photoing the bright and clean interior. A good mix of standard English breakfast menu - veggie option, Glamorgan sausage; daily specials; and tantalising cakes and scones. A really nice place - I particularly liked the collection of pottery decorative eggcups. And I welcomed the absence of children and dogs running around!

The weather changed dramatically after we left the tearoom. The views from the Coastal Road were dramatic and looming. I did try and take photos but they weren't successful. This is probably the best of a bad bunch, showing the chapel at Abbotsbury and the view of the Fleet Lagoon - look at these pictures from two years ago for context St Catherine's Chapel and Fleet Lagoon and Chesil Beach. We drove onto Abbotsbury. As, by now, it was chucking it down, we thought we would park up to wait for the storm to blow over. However, we discovered that the minimum parking fee was £4, so, thank you, National Trust, that's pretty exorbitant for twenty minutes on a rainy Saturday in winter. We didn't stay. Instead we returned to Bridport to stock up on supplies before embarking upon the second part of our sight-seeing day.

A winter break in Dorset

It wasn't planned as a 'winter' break. Spring was in my step when I booked this in the Autumn. Middle of March, I said, bound to be sunny with mild temperatures. I hadn't bargained for the coldest March since 1975. But I knew back in November that we would need a 'quiet' break as respite from our ongoing building-related noise nuisance.

We were extremely fortunate on our journey. You think of all the possibilities for delays, and consider the stories of people stranded for hours in stationary traffic, so it was brilliant to do the journey in less than 4 hours, including one motorway stop. We were able to 'cross' London (from South West to South West) in barely an hour, and with only one minor hold up due to local road works. It's the third time we've done at least part of this journey now; if you have to motorway across country, there are worse routes than the M3 through Surrey and Hampshire. The motorway runs out at the New Forest, and from there it's trunk roads. Sometimes multi-lane dual carriageways and sometimes relatively narrow single carriageway. Sometimes the road passes through pleasant suburbs and towns of Middle England, or passed the green and pleasant arable land. At other times, the road crosses moors rich in bracken, even in this delayed Spring, displaying some splendid colours.

We arrived at our rental cottage. Isn't it always the way that you plan your holiday, pay for it, pack and travel, and you arrive at your destination. What's it actually going to be like? Fortunately, we were very impressed by the cottage we had rented, and I almost immediately ran around to take some snaps, before we unpacked and messed the place up!

  

 

 

It's a small detail, but it's pleasant to arrive at a place and have a 'welcome hamper' of basic provisions, all, as far as possible locally sourced. indeed the book of instructions and guidance that come with the house try to encourage guests to shop for products that are locally sourced, from local independent shops. The company that owns and operates this and other local properties even have a Guest Environmental Charter

We stayed in a village that is outside Bridport although barely distinguishable. Unbelievably quiet at night. Actually, pretty quiet at all times. There's basically one road that forms a crescent round the village, with a dead end leading off it. Just a pub, church and Primary school, although they're planning to open a shop and café in due course. We did go in the pub, which was nice enough - friendly local people, which is always a bonus. 

On our first evening we went into Bridport for our main meal, at the highly recommended Long's. We had previously been to their West Street branch; the King Street is more restaurant than fish and chip shops. 

I have slightly mixed feelings. For example,when we arrived some officious person asked us whether we had made a reservation. We said we hadn't. This was clearly an annoyance to us, and she more or less said "Oh I suppose we might be able to fit you in". The place didn't get full throughout out entire stay. the waiting staff were very good - friendly enough, without being intrusive or overbearing.

As a starter I ordered a seafood chowder. I was perturbed to find that it contained chopped up pieces of cheap ham. I realise that, in culinary terms, there are arguments for and against including smokey bacon. I just feel that in this day and age, there is an onus on restaurants to be a bit more transparent about their ingredients. If I'd wanted a ham soup, surely I would have ordered a ham soup. It was a big surprise to find that pigs are counted as seafoood in Bridport. I have actually heard of pigs flying but swimming is taking it a bit far. And if they had made it 'properly', with smokey bacon lardons, surely that would have smothered the seafood taste, somewhat defeating its purpose.

On the other hand, the fish and chips, and garden peas were beyond comparison. I had the small fillet; there was also a large!

After a quick trip to Spar, to stock up on booze to be consumed indoors, we retired back to our holiday cottage.

The remaining days in Bournemouth

Our first morning in Bournemouth dawned...cold and misty. We dithered and hesitated, but realised that the sun would soon burn away the mist. It was warm enough down on the beach, and, although not busy, there were several hardy souls not letting a bit of chill deter them.

I soon discovered that the sea mist added rather than detracted from my photos. We strolled along the beach for a while, initially with the intent of finding deckchairs to hire and to sit down and relax. I watched a fisherman tidy and secure his boat after an early morning - or overnight - trip.

Another man had been out kayaking

The mist lent a mysterious sheen to the beach

The beach huts stood out against the misty cliffs.

The 'train' that runs along the promenade for the less mobile passed by.

We walked a long way along the beach, looking for deckchairs. Every pile we came to was locked up, and with no sign of any deckchair attendant. Finally, in desperation, I approached the RNLI lifeguard and she showed me to the secret office inhabited by the deckchair attendant. Thank you RNLI, I know it's not your job, but I was very tired and achey by now. 

The beach office was hidden in the undercliff with a very discreet sign. The chap explained that most of the deckchair stacks would not be open until 'summer'. He'd forgotten to unlock the ones that were open. By now it was 11 am; yesterday he had forbidden us to sit in deckchairs after 4pm. I was not exactly chuffed. His job is, basically, to hire out deckchairs (and beach huts). I would never get away with at work if I 'forgot' to switch on my PC.

But, still, we had deckchairs, and I was so excited I took a photo with my phone to tweet to my followers. We spent two very pleasant hours lying in the hesitant sun, with light reading to pass the time, and gloriously perfectly relaxed.

But the sun went behind the clouds, so we decided that we would go for coffee. We had spotted a nice looking Italian place, Vesuvio. We were tempted to get more than a coffee. I was very pleased with my smoked salmon and cream cheese bagel, the best I've had away from the shores of the Dead Sea.

 We returned to our deckchairs for half an hour or so, but it was getting cold. I had the stupid idea of climbing up the cliff through the Tropical Gardens, which were pleasant

 

And we found ourselves in the small but pleasant Argyll Gardens, where we partook of pot-of-tea/ice-cream as appropriate and sat for a while watching the bowls.

Good to see such a level of activity, including some apparently very elderly people, some of whom got over the difficult 'bending' issue with a bowl and jack pick-up. Some were fiercely competitive and I dreaded to think what levels of politics were at play.

We decided to walk back to the hotel, which is where I realised I had made a schoolgirl error. I had visualised the clifftop as being continuous, but it is cleft by chines - steep-sided river valley where the river flows to the sea through, typically, soft eroding coastal cliffs of sandstone or clays. So, tired, hot, sweaty and footsore, I was faced with a difficult walk inland in order to find a path across to the hotel. Totally exhausted, We ended up descending back to the beach, and, defeated, I was delighted to take advantage of the West Cliff Lift, or funicular railway, as Wikipedia would have it. And back to the hotel for a very necessary pot of tea for a long soak in the jacuzzi and a short swim in the pool.

The next day we thought that we would have a leisurely breakfast and then chill on the beach for an hour or two, and finish off in the spa before catching our train back. The plan went entirely to plan, except for one aspect.

