Corfe Castle is a small village with a big castle attached to it. The National Trust own and look after the castle while the tourists look after the rest of the village. As you park in the NT car park and start to cross the road, the old castle ruins atop the hill before you are amazing. Mirinda’s first thought was “How the hell do we get up there?” as it is quite high. Fortunately the path to the village gently slopes up as it goes around the mound upon which the castle was built. You hardly even notice.

First stop was the Fox Inn for lunch. Phil recommended this pub and I have to say it was well recommended. From the gravel voiced barman to the widower locals, from the 6X to the great and hearty food, an excellent pub. We sat in the garden amongst the 69 different chairs and tables and lapped up the sun. Lunch was MASSIVE.

And so to the castle. It’s hard to put a single date on the castle. It’s been around a long time and has been a royal stronghold at various times in its history. It stood strong and resilient until the civil war when parliamentarian forces blew it up, showing the locals how powerful they were. The walls are still lopsided and tilted precariously as if it just happened.

Bit of wall, Corfe Castle, Dorset

A lot of credit for the castle lasting as long as it did must go to Lady Bankes. Anyone wanting to read about a tough, single-minded woman should look into her life. Amazing woman. A staunch royalist, she lived long enough to see the monarchy restored and died in 1661.

After a goodly time spent scaling the castle, we ventured back into the village for a look see around the church. Sadly St Edward’s had no guide book. The best thing I’ve found about it was online. Apparently the lead on the roof was used by the parliamentarians for extra ammunition during the sieges of the castle and after that it gradually fell into disrepair. And then, in the middle 1800s, the locals had it bulldozed (or the Victorian equivalent), leaving only the tower which they then built a new gothic style church around. I have to say they did quite a good job as the whole thing feels complete. Quite rare for the Victorians, remaking an old thing sympathetically.

There was just time for a final view of the castle ruins from the National Trust tea shop (fabulous view, though sadly, the Victoria sponge was sadly…err, sad) and then it was back to claim Sidney and off to Lulworth Cove.

I’ve been to Lulworth before and have spent hours telling Mirinda how wonderful it was. I’ve heaped so many praises on the place that it was with great glee that I led her forth to view it for herself. Unexpectedly, she laughed. She was not particularly impressed. For my benefit she said the geology was pretty cool.

We left Lulworth and drove to Durdle Door. I walked down an extremely steep path and snapped some photos in the dying sunlight while Mirinda waited for me back at the top of the hill. Some of the coastline was pretty impressive but I found Durdle Door a bit of an anti-climax. This could be because I’ve been on the Great Ocean Road and seen the 12 apostles or it could be because Mirinda didn’t like Lulworth!

While she waited on her lonely perch, Mirinda overheard an interesting conversation between a small, energetic child and it’s mother. Apparently he wanted to go down and look at the view but she was adamant he would not. She said it was far too dangerous and, as he couldn’t be trusted to do as he was told, he’d more than likely plunge to the bottom of the cliff into so much sea gull bait. Upon my return, Mirinda asked me if the path was dangerous. I told her it was about 15 feet wide but there wasn’t a fence or rail or anything so I guess a determined monster of a child could easily get away and dive over.

The one thing that ruined Durdle Door for me was the thousands of tin cans dotted along the hillside overlooking the ocean. It’s just row after row of mobile homes, nailed to the ground. In fact, in order to get to the edge of the cliff and see Durdle Door, it is first necessary to drive through the caravan park. At the car park there’s a sign forbidding people from taking photos (or painting) the view. So. It’s ok to blot the landscape with heaps of crappy, uncomfortable, overheated, poor relief dwelling, hovels but dear God, don’t let anyone take a photo of nature’s beauty!

We drove the long trip back to our apartment for the last time.

Our trip home the next day was uneventful and short. We went home a day early as Mirinda had a guitar lesson on the Saturday. I’m not going to bother adding another entry just for this paragraph. However, I will include a picture taken of Durdle Door.

A glorious day! Blue skies and wispy clouds. A perfect day for a walk along the cliff edge, which I promptly did. It was lovely.