We were on an almost entirely deserted beach, save for three metal detecting men wading knee deep in the water, and the occasional dog walker. Absolutely nobody else sitting on the beach, and very few on the undercliff prom. And then, suddenly, as Jimmy was drifting off to sleep and I was absorbed in my readable if forgettable book, our peace was shattered. Mile upon mile of deserted beach, and some utter wanker of a thug chose to bring his 'bootcamp' to stand right next to us. Bootcamp Beach said the thug's t-shirt, bearing the same logo as on this website. 'Professional and friendly ex-military PT team'.

Startled by this oik yelling and screaming barely feet from where we were sitting. I stood up, and this oik leered at me, so I started taking photos. He went utterly ballistic, yelling & screaming at me, telling me I wasn't allowed to take photos in a public place. I calmly explained that he was disturbing us, that there was a whole beach he could use. He repeatedly told me it was illegal to take photos in a public place, I repeatedly asked him by what law, he sneered, asking 'Are you a Member of Parliament?' - because im his small head only MPs are privy to public law, apparently! His body language was aggressive and I felt certain it would not take much provocation to provoke him into violence. Clearly expects women to do exactly as he says. Most of the party were acutely embarrassed and wanting to get away, and indeed they went away, only to return, to more shouting, and one ridiculous idiot of a woman waggling her bum and calling out "We're back, we're back." I felt a great deal of pity for her, so lacking in self-esteem that she pays to be bossed around by someone who attempted to bully me. Exactly the sort of person who gives the army a bad name (if he was in the army at all). I know if I ever decide to do a 'Bootcamp', I will ask very specific questions about the background checks done on 'instructors'.

I know there have been many problems with these 'boot camps' taking over certain London parks; and I noticed that the beach at Whitstable specifically banned 'commercial activity'. Bournemouth has a lot to offer, possibly more than any other seaside resort, with the possible exception of Blackpool which doesn't have the high cliffs of Bournemouth. But I thought there was a lazy complacency, from the bars, pubs and cafés unwilling or uninterested in serving, to the poor day-to-day management of the beach by the council. It's got a good infrastructure, and I was very impressed by the Best Western Connaught hotel.

Blakes Restaurant Bournemouth

When I was picking a hotel in Bournemouth,  a swimming pool was a must, but what clinched it was the description of the restaurant. Not just their own marketing, not particularly the two AA rosettes which is not a system I understand, and not just Trip Advisor rating it number one restaurant in Bournemouth. But they all helped. And as I said, if it's not that great on the first night we'll just eat somewhere else on the second night. We went back for the second night.

It wasn't perfect, but it had some immense strengths. The serving staff were very polite and there were no mistakes, but I felt they were there for (successful) English language practice rather than because of a passion for food or customer service. Minor quibble, and didn't interfere with my enjoyment. Also, it is primarily a hotel restaurant, which seems to lend a different atmosphere than a standard restaurant or one that is only coincidentally attached to a hotel. I can't quite define it, but it seems marginally less relaxing.

On the first night I started with Crisp Brioche-Coated Goats Cheese with Apple Puree, Hazelnut & Watercress Salad. A really clever dish. I've had deep-fried goats cheese many times, but the use of brioche was inspired, adding a sweetness to what is normally savoury. And the salad was lovely, with the apple purée providing the traditional sweet offset to the cheese, itself offset by hazelnut. 

My main course was Pan Seared Sea Bass Fillet with Nero Linguini, Bouillabaisse,and Brown Shrimps. 

It's been a while since I had pasta as a casual accompaniment to a not-obviously-pasta dish: I think over-cooked gloopy tagliatelle in watery cheese sauce in Montmartre rather put me off. 

Thankfully, Bournemouth rescued me! A nice piece of fish nicely cooked. The nero linguini was just right. To my surprise I enjoyed the broad beans. I've always hated them because of the inner shell, but double-podded, they were very nice. But the highlight was the Bouillabaisse. I'm not going to wade in and pretend to know anything about Bouillabaisse, but I've always thought to be basically a big fish soup, so I was confused. This was a richly flavoured, heavily reduced sauce and was the absolute highlight of the meal, a taste whose memory will remain for a long time.

My pudding was lemon posset and shortbread (see above). The shortbread was nice enough but not up to my own standards. The posset was very lemony. Overall, a great success!

Because we were so pleased with the restaurant, and because there wasn't anywhere immediately locally that presented as an alternative, we decided we might as well return the next night. I imagine if we had been staying longer than two nights, we would have wanted some variety, not least because every restaurant has its own distinctive style.

This time, I could not resist the starter that Jimmy had on the first night: Pan Seared Scallop Bouillabaisse Soup with Rouille, Parmesan & Croutons. Partly, I was fascinated by the ritual of service: first, the scallops placed in the centre of the bowl, and then the bouillabaisse spooned carefully around it, and, finally a selection of the three accompaniments were spooned in with a touch of panache. It was the same bouillabaisse as the previous night, so flavoursome, I was desperate for more. And yet, despite being so strong, it did not overpower the scallops.

For my main course I had the "Great British Dish" (of the day) - Poached Smoked Haddock fillet, with poached egg, herb pancake, with a Tarragon and dry vermouth sauce.

I think it was the least successful of the five dishes that I had at the restaurant. It was surprisingly bland considering its component ingredients. If my main course the previous night had been an 8++ or even a 9, this was probably a 7-. Far better than I've had in many places, but disappointing. I ate it without hesitation. And I was quite stuffed when I'd finished, so chose not to have a pudding. In fact, I was quite tired, so we took our wine back to our room and lay in bed watching TV. Which is a great advantage of a hotel restaurant!

Overall, I was very pleased with Blakes restaurant. I've had good and bad experiences in hotels; this was definitely one of the best.  Not having tried any of the others, I'm in no position to judge whether it actually is Bournemouth's best restaurant, but I would certainly recommend it strongly.

Day one in Bournemouth

At the end of May, I was signed off sick from work,for exhaustion and pain arising from a flare-up in my fibromyalgia. It is entirely possible that this was brought on by a hideously long period of bad weather. My Other Half decreed that the best cure was a trip to the seaside, especially considering that we actually had a brief spell of hot and sunny weather.

We travelled to Bournemouth on a fast and prompt train, an uneventful journey. We arrived at our hotel, and, unfortunately, our room was not yet ready. The website was very clear - check-in at 3pm, and we arrived long before that. It's a gamble - often you can check in, and, in any case, you can always leave your bags. We should have stopped and thought, and taken the time to grab our swimwear, or at least our shorts and towels. Instead, we went for a walk along the beach.

Bournemouth is a popular and well-established seaside resort. We were staying a little to the West of the pier, atop a sheer cliff, with paths and steps down to the beach, a beach consisting of miles and miles of golden sands. We climbed down the steps, exchanging pleasantries with people we met on the way up, laughing at the benches -sensibly - placed at intervals along the climb. Most of the people we met were elderly, many infirm.

We hit the beach at Durley Chine. I suggested to Jimmy a pint in the seafront pub, a Harvester, but he declined. Instead, we bought tea from a nearby beachfront cafe. Bought it, tasted it, and after valiant efforts, chucked it.

I suppose I have to accept tea served in cardboard. I'm not sure why, really. I can see the risks of breakages on the beach and promenade, where people walk in bare foot, but I can't really see the problem in crockery when sitting at a table on a paved terrace. I can't forgive the horrible taste of the tea. I actually can't understand how it is possible to make tea so badly. Arrogant complacent attitude. I suspect that all the seafront cafes were franchised en bloc. They all sold the same brand of ice cream - a contrast with Lyme Regis just down the coast, where half a dozen different local brands were on sale from different outlets.

 

Jimmy stopped at a café further down the Prom, but they seemed uninterested in serving him, or even acknowledging his presence. So frustrating when you're a tourist desperate to buy and eager to boost the economy, however marginally. Finally we found a café by the pier, just next to the Gents loo, where I had a very good coffee, and he had two ice creams which he liked, and we were served by two pleasant young women who 'got' customer service. 

I gazed with envy at the many people who were paddling in the sea, and even more those who were brave enough to be actually swimming. I know it doesn't feel so cold once you're in, but, even so, it takes some teeth gritting. And, in May, however hot the day, it takes time to warm back up again afterwards!

We took a stroll about the Pier, which was oddly deserted. Attractions playing their tinned music, desperate for non-existent customers. But very colourful, and a great vantage point!

 

 

 

It always fascinates me in places like seaside resorts why so many people congregate at the central point. I'm sure most individuals, when questioned, would give a perfectly sensible reason, such as mobility or time, but the group dynamics intrigue me. The 'attractions' are only a passing interest to me; I'd rather take the time to walk to a quieter spot.

After a look round, we walked back to our hotel. A steep climb up, in the heat of the afternoon sun, this was not really what I planned for my recuperation during sick leave. Nevertheless, we had an impressive view as we walked.

We returned to our hotel and were able to check in and unpack. It was at this point we had a severe miscommunication error. I thought it would be nice to go either to the beach for a swim, or to the swimming pool in the hotel, but Jimmy declared we should go for a drink - there were two pubs nearby. We went into the first, but they had no real ale, they showed a distinct reluctance to acknowledge let alone serve us, and there was a dipstick playing his boombox in the beer garden. The second one we tried looked no better.

By this time, I was almost in tears. My feet were hurting, the sun was scorching and it seemed that we were surrounded by hills and no decent watering place. Finally, we spotted what seemed to be a café. It was in fact the bar of another hotel, but we could sit outside, and even the sight of this was like nectar from the gods. Quite possibly the best cup of tea I have tasted in my life.

With renewed energy, we descended back to the Undercliff promenade and thought we would sit on the beach for a while. But the boy-child in charge of deckchairs refused to let us hire a couple, because it was four o'clock. Five hours before sunset, and, as I later discovered, two hours before close of service. Frankly, deckchairs unavailable after 6pm is ridiculous. In resorts I have been to abroad, deckchairs are available until sunset, perhaps dependent on tide and weather.

Not especially wanting to sit for long on the sand, we walked to the Harvester, but they seemed uninterested in serving us, or even acknowledging us, so we walked out, and climbed back to our hotel and passed some time in the very nice pool, jacuzzi, sauna and steam room, and a relaxing drink on the sun-drenched terrace by the bar.

Abbotsbury Subtropical Gardens

Our last full day out was in Abbotsbury Subtropical Gardens, one of Britain’s best collections of open-air exotic plants.

When we visited Abbotsbury Swannery, we bought a combined ticket for these two attractions, and also the Children's Farm. Even without visiting the Farm, the combined ticket is a saving. It then obliges one to make use of it, of course.

I actually preferred the gardens to the Swannery. And, therefore, this final blogpost of our holiday in Dorset should be a case of going out in a blaze of glory. But, what is there to say, especially so many months afterwards? We started with coffee in the very nice and very evocative Colonial restaurant.

I don't believe it rained all day, but I have a picture of me sitting here, and another one of me walking round, dressed in my kagoule. There's no public interest in publishing such photos, but the fact that I was wearing, not merely carrying it, suggests there may have been short-lived showers

We walked for several hours round the gardens. We could have done it more quickly, we could have been slower. Admission price includes a superficially informative leaflet, which maps out a route to take in mostof the gardens. There's an alternative wheelchair route which attempts to highlight the accessible parts (about 50%) which would perhaps be more suitable for all with mobility difficulties, including pushchairs.

What is there to say about a garden?Ultimately, it's a great collection of plants, which are often a visual delight, but also impact upon other senses, most of all, smell.

Even the visual: a photograph cannot capture the sense of space or the contrasting sense of enclosure by shrubs and trees, nor the full impact of a vista.

I walk around and I see plants, which I judge by 'That's nice' or 'That's unusual'. If I can, I read the labels to learn the names but then I forget them. I doubt I'll ever be a 'gardener', and I certainly never want to be one of those women in a Crimplene frock that descend with (a slightly superior) attitude on a formal National Trust garden with its uniform borders and perfectly manicured hedges. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's possible, though not essential, but highly recommended to take the marked diversion out of the gardens and climb the unrelenting incline to take in an impressive view of the Fleet Lagoon and Beach back towards the Swannery, to sit on a bench and bask in the sun which made a welcome and somewhat unexpected appearance at this time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 My favourite feature, apart from the sum of all the plants was this amazing bench, carved out of a 200-year-old oak tree felled in a winter storm, by chainsaw artist Matthew Crabb.

    

The garden also included a Sculpture Exhibition. I think the Buddha is permanent

and the other statues are there until sold

 

Some statues had already been sold; on the empty plinth, visitors were making an abstract sculpture of 'found' objects - I added a pine cone

 

2010 was the year that I really appreciated the sight of a bed of lavender densely planted, and its rich colour

Towards the end of the walk we spotted a pheasant, and then we had tremendous fun throwing goldfish feed, from a handy dispenser installed next to the pond, into the goldfish pond.

 

By the end of the afternoon, I was quite tired, but there was still plenty to see

 

Taken overall, the day's walk was reasonably strenuous for me although not challenging. Most people we met were pleasant and intent on keeping themselves to themselves, except for one party with a Primary School Age child, presumably either home-schooled or truanting, who needed to demonstrate loudly to everyone else how learning-outcome focused was their trip round the garden whilst also ensuring the child  experienced learning through the play of throwing and kicking a ball. Even the dogs were on leads and under control, their owners heeding the warnings that they had lost two Golden Pheasants to dogs held on unlocked extendable/retractable leads and beyond their owners' control.

Dinner - or high tea - was panfried crevettes in a chilli sauce with dressed salad & crusty bread at The Anchor at Seatown, below the Golden Cap

More photos of today and the entire holiday are in the Dorset photo-album

Burton Bradstock and Little Bredy

Perhaps, in another life, one of these places would be my spiritual home.

By now, it won't surprise you that rain was forecast, so we wrote off sightseeing and headed out for a highly recommended lunch at the Hive Beach Cafe: quality food, served in a tent. I had Lyme Bay lemon sole with garlic & anchovy butter, new potatoes & salad. Main courses were in the region of £20 or more, and worth it, because the fish was fresh and cooked to perfection. But, obviously, at that price, café is in some ways a misnomer.

Jimmy commented that there was no shortage of money; many of our fellow diners were obviously retired, and, judging by the red trousers prevalent among the men, the quilted body-warmers of the women, and the dogs, of a certain background. There were signs about dogs only welcome when on leads; unfortunately on the table next to us the red trousered/quilted bodywarmer dogowners felt that justified their dog crawling under our table and actually touching me. Shudder. Obviously, one can't blame the business owners, and they probably get more business from attracting the dog-obsessed than they lose form deterring the dog-phobic. It's just a bit weird!

  We strolled along the cliffs over-looking the beach, but the weather became colder and windier. I followed a whim and as ace-navigator, I directed my driver along winding narrow country roads. I wanted to find some picturesque village; in my head was a barely-formed plan to wander around taking atmospheric photos of its utter tweeness.

I'm an urban girl and don't understand the village system. I've never been able to understand, when watching Midsomer Murders, how there can be so many villages around one market town. Bridport opened my eyes, and, to be honest, I wouldn't be entirely surprised if Midsomer was set there. Except that there's no sea near Midsomer.

Looking at the map, I now have no idea how we got there, but, seemingly close to the middle of nowhere, was a sign advertising afternoon teas and a secret walled garden, open to the public. The sun had come out, and I could not resist. We drove down a steep road that barely resembled a track, and found ourselves somewhere that barely constituted a village, at the bottom of a valley seemingly cut off from the rest of the world. The middle of nowhere! And I loved it immediately. 