We decided we’d pop over to Wimborne Minster today as there’s a NGS garden open in nearby Edmondsham. What a lovely little town! That’s Wimborne not Edmondsham though that’s quite nice too. And it has a Costa! Excellent, a latte at last. Mind you, typical Costa, they’d run out of hazelnut syrup so I had to have caramel. Just not the same. Still, I soldiered on.

The Minster itself is beautiful. Originally dedicated to St Cuthburga who was presumably some distant relative of St Ethelburga of Lyminge. Part of the famous Burga clan of Saxon England I guess. Anyway, the Minster started off as a nunnery in around 705AD. A Saxon wooden church was probably on the site before the Minster. Ethelred, brother of Alfred the Great and not the unready one, was buried in the Minster in 871.

There’s an amazing astronomical church which is attached to a little soldier up one of the exterior towers who whacks a couple of small bells every quarter hour. He is called a Quarter Jack for this very reason. Originally he was a little monk but then, when Napoleon was threatening to attack the British mainland, he was changed to a little soldier in a bright red tunic.

A few lovely and very old memorials dot the church. As well as a horned Moses. There are quite a few horned Moses representations. The reason for this is quite interesting. It stems from a mistranslation of a particular passage from Exodus. When Moses returned from his meeting with God and was carrying the ten commandments down to his people, his face shone with rays of heavenly light. In the original Hebrew, this ‘rays of light’ is written as ‘qaran’. Unfortunately, ‘qaran’ can also mean ‘developed horns’. When the Hebrew bible was originally translated into Latin, the guy who did it decided that Moses had grown horns after talking to God and it was written so in the bible. Therefore when people made representations of Moses for churches, they gave him ram’s horns. Hilarious!

Moses with horns, Wimborne Minster

We spent a while wandering around the Minster. Sadly the chained library was closed but we managed to get our fill. Having seen Wimborne, we decided it was about time we saw the same thing only a 1/10th the size!

In Wimborne there is the ‘World Famous’ Model Town! It’s brilliant. It’s a faithful model of the town in the early 1950s. You can wander the little streets and cuddle the towers of the church. It’s excellent. It was planned back in the late 40s when a group of chaps thought it would be a great idea. They took lots of photographs of the buildings and drew up some scale plans.

Little shops in model town, Wimborne Minster

Using concrete and beech wood, they built the town in sections. It was a massive hit and attracted people from all over. Then, over the years, the property on which it was built changed hands until, eventually, a developer bought it. By this time the model town had become a haven for vandals and was looking a bit sad and ghetto-like.

A big volunteer group of townsfolk banded together and convinced the developer it would be a great idea to let them move the model town to another location before he bulldozed it for development. He agreed.

A rather nice chap (Sir Michael Hanham) then gave the town a small corner of one of his fields on which to rebuild the small town. It was a tough and long job but eventually everything was rebuilt and a lovely garden included at the edges. It has been opened to the public in its new spot since 1991 and is wonderful. We recommend it.

As we paid our entrance fee, the kindly white haired lady asked if we’d like to ‘do the quiz’. Mirinda chuckled and said no. She was wise. There is a rare condition prevalent in many properties and sites throughout this country called Quiz Rage. It starts when the nice lady at the door hands the two children a clipboard with a list of questions, the answers to which can be found about the place. From this point on it becomes a competition.

Woe betide the sister who gets one more than her brother and gloats about it! Beware the wrath of an aggrieved and maligned lad. It’s certainly not pretty and adults are merely obstacles to be moved with anything that’s to hand. It’s bad enough in the cramped and priceless environs of a National Trust property but on the open streets of a miniature village, it’s a bloodbath. It’s an interesting social phenomena that the daughters tend to align themselves with the mother while the son doesn’t care and will take advice from anyone.

Having walked (and dodged) around both the small and full size versions, it was time for lunch. There’s a gastro-pub in Wimborne called the Olive Branch. Now generally I’m not that keen on gastro-pubs. I’m of the opinion that a pub should be a pub and a gastro should remain in a restaurant, however, this place is great. From the odd but funny Latin quotes around the walls to the brilliant food served in amusing ways.