This sign welcomed us to the garden, explaining that it was run as a not-for-profit by volunteer gardeners. The sun came out and for a while we basked in its rays, sipping tea out of china and eating fresh cake, and then we set off for a walk around the garden. 

We were given a leaflet which not only showed the layout of the garden but also encouraged us to walk through the village, along the river and past the church, to re-enter the garden at the top via the vineyard.

I took many photos, although I find that photos rarely do justice to a garden or to plants.The beauty of plants lie partly in their 3-Dimensions. A garden is about scent, the air, a sense of space, peace and tranquility, none of which are captured by the camera. Rapid changes between bright sunshine and light drizzle only added to the mystique. The history on the village website concentrates, as these places tend to, on the manorial quasi-aristocratic heritage rather than the normal people, which would be more interesting to me.

But here's a selction of photos from the garden and the village. Very little further narrative required.

 

As ever, more photos of this and other days in the Dorset photo album

Studland

Day 11 of the Rain-soaked Holiday in Dorset, and Checking the Weather Forecast became of Utmost Importance. Unfortunately, three weather forecasts said three different things, so we were obliged to take a risk. A risk that involved both a Plan B (Corfe Castle) and a Plan C (wandering dolefully around Dorchester). We drove out East, headed for Studland. It is said, and not just by Wikipedia, to be famous for its beaches, its nature reserve, its nudist beach, its Enid Blyton connection and the setting for Thomas Hardy's Egdon Heath. It's where Generals Montgomery and Eisenhower met with the then UK King to observe the troops training for D-Day. But I'd never really heard of it.

Our first stop was at Middle Beach, which contained one of the most complacent poorly-run tourist trap cafés I have encountered since the 1970s. The only coffee available was instant. Probably powder, not granules. We opted instead for a cup of tea, but frankly don't know why we bothered. Weak, and made with water well below boiling point. There was some food on offer but it was appetite-suppressing. The most prominent signage was for Wall's ice cream, which isn't bad, but given the fashion for, and the local glut of, lovingly-made-by-artisans-in-a-twee-sounding-place-with-full-fat-milk-from-named-cows, dismal. Such a place couldn't exist on a high street, but lacking real competition, it disgracefully rolls on. In the car park we passed a group who seemed to be from a Scandinavian country. Knowing they would probably head for that café, I cringed to be English. Oh, and thank you National Trust. We paid a small-fortune for 2 hours parking; the signs forgot to say that we could have paid marginally more for a day ticket valid for all Studland car parks. 

We drove North along the island, and, lacking any more change, we refused to pay to park in another expensive car park near the ferry. Instead, we defiantly parked along the roadside. Many other people did, too. There were no signs saying not to. We clambered over a sandbank and found ourselves almost alone on a small beach overlooking an inlet of Poole Harbour, which I assume to be Redhorn Lake, but happy to stand corrected if I'm mistaken. There were several liveaboards anchored. Neither boat nor house. Intriguing, and for a few moments at least, part of my unfulfilled fantasy of living a slightly alternative bohemian life. 

 

Plenty of evidence of it being a working marina, something I find endlessly fascinating. I could have taken more photos - and, presumably, blown out the sky in all of them - but the weather had turned. It suddenly started blowing what resembled a gale, and spotting with rain.

Fortunately, armed with my Rough Guide, we headed to the Shellbay Seafood Restaurant. Some fine-ish lunching went on round the back, but we sat in the front and munched on a delightful bar-snack of Crevettes and Mary Rose sauce.

 

 

 

 

We wandered for a while on shell Beach and watched the ferry wend its way back and forth to Sandbanks. It's a chain ferry, which fascinates me more than it probably should. We even toyed with the idea of getting it as foot passengers, just for the sheer heck of it. But we decided that it probably wasn't worth it to pay several pounds to take the car across just to drive around and look at houses made expensive by their location rather than by their intrinsic architectural merit. Or eat in a restaurant at inflated prices. So we didn't. Writing this now, some eight months on, I sort of wish I'd taken more photos of the details, such as the chain laid down on the pavement, rather than shooting out to sea for dismal photos of distant cross-channel ferries. But you shoot how the mood takes you at the time!

From being blustery and a bit wet, the weather bucked up, and before long we were lying on Knoll Beach. This is presumably the main beach of the area, supported by a huge National Trust car park at considerable price, a National Restaurant of indifferent offer, and a National Trust gift shop, where I splurged, despite my better judgement.

We found ourselves a quiet place on the beach, away from the entrance, and away from those - adults or toddlers - who wanted to play. Alongside, but not too close to, singles and couples who were snoozing or reading. Some left and were replaced by others all with the same desire for peace. Until a family of Primary school age children arrived - begging the question of why weren't they in school - and they proceeded to play noisily horizontally along the beach. We moved, but again they drifted up in our direction. Time to move on.

We recaptured our equilibrium in the large 'beer garden' of Bankes Arms. Nice pint, great location, amazing view, but I'm surprised it gets such a low rating on Google reviews - average 2/5, with some people only awarding 1 because they couldn't give zero. 

Our final act was to walk to Old Harry Rocks, chalk sea stacks located at the end of a headland. Twenty minute walk, said the guide book. One mile, said the sign posts. They both forgot to say 'and then some', which turned it into good forty minutes there and pretty much the same back. I don't think we were walking slowly, because, despite our best efforts, we seemed pretty much to keep pace with several other groups who started out at much the same time. Thankfully, it was worth it, for the view, for the strenuous but not exhausting walk. Glorious sunshine, heat that wasn't oppressive, gorgeous blue sky, light breeze. Finally, a glimpse of the summer we hoped would dominate our June holiday on the South Coast.

  We planned to finish the afternoon in the highly praised and clearly attractive Joes's Café on South Beach, but the walk had taken longer than we expected, so the café was closed. We also managed to get lost, quite a feat in a village with a population of 480, the village that had inspired Enid Blyton's Toytown. There was no sign of PC Plod, although we did see two separate men driving sit-on lawn mowers down the public highway.

Time to drive back in glorious evening sunshine. No hint of fog on the A35. On the car radio, Classic FM played into the 7pm news with a frenetic, lively and exciting interpretation of - arguably - Wagner's greatest overture, Tannhauser - not this recording - which was utterly thrilling as we chased west through the Dorset countryside, and ended up in the car park at the Anchor in Seatown as the final chords of the Bacchanalian orgy struck. Unfortunately, the Anchor was full to capacity and with a long wait for food - presumably because of the sudden outbreak of good weather on Midsummer's Day. Instead we went to the George in Chideock for an excellent fish and chip supper.

We arrived back in Bridport just as the sun was thinking about setting. Somewhat to my alarm, groups of pensioners and teenagers seemed to be heading to the hill behind the town, presumably to take part in a paganistic bacchanalian orgy of their own, to mark the Summer Solstice. I was rather glad to retreat indoors.

More photos of Studland and Dorset are in my Dorset photo album

Durdle Door and Lulworth, another rainy day

 If you have been following my account of last June's holiday to Dorset, you might be thinking what a terrible, rained-off experience it was, glad I never holiday in an English summer.

True, it did rain rather more than we hoped, but we refused to let that ruin our holiday. In fact, I would say, because the forecast contained so much in the way of rain, we planned carefully to maximise the amount of time available in between the showers.

The forecast for the Monday did not contain much in the way of rain, so we thought it safe to venture further afield, east of the big roundabout at Dorchester.

The Rough Guide to Dorset Hampshire and the Isle of Wight has a list of 18 places not to miss. Number one is the South West Coast Path. Too daunting to walk all 630 miles, although we dipped in and out, so we plumped for number 2 attraction, Durdle Door, together with Lulworth Cove*.

I disliked this sign with a passion. The blanket ban on 'photography, filming or painting' for publication, without permission. As far as I'm concerned, this is a public place. I don't really care that the land is 'owned' by the Lulworth Estate, and has been for several generations, or was previously part of a larger estate 'owned' by some offshoot of the Duke of Norfolk's family. The lands were probably originally seized from common ownership in reward to some favour to a King. Now, too much time has passed to campaign for confiscation of such lands, but these greedy landowners should learn a bit of humility and not forbid anything that is usually lawful in public places. My old mate Scaryduck, a sometime resident of the area, tweeted me about the exorbitant car parking prices, to which I could only reply 

Yeah, and they can't even be bothered to install a lift. I mean, what's that about!

Anyway, we got out of the car, and went for a walk along the clifftop, admiring the view. I have to say that it really is a sensational view. Photos don't do it justice it. Polar opposite of the immense sense of disappointment when I saw the Giant's Causeway. A case of expectation management. Something with 'Giant' in the name is set up to fail. Whereas,'Door' - you're inclined to think 'whevs', then, bam! Cool! I took so many photos, it really was like sacrificing a hand-reared piglet ditching the ones I'm not blogging.  

It was a very strange day; one minute we were sitting happily on the clifftop, debating whether to descend down the steps to the beach down below, Jimmy worrying whether I had the stamina. The next minute, the heavens opened, and we joined a Gadarene stampede back to the car park. Miserably digging the waterproofs out of the rucksack, hastily trying to protect the camera, and suddenly feeling in so much pain as I struggled to climb back up the stony path. Back in the car park, the sea mist...fog... made visibility even in the car park just a few feet. It was a difficult drive back through the pub-less Winfrith Newburgh - which I instantly adopted as my future nom de plume - to the Red Lion on the A road. The pot of tea and toasted sandwich were very welcome and the Red Lion seemed a nice enough pub if nothing remarkable.

 The weather cleared somewhat, and we decided that it was time to return, go past Durdle, and discover Lulworth. Scary had warned me that it wasn't exactly full of lulz, indeed I feel that in some ways I was a slight inspiration for his later blogpost On Lulworth Cove

The short version was, we went and it rained. The longer version, it varied between pissing it down and a superfine drizzle. Rubbish for taking photos, even when there were not raindrops on the lens. I think a poor quality unedited phone photo summed it up better than these snapped in RAW and edited in Lightroom!

Yet I was so much happier than if we had been there in blazing, glaring sun, our tranquility disturbed by assorted crowds. Instead, we were disturbed only briefly by Performance Parent giving his Infant children an A-Level Geology lesson with agreed Learning Outcomes. We barely noticed the beach dogwalkers who kept to themselves. And we even had Lulz, gawping in awe at the Corporate Oiks copiously knocking back fizz before weighing anchor and sailing off into the open sea with not a life-jacket between them.

My West Bay friend had said that Lulworth represents one of the great missed opportunities of business - such scope for a coffee and ice-cream place. Admittedly, there are two apparently very good eating places next to the beach, and Rough Guide recommends a third in the village, but sometimes one just wants a snack.

I must have read about Enid Blyton's connections with Dorset, because I tweeted 

For a few moments I felt I only needed Julian, Dick, Anne & Timmy the Dog in order to have a Famous Adventure

I was not a massive fan of Enid Blyton as a child but I did like her ability to evoke a place. Characters were two-dimensional and narratives were both fanciful and predictable. But somehow, Lulworth brought back the best of Enid memories.

We would have liked to have stayed longer, but when the rain starts to pour down, the pleasure is gone and is replaced with a burning urge to hit the road and get home!

The journey back was uneventful until just a few miles outside Bridport. We were driving at some not excessive speed along the dual carriageway A35, when, suddenly, "Woah, where's the road gone...and the fields and stuff?"

I had noticed the warning signs when we first drove along there, on day one, before we had ever set foot in Bridport. But I told myself 'So what - those are permanent signs. Obviously there's a risk of fog in, like, November, but this is June, almost exactly midsummer.' There was fog. It went on for several miles. Almost all the drivers slowed down to little more than a crawl. Apart from one, of course, who decided that fog and almost zero visibility was not going to stop him driving at 70 (or whatever), presumably because 4x4s have superpowers to combat these things! 

We ended up in Burton Bradstock for dinner, at the Anchor pub. A strange place. I feel, actually, I can be more candid now, because it's been taken over by a new couple. I've seen a review online, not long before our visit, which referred eloquently to 'indoor tumbleweed ambience', which absolutely matched our experience. We were greeted and served by a very chatty member of staff. As it happens, I was in a mood that I didn't mind her chatting, but on a different occasion, not being left alone might have been very annoying. The range of food available was immense, almost too much choice. We took some dorky photos (I don't really have a lop-sided body, honest!). I had a Bouillabaisse, which was definitely a Supper of Champions. We resolved to return later in the week. In the end, we didn't, but that was no reflection on the quality of our meals. "Tasty" was the word I tweeted at the time.

I finished the day by reflecting:

I briefly thought about snobs of limited intelligence who proclaim with a shudder 'I can't imagine how anyone could enjoy a beach holiday'. I laughed at the snobs. Then felt a passing pang of pity. But it didn't last.

I had started the day by observing:

Watching a mother duck try to shepherd 7 tiny ducklings across the A35. Heartbreaking to think how that will end

More photos from this, and others from our Dorset holiday are in the photo album, Dorset

*for completeness, the rest are:

• Winchester Cathedral 
• HMS Victory
• Abbotsbury cygnet hatching
• Fossil hunting along the Jurassic coast
• New Forest ponies
• Old Harry Rocks
• Corfe Castle
• Brownsea Island
• Hive Beach Cafe
• Tyneham village
• Cerne Abbas giant
• Surfing in Boscombe
• The Spinnaker Tower
• Bournemouth Beach
• The Needles
• The Isle of Wight Festival

Rainy Days in Dorset

We went on holiday to Dorset for two weeks in late June. We booked the holiday on a glorious sunny hot day in April and it did not cross our minds that June in England would be wet and rainy, and cold!

The Friday was almost a total washout, not only wet but  windy, too. We drifted around. A trip out to West Bay was miserable. We decided to cut our losses and head for the famous Hive Beach Café at Burton Bradstock. Unfortunately, I had misunderstood them being open all day: formal lunch service finished at 3pm, and we arrived at quarter past. Still, we were able to feast on the most scrumptious crab sandwich, but we decided the best thing we could do was chill out in the holiday flat, nipping out much later in the evening, during a break in the rain, to the local chippy. The evening's TV was spectacularly bad, so all-in-all, it wasn't a great day. We had been thinking of going to the beer and cider festival down the road, but we did not fancy standing in a tent in a field while the wind blew and the rain poured.

The weather was marginally better the next day, when we walked down to Asker Meadows on the outskirts of town for the Bridport Food Festival. It started raining just as we got into the food tent. That was good, because we had escaped the downpour, not so good because everybody else wanted to be in the tent as well. In any case, the rain eased off eventually.

We spent a couple of hours at the Festival, enjoying walking round the stalls. It was fun to taste various free samples and chat with the sellers, many of whom were also the producers. We got a good mix of jams and chutneys, cake, fudge, cheese and so on. We also sampled some produce from the beer tent, but I was only too aware of my limitations on daytime drinking. All seats were taken, and although I don't mind sitting on the ground, I do when it's wet. And there's a limit to how long I can stand. So we retired to a pub to while away some time.