Oz gets the Latin treatment

I recommend the beef burger with gorgonzola and fries. Excellent. And Mirinda recommends the ham and chicken pie.

Edmondsham is a little village not far from Wimborne Minster. It has a few houses in it. One of them is, oddly enough, Edmondsham House. Today its gardens were open for the NGS. The house is also open and we had a delightful tour given by the present owner.

The house is a Tudor Manor House with Georgian additions. Originally, on the same site, was a manor mentioned in Domesday and given to Mathilda by old Bill the Bastard. The Saxon owner was some guy called Dodo. I don’t think anyone knows who the original Edmund was. Anyway, the house that stands there today was started by Thomas Hussey in 1563.

Edmondsham house, Dorset

The house went through many hands of assorted related people until it ended up belonging to Hector William Bower Monro who married the daughter of the man who founded Bournemouth! The present owner is descended from all of them in a strange unlikely way.

She was a lovely lady who took great pride in telling us about each of the rooms. I was a bit perturbed when she roughly handled what appeared to be a first edition of Alice’s Adventures Underground and claimed she didn’t much care for it as it reeked of nightmares. Good God! The woman had a porcelain statue of a tiger eating a man’s head on the dining table! While it was still attached to his body! Now that’s nightmarish.

Within the grounds of the house sits the little church of St Nicolas. Dedicated to St Nicolas in 1644 it was built a long time before then but no-one knows when or why.

After our tour we wandered the grounds for a bit, admiring the octagonal dairy and the wonderful walled garden before climbing once more into Sidney for the long journey back to Burton Bradstock. A lovely day of exquisite weather and friendly touristy things.

When sleep had left my head and I opened my eyes this morning, there was nothing to see. The other side of the window was like the end of the world. A big, blurry, greyish nothing. The spiky tree was shaking and thrashing about like an electrocuted goanna. The rain was lashing against the roof of the garden room. It was not pleasant. We stayed in bed.

At about 1pm we figured we should go and hunt down some lunch. The Riverside Restaurant in West Bay seemed like a good idea so we lowered our heads to the wind, climbed into the car and set off, oars at the ready.

The food, of course, was divine, apart from the crème brulee which, unfortunately had a plum mixed in with the custard and the sugar top was a thin piece of toffee. Still, the brill was brill and the smoked salmon was delish.

Afterwards we popped into St John’s church, there being no wedding on. Mirinda did notice that the flowers in the vestibule must have been left over from the wedding on Saturday as the colour scheme matched the bridesmaids.

Wedding leftovers

Not a very old church, St John’s was completed in 1939. It’s a typical seaside church with little sailing ships decorating the walls. To quote the booklet which says it better than I ever could: “…St John’s has a quietness, a beauty, and a charm of its own. Its design is simple, yet graceful, and it gives the impression of light and harmony.”

We then decided it would be a very good idea to compare Seaton in Devon with Seatown in Dorset. These two seaside spots are separated by a county border, Lyme Regis and the letter ‘w’. It seemed a very good idea. Incidentally, as we drove towards Seaton, the clouds vanished and the sun beamed through.

Seaton, Devon
Seaton doesn’t look the kind of place we’d stay in. It resembles the sort of place that attracts pensioners and people in wheelchairs. In fact the ramp to the beach warns wheelchair users that the big gates come down at 9pm and there’s no escape afterwards.

The famous George Inn, Seaton, Devon

The town itself, which seems quite big, has a lovely pedestrianised road leading from the top of the town down to the beach. Unfortunately a whacking great truck was busy filling it up as we tried to walk down and then a big 4WD parked on a footpath. So much for that great idea! The stores we managed to see through the traffic were all a bit unappealing as were the locals standing outside the famous George Inn.

Down at the beach, the views of the cliffs are excellent, as you’d expect long this coast. The long stretch of beach huts was very colourful. The sea was rough and crashing. All very lovely. A lot of couples were wandering along the promenade, obviously having sat out the storm earlier.