Sunday didn't look awfully promising, although it cleared up later and eventually the sun came out. Again, we joined up with my friend in West Bay and went for a gorgeous lunch at the Riverside Restaurant. When we had first arrived in Bridport, an opinionated and nosey man in a pub told us that the Riverside was the only restaurant in the Bridport area worth going to. He was very wrong - and he gave the impression he never went out anyway - but it certainly stood out as having a touch of class.

We were sat at a table next to river. It is actually possible to hire a boat and row to Bridport, but we didn't. Light and airy, with very tasteful decor. Good service, that coped well with a busy Father's Day Sunday Lunch without appearing to rush us. Matthew Norman from the Telegraph visited three months after us and clearly hated the fact that he almost liked it. On the other hand, Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, who probably knows more than "Matthew Norman" whoever he is, has it as one of the best seafood restaurants in the South West, and it's praised in the Good Food Guide 2012. I had pan seared scallops with apple and ginger sauce; fillet of brill with asparagus and hollandaise; and a trio of puddings - Eton mess, chocolate cake and caramel shortcake with a quenelle of lemon mousse. I was silly only to photograph the pudding.

We spent most of the day strolling round West Bay. My friend insisted that I took some photos of a piece of wood in the harbour. I initially shot it in dull overcast weather, so it was nice to have a chance to shoot again in sunshine. And it was very pleasant to watch harbour life, not least the excitement of a boat running aground on the wooden structure of the harbour!

More Dorset photos by me

Abbotsbury Swannery and the Portland Olympic site

 Abbotsbury Swannery is the only managed colony of nesting mute swans in the world, according to Wikipedia.

We visited it on the first Thursday of our Dorset holiday. We followed signs in the road, AA-yellow temporary event signs declaring Baby Swans. Perhaps an overload of cute...! We had previously seen a sign saying 'Drive carefully, doves in road'.

I'm not really sure what to say. We went on a day when the weather was changeable, getting caught in a couple of heavy showers. I'm glad that we went. It was fairly interesting to walk around. Admittedly, we missed feeding time, reported to be spectacular, but I'm not really sure what else to say. Ultimately, we saw lots of swans. And some other birds. I guess if I had written this at the time, I could have evoked the sensuality of walking in the open in summer rain, suitably clad and shod. I could have related tales of the odd, yet inconsequential behaviour of other people. But I was too busy enjoying myself to blog! I did tweet at the time 'Ace'!

 

The previous day had been rainy on-and-off all day. We wandered round Bridport, which was having its usual market day, plus extra stalls to mark the Food Festival. We also sampled a couple of the local pubs. I was in need of a rest day, so we basically took it easy.

After the Swannery, we went to explore the beach at Abbotsbury, but it turned out to be a surprisingly unpleasant experience. It shelves steeply and, of course, is made up of small pebbles characteristic of Chesil Beach. Clearly, other people, mainly sea anglers, were very happy, but the physical challenge of walking made Miserable Gert Miserable.

So, onwards to Weymouth, but we couldn't park near the sea so drove out of town again. Round near the harbour looked nice, but we weren't pausing until we got to Portland, and spent a pleasant hour or so strolling round the site where the Olympics 2012 sailing will take pleace. Surprisingly deserted given that there's a public footpath/cycle-path running through, and a restaurant. I wasn't entirely sure we weren't trespassing!

We drove back through Askerswell, Loders & Uploders, largely because I liked their names. I also liked the villages a lot, got an strange yearning to be the sort of person who lives in a village barely big enough to warrant the name, yet just a short drive from a town. But Jimmy, a city boy through-and-through did not like the narrow twisty lanes and the oncoming drivers, confident in their knowledge of the roads, who showed insufficient consideration for other roadusers unfamiliar with the terrain. Also, all the pubs were shut

We finished up for dinner in the Three Horseshoes in Burton Bradstock. The guidebook recommended the lobster thermidor, so I followed its advice and wasn't disappointed. Jimmy was pleased with his wild rabbit. The guidebook also recommended booking, we hadn't, and we were lucky they could squeeze us in. We didn't actually return there to eat in the end, but we had every intention of doing so. It's a nice pub, they served the ale well, even on a Thursday, which can be bad in some places because of turnover.

More Dorset photos, in reverse chronological order, very much work in progress!

 

 

Chideock and Seatown

We spend the morning and early afternoon on the beach at Charmouth. We had intended to get some food from the cafe inside the Visitor Centre, but it was uninspired mainstream run-of-the-mill. Instead, I suggested we drove down the road to the George Inn in Chideock. My friend had recommended it, and although I didn't know at the time, the couple running it had experience working for Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. We liked it so much at lunchtime that we went back again the enxt week and had one of the best plates of fish-and-chips that one could possibly imagine.

I was unduly excited at seeing a genuine cheque aged Skoda in pristine condition. I am old enough to remember when cars from the then Soviet Bloc were never seen in England, and although Polish and Romanian vehicles are everyday occurences nowadays, this was worth pausing for a photo, and even chatting with the man who I guessed correctly to be its owner.

I had a slightly strange experience in the beer garden. When we arrived there were two women with two children of about 6 and 2, who were being unduly noisy and disruptive. If I hadn't been so hungry I would possibly have said 'Let's go' even though everyone else looked entirely civilised. We got our beers and ordered our food, and Jimmy went to the Gents, putting his beer underneath the table to shade it from the fierce sun. I was sitting at my table, looking to the casual passer-by like a sad solitary drinker. I noticed that the two women went to the Ladies together, leaving the 6 year old in charge of the 2 year old. The 2 year old started screaming; in her buggy, she had her back to where Mum and friend had gone. 2 year olds tend to panic at that. The two adults returned, the 6 year old got a beating because the 2 year old was crying, and the party, thankfully, departed. But up a flight of stairs into the car park across my line of vision. "What you fucking staring at you fat cow?" screeched this 'mother', who, frankly, was a minger. For a split second I felt awful. I had been silently judging her, maybe that reflected in my face, even though I was actually staring into the middle distance directly ahead of me. Then I realised that everybody else in the beer garden turned round to look at me - with looks of friendly, sympathetic support. And when ChavMum had departed, the atmosphere changed to one of relief, as disparate parties of 2 and 3 - couples, elderly mum/middle aged daughter, workmate - relaxed, enjoyed their food and kept themselves to themselves.

I ordered a Ploughman's, which was a good choice! Fashionably served on a piece of bark - and why not - it consisted of three cheeses from neighbouring counties, chunky local bread, local chutney and a tasty enticing salad.

Afterwards we drove down a narrow twisty road, single track without official passing places, to the beach at Seatown, a massive car park and a delightful pub called the Anchor.

"This coastal area of the parish of Chideock was the second wholly-natural World Heritage Site to be designated in the United Kingdom, and enjoys its status as an area of outstanding natural beauty."

We spent an hour or more snoozing in the bright sun halfway up a hill, gazing on the Golden Cap, before retiring to the pub for one more drink. Seeing the menu, and what was served to other customers, we knew we would return. 

In the evening we ate in Bridport, at the George just opposite where we were staying. Not an outstanding pub, but the beer was good, and at the time I recorded that I had a starter of potted crab, toast and a dressed salad, and I was 'stuffed' already. Jimmy had lambs kidneys with bacon in a cream & madeira sauce. I didn't record and no longer recall what we had as main courses, but I clearly remember them being very pleasing, and the generous servings were filling. the staff were friendly and helpful enough, and I was kept entertained by the conversation of the nearby table which appeared to be a meeting of some feminist academic action group. I also noted that the local Pagan Moot had met there the previous week for a talk on Witchcraft & esoteric development. I realised why some people call Bridport 'Notting Hill on Sea"

Update: I later remembered to tweet my main course: Roast cod & duck egg on crushed potatoes, with asparagus & beurreblanc. Delicious!

Holiday snaps

Several months ago I started blogging about a holiday I had been on, several months previously! So here's an attempt to continue!

The weather, which had been so dismal on the Sunday, turned out hot and sunny by Tuesday. So hot and sunny that it was definitely a Beach Day. In as much as West Dorset, of Chesil Beach fame, can ever have 'Beach Days'. 

We drove to Charmouth, not far from Lyme Regis. A place that's obviously geared up for a large influx of tourists, at least in the peak season. A car park and an overflow car park, the Charmouth Heritage Coast Visitor Centre and not one, but two cafés: one in the visitor centre and one on the beach. We chose the latter. There was some reason I asked the question, a sign perhaps. The question was  whether we could hire deckchairs. I was even willing to pay money. Her response: 'We don't get them in until summer.' I said nothing, but coupled with an insipid insult of a cup of tea - the coffee wasn't even worth asking for - I did wonder why these people even bothered running a business, complacent and lazy. Anyone with a bit of a spark and inspiration could really make an attractive business with a nearly captive market.  And, frankly, if I was a seasonal business, I'd have the summer offer available in mid June.

I know that probably reads like a rant, but I do get very frustrated by people who can't be bothered to try in thse places. I'm not talking about places on high roads - the market gets them. but beaches, parks etc, where there's probably a queue of people wanting to run these places, and there is no or very little competition - you kind of feel that they've probably got the lease due to who they know rather than their business case. And it's annoying, because it's the customer who suffers!

But it was fun to walk along the beach, paddling at the water's edge!

 

More Dorset photos

Meandering the narrow streets of Dorset

After the storm of Sunday, our first Monday promised better weather. But we didn't have a plan, unless 'exploring' is a plan!

We agreed we needed to find a beach. I suggested, for no good reason, that we go to Eype, a village not far from Bridport. I have to confess to not really understanding the English village system. In my pre-London days I had been known to venture into the countryside, and one autumn I spent some time auditing the tiny parish councils of Hart District - based in an office on a business park outside Reading. I'm not even sure of the differences between hamlet, village, town. And I was surprised by the narrowness and windy nature of the roads, although rather liked the drive through a tunnel of overhanging boughs heavy with leaves. It was a spectacularly steep climb up to the seafront, not helped by taking a wrong turn into a dead end that just led to people's front gates!

But, finally, we found the beach! And we walked on it! For a bit, anyway. The Bridport area is at the Western End of Chesil beach, where tidal forces sort the stones into big rocks in the East and tiny pebbles in the West, making walking quite treacherous!

We decided instead to head for Lyme Regis, but, inexplicably, diverted ourselves into the settlement of Morecambelake; perhaps we were attracted by what seemed to be a market in a field. We walked around and realised that it was almost exclusively junk. Some horrible cheap-looking clothes, stalls selling dishcloths and clothes pegs, a burger van, and incongruously, a stallholder who'd travelled down from Cheshire to sell jams, honeys and so on. We bought some from there, which, in retrospect made little sense in Dorset! Although perfectly tasty!

We soon set off again via the backstreets, somehow by-passing Whitchurch Canonicorum, which we never visited but should have done on account of it having the most amazing name! Also, its the only church in Britain except Westminster Abbey to have survived the Reformation with its relics intact. Also Georgi Markov is buried there. He was assassinated by a poisoned umbrella tip on Waterloo Bridge. 

We drove instead to Wootton Fitzpaine, which seems to consist largely of a manor house and a church. I regret not taking some photos, but the road took us to what seemed to be the front garden of the manor house, which made me nervous about taking pictures! So we drove on through another desirable village Catherston Leweston, and into Lyme Regis.

Lyme Regis is very different from the villages we had been driving through. Obviously it's a relatively sizable town and seaside resort. Obviously tries hard not to look like every other medium-small town in England, with the obligatory Tesco and Boots sitting cheek by jowl with teashops, coffee shops and bakeries. The end result being a town that looks like every other town that's full of tea shops and cupcake purveyors. It's chock full of cars, every hour in each direction the Axminster to Weymouth bus squeezes its way through the narrow streets, round the sharp corners and under the ancient bridge over the road.

I admit I am not a frequent user of car-parks, but I was mildly surprised that the pay-and-display meter took cards. Obviously this is a good idea, especially at the price they were charging, but the woman trying to pay at the same time as me neither had the cash nor wanted to pay by card! The thing, if you want to park your car in a tourist town, you have to pay!

We had arrived late for lunch, and rather than explore the entire town to find a place that offered the best menu for the most amazing price, we decided to go to somewhere which had a decent mention in the Rough Guide, was close at hand and looked okay - The Pilot Boat. Looking round the internet, it seems to have mixed reviews. I certainly wouldn't class it as secret surprising fine dining, but it lived up, more or less, to our expectations. I had a good quality fisherman's pie, although as I tweeted at the time, it was disappointingly served with a typical dated English side salad. Mediocre ingredients to begin with, and not dressed. It's like the leaves are put on in order to tick a box of providing colour, but with no thought as to whether the customer would want to eat it. Why spoil a tasty, value-for-money dish? Jimmy enjoyed his pork belly braised in cider

We strolled along the seafront in sudden glorious afternoon sun, walking to the harbour and along the Cobb, before walking back through the park that rises above the seafront. It struck me as a pleasant enough town, sufficient seaside resort places - ice-cream huts, fish-and-chips, bars, amusement arcades - without being either overwhelming or a draw in themselves. I imagine it gets pretty busy at weekends and in the school summer holidays.

Leaving Lyme Regis caused us some problems. It should have been so simple, but we took a wrong turn and ended up, oh horror of horrors, crossing the Devon border. We turned around with no further incident, though we had to back into Lyme to finally head towards Bridport, I made little jokes about being driven back across the border by furious Devoners.

We finished the evening in Burton Bradstock, a little village outside Bridport, perhaps most famous for being where Billy Bragg lives - although he was on tour in the USA when we visited - and the Hive Beach cafe, which was closed. We sat in the afternoon sunshine in the garden of the Three Horseshoes, drinking some beautiful 'Dorset Gold'. We also got directions to the beach, which lies down a turning we had entirely missed! And for forty minutes or so we had a delightful walk on an almost deserted beach, glorying in the later afternoon sunshine, such a contrast from the previous day's dull, wet, windy storm!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

More photos in my Dorset photo album

Dorset, the early days

(Photo from West Bay Hotel website)

Ideally I should have written my holiday blogposts each day. But we didn't have internet in the holiday let, or anywhere near it. And there'd be no point in publishing a holiday blogpost without holiday photos, which all take time to edit. The way I do it, anyway!

I always think it's weird, when I go on holiday, or away for work, or anywhere really. You might spend days, weeks or months planning the time away, but as the time gets closer, all that matters is the journey. Packing seems almost secondary, and by the time you draw away from home, all that matters is the journey. And the journey seems *epic* whilst it happens. I don't travel very often by car, and I don't like driving, so it's both an adventure and a relaxation to be sit cruising down the motorway. Until the motorway runs out not far from the location of our previous holiday (Milford on Sea).

But when all is said and done, once you've arrived, and unloaded the car, there's not a great deal to say, not even about the glorious coastal view that suddenly comes into view as you ride the crest of a hill on the A35. We spent a lot of the holiday on the A35. I never tired of the view. Except on the day when fog reduced visibility to just a few yards. Fog. In June. I know.