There’s an interesting electric tramway which runs from Seaton to Colyton about every 15 minutes. Unfortunately the land it runs along has been purchased by Tesco so, presumably, the car park will one day belong to them and eventually the tram will have to move. Still, it would be a nice day out if you were stuck in Seaton and wanted to get away.

Mirinda described it as “a bit of a dump.”

Seatown, Dorset
Seatown couldn’t be more different if it was turned into an elephant. The narrow sunken lane, topped with hedges gives no clue as to your destination. At the bottom of a steep hill is a car park and then it all opens up. There is no shopping, no busy streets, just a pub and a turning circle and a toilet block. It’s enough.

The beach at Seatown, Dorset

The seas were still crashing and spraying in the late afternoon sun as a fair sprinkling of people wandered about, or sat in the beer garden enjoying the dying rays of what was turning into a lovely early evening. The views along the coast are of tall, towering cliffs, rising up from wide expanses of shingle beach.

Mirinda described it as “beautiful, sparkly.”

Really, there is no comparison.

Dorset farmers appear to dislike walkers with a passion. Ok, that may be a bit of a generalisation. However, in these here parts, they have an odd way of looking after the public footpaths; something they are supposed to do. To the extent that while the signs are still stuck to the fences and posts, the path itself has vanished underneath weird thigh high grasses and bulging termite mounds. When not planted with these odd path destroying species, the farmer ploughs right across it. For a long time I walked home from Alton station across a few fields. These fields went through the usual yearly rotation of crops, plough and harvest and yet the footpaths were ALWAYS visible and ALWAYS maintained. Come to Dorset and you’d better keep to the coastal paths because anything else just isn’t worth it.

So, as you can no doubt gather, I went for a walk this morning. If I had a top ten list of worst walks I’ve been on, this would rate pretty highly. And it looked so promising on the OS map. It took me far too long to get back as I had to navigate around obstacles and rediscover lost footpaths from the Middle Ages. The Rain Dance was a glorious welcome.

Athelhampton House looked like a good option today – the BBC said light rain all day – so we set off after I’d brushed the wildlife from my boots and showered off the mud. Unfortunately the mysterious film FT2T was filming there and will be till the end of the month which means it’s closed to anyone but film people. Maggie Smith and Timothy Spall are both in it. An odd coincidence as we saw them both in Harry Potter last night. Interesting how actors will do anything to be paid. Maggie Smith I understand. I mean she just did Miss Jean Brodie, even with the accent but Timothy Spall? God, he used to be a good, choosey actor. Like Gary Oldman. I’m not going to mention Michael Gambon. Such a disappointment.

By the way, the film is a children’s film called From Time To Time.

So Mirinda used their toilet, after which we continued along the Piddle River, passing through all the Puddle towns until we reached Tolpuddle, home of the Tolpuddle Martyrs and location of the most wonderful pub food in Dorset (maybe the world).

Ivy covered thatch in Tolpuddle

The Martyr’s Inn serves brilliant food and wonderful beer. I can’t fault it. If anyone reading this goes anywhere near this pub, it would be a crime against your taste buds not to have a meal. Don’t bother saying I sent you as they’ll not have a clue who I am.

After our brilliantly wonderful meal we went for a stroll through the town and down to the church. Just across the road is the Tolpuddle Martyr’s Museum which, sadly was closed because of a burst water pipe.

Tolpuddle itself is a typical picturesque English village with ivy strewn thatched cottages lining a ridiculously busy street running through it. Interestingly we have noticed in a couple of villages this trip that new builds have been designed sympathetically with the rest of the place. This is also the case in Tolpuddle. Unfortunately the building was going on just outside the pub and we enjoyed its accompaniment throughout lunch.

Back on the road, we thought, after such a fantastic meal, we’d pop in and have a look at Clouds Hill, a National Trust property not far away from the Martyr Inn, Tolpuddle. Sadly, Clouds Hill is not open on Mondays and we didn’t fancy the Tank Museum further down the road so we sped off to Hardy’s Cottage.

Interestingly the roads around Clouds Hill and The Tank Museum are really, really wide. There are also lots of Tank warning signs that say things like “Tank Training” and “Warning Tanks Turning”. It made me think: Are the wide roads because the tanks have flattened the normal ones out a bit? It’s quite soft, bitumen.

By the way, Clouds Hill was the rural retreat of TE Lawrence, of Arabia fame.

So on to Thomas Hardy’s cottage. This is where he was born. What an amazing place. Nothing is level, no room is square, it’s all a-kilter. Sort of like a Wonderland cottage. Also odd in that it looks bigger on the outside than it is inside.

Thomas Hardy's cottage, Dorset

Hardy lived here until he married. He would walk to primary school a mile away and then grammar school, three miles away in Dorchester, every day. He was an odd chap, sitting in the woodland twittering away to the wild animals, writing poetry for them. And he always loved this cottage. Even when he was well into his 80s, he’d pop over and make sure the place was looking neat and tidy.

It was then back to Burton Bradstock and a well needed cup of coffee at Hive Beach…except the café at Hive Beach was closed and so it was back to the apartment where Mirinda serenaded me with her guitar practice.

I was lucky tonight as she gave me a rendition of my favourite, Ruth Ellis. Most nights she’ll have a good hours practice which is much better entertainment than the telly. And I’m not just saying that, it IS!

All night we listened to the buffeting and crashing. The day dawned with nil visibility and lots of rain falling. We stayed in until it all went away.

We are falling in love with Abbotsbury. Although we had to visit the School House Tea Shop this morning because the nice ones were closed, the village still has a magic. After toasted tea buns we wandered over to the Dansel craftwork gallery where they make the most beautiful things out of wood. There were many pieces we both wanted to buy so, after a very long wander through the place, we left to think about which ONE we would buy. Anyone interested in this place (and their stuff is beautiful) can check them out on the web here.

It was then finally time to visit the tithe barn. Way back last week when we visited the Swannery, we purchased a passport which gave us entry to the swannery, the sub-tropical gardens and the children’s barn. The barn, now given over to children and their need to crawl all over imaginary pirate ships half filled with big plastic balls, was originally a massive structure belonging to the Benedictine Abbey which stood proudly beside the river. The abbey (and I assume the barn) were built some time after 1016AD when King Canute gave the lands to Orc his evil henchman. Not really. Orc was his steward and it was his idea to build the abbey.

The place was quite prosperous until the black death arrived in the 14th century. And then, of course, Henry VIII did his thing, demolishing the entire abbey apart from the tithe barn, the chapel and one very small piece of wall. And so it has remained. Actually the chapel has also gone now but I can’t find anything about it so let’s ignore it.

We wandered around the barn – it really is massive – and petted some goats, ponies and alpacas which appeared to be ready to spit. There is also a big shed full of evil guinea pigs which the kids can sit and stroke. Terribly odd.

Speaking of odd, I’m not sure what they breed their chickens with (or how) but the results are a tad curious.

Turtle chicks at the tithe barn, Abbotsbury, Dorset

We retraced our steps to the car park and set off for Lyme Regis. Now, Mirinda is not very fond of Lyme Regis even given the fact that Jane featured the Cob in Persuasion. I didn’t know this when I suggested we pop along for a visit.

The rain wasn’t sure whether it was coming or going so I figured going to a town was a good idea. Unfortunately the town car park is up a very steep and very long hill. This explains why it only costs £1 for an entire day! Wandering down the hill, Mirinda was regretting the fact that it would take the rest of the day to get back up.

We did the natural tourist thing and wandered along the beach front and made our way out to the end of the cob amid the crashing waves and driving rain. Felt just like Meryl Streep minus the dramatic cloak.

The end of the Cob, Lyme Regis, Dorset

Mirinda loves a good aquarium. It would be safe to say, she’s not that keen on the one at Lyme Regis. Think the fish tanks in a pet shop with a couple of cattle troughs for the bigger fish and you just about have it. The most exciting bit was when the guy fed the fish out of his hand. We missed it because of the herd of scouse children crowding around to watch. My advice is not to bother! It’s over priced as well.

Fish and chips were then devoured by the harbour as we watched the people wander round like extras in a costume drama. Most notable was the little boy who spent a lot of