We had a wander round the town and soon found ourself in a pub. As soon as we walked in, some bloke in a sleeveless quilted anorak scrutinised me closely and said 'hello' in a confrontational manner. When we were settled in the beer garden, he came to interrogate us, expressed his hostility that we were obviously visiting in order to locate a property to buy and move into. Apparently that's the only reason Londoners visit. He also informed us that no one goes out at night in Bridport and there's nowhere to eat, other than one restaurant in West Bay.

But we managed to find a nice cafe to sit outside with a pot of tea and a clotted cream & jam scone each. And later that evening we had a perfectly pleasant meal at The Royal Oak, I ate moules marinieres;and  Cornish sole in a pink peppercorn butter, with vegetables  & new potatoes. And some wine, which I didn't note at the time. It was very tasty and at the time I thought we would try hard to better it. I'm sorry I didn't photograph the food, indeed, I was startled at how little of the food I did photograph! I can't be too harsh about a pub-restaurant that had on the wall a picture of Billy Bragg as well as ones of PJ Harvey, Martin Clunes and Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall. But the unfortunate thing was that there were about five or six parties of two or three people, mostly older than me on the periphery of the room around a table containing a multi-generational extended family of a dozen or more people. They weren't obnoxious or extraordinarily loud, but it's impossible for a group that size not to dominate the room. It's a shame the restaurateur didn't use the room-style alcoves more imaginatively.

The following day featured spectacularly bad weather. For example, the tennis final at Queen's club was postponed. And we met up with a friend in West Bay, the seaside part of Bridport. It was an energising experience being blown down the pier and quite physical or even sensual being soaked to the skin...maybe! I tweeted 'it was way too stormy even to contemplate getting my camera out!' We ate in the West Bay hotel. I had red mullet & sea bream with oriental spice in a light creamy balti sauce, vegetables and new potatoes; and white chocolate & strawberry cheesecake, washed down with some eminently quaffable local Palmers ale.

The next day the sun came out and I took some photos. But that's another blogpost!

Creating a memory

Last week, specifically on Midsummer's Day, we set off from our holiday accommodation in Bridport to Studland, beyond Weymouth and Portland.

As we approached, the sky clouded over, and I referred to my alternative list of rainy day activities. Indeed, when we first ventured out, it was in kagouls. Later, the day brightened immensely, we spent some of the afternoon lying on the beach, and when we walked out to Old Harry Rocks, I was sweltering in just a t-shirt.

We left Studland at just about 6pm; I had to remind Jimmy that we still had four hours daylight. We made good progress along the road, with Classic FM on the car radio.

The road from Dorchester to Bridport, the A35, runs for some time along what is effectively a ridge, which rises steeply up from the sea and surrounding countryside. The previous evening we had hit a thick patch of fog that extended for several miles and reduced visibility to just a few metres. Roadsigns warned of this, but I didn't expect it in June - I was later told by a local that this is not unusual.

In contrast, on Midsummer's Evening, the sky was clear and we could see for miles. As we rose out of Dorchester, Classic FM started to play the overture to Tannhauser. An amazing piece of music that becomes more frantic and orgiastic as it progresses, and as we progressed. We drove past Bridport and into the village of Chideock, before turning off down a narrow and twisty lane to the hamlet of Seatown, fronting the sea in the shadow of the golden Cap. As we drew up in the car park, Tannhauser overture reached its stunning climax. Epic!

A spectacular view and amazing music. It really doesn't get better than that. Unfortunately, the pub we intended to eat was packed full of people, so we went back and ate elsewhere, which was very good.

Hampshire photos

They've been a long time coming, although they have kept me amused over the Winter!

In November, quite possibly against our better judgement, we set out on a holiday to the seaside. It had all been a bit random: we decided on the New Forest, and then searched a website for the least expensive letting that met or exceeded our minimum criteria and was avaialble at the time we chose.

Which is how we ended up in Milford-on-Sea near Lymington, on the Hampshire/Dorset border Coincidentally, I stayed there for a fortnight in 1980, but even having revisited, I don't actually have any memories, which is slightly worrying!

We didn't know at the time, but it is a little bit of a foodie area: as I write, their food week is just drawing to a close. It would have been tempting to return - if only for tonight's Milford's Three Tenors, including John Hudson who I've seen as Don José at ENO and the Albert Hall -  but instead we will be visiting Dorset's Juassic Coast and coinciding with a foodweek (but at a time when local resident and much loved singer Billy "Traitor" Bragg is touring America), and I've signed up for more information about the Balham Food Festival

We found the Ladies Who Lunch in Hampshire an invaluable resource to supplement our 'Rough Guide' to the area, which will be re-used for the next holiday. We were staying almost directly opposite Verveine, one the LWL's top restaurants of 2010, and easy driving distance of the Crown in Everton. We were hugely impressed by the Zaika Indian in Milford, had a more than satisfactory pub meal at the Smugglers and had a lovely lunch at Egan's in Lymington. We were well aware of several other places we could have happily have tried in nearby Hordle, Barton and Mudeford.

I'm a city girl and have bad memories of restauranteurs in seaside resorts like Blackpool struggling with the word 'vegetarian', but I would recommend Rye and Milford as recent holiday destinations with exceptional food choices.

Our timing was slightly off, because the previous week had seen exceptionally mild November weather. On the other hand, it wasn't long after we returned home that Britain was hit by Snowmageddon. Still, we had some lovely coastal walks, and a glorious day in the New Forest.

I have finally finished loading 93 photos - which I hope represent some of the different aspects of our visit - into the album Hampshire

Tiles

Going through my holiday photos from Costa Blanca last September - photo album available - I remembered how I had been enchanted by the decorative tiles I found on so many streets, especially in Denia. I photographed a lot. They're not especially interesting or good photos in themselves, but I thought it worthwhile blogging a selection of them as a sort of collection!

   

Alicante pictures

I'm still in the process of editing my holiday photos from Costa Blanca last September (not exclusively, I am alternating with later pictures).

I took about 500 in Spain, including duds and duplicates, about 400 in October, including ill-fated (and misjudged) attempt to take a photo a day, lots of pictures (not for the blog) of Jimmy's nephew's wedding, and loads when I went up to my Mother's - those of my 'country' walk are potentially for public consumption, those of the nephews and nieces are not. I took another 250 with my old camera, mainly during our visit to Rye, and I have so far taken about a hundred with the new camera.

After loading photos to the PC I go through and delete the obviously totally dud. But I don't tend to delete the so-so ones immediately, because I find, it's not until I open it in the editing software and look critically at it, perhaps even slide around a few alterations do I decide that either this photo that seemed a good idea at the time is dull - poorly composed, fails to tell a story, whatever - or that my attempts to rescue an over- or under-exposed picture will never render it anything than a mis-hit. Sometimes I keep badly lit or out of focus pictures, not for their photographic value but for their content - it might be the only one of that subject and I don't want to lose it.

Anyway, when on holiday in Villajoyosa,we took a day-trip to Alicante. A pleasant if somewhat slow train journey along the coast landed us near to the castle. We spent the best bit of the day in the castle, but, ultimately, it's a mediocre castle. The rest of the day was so-so. A very pedestrian unfriendly city and poorly signed. We spent some time on a dull over-crowded beach , before eating a perfectly adequate (but no more) meal at an over-priced restaurant whose highlight was a picture of Fabio Capello on the staircase.

We agreed we'd go potentially to Alicante again, but only for the airport and maybe the railway station.

 

Villajoyosa photos

Villajoyosa was a pleasant town to stroll around, spotting eye- catching sights to photograph.

On the last morning, or maybe it was the penultimate, Jimmy chanced to get up at sunrise and grabbed my camera for this:

Photos from Denia

We caught the train up the coast to Denia, a delightful journey. And we spent a pleasant day in Denia, although we decided Villajoyosa was a much nicer place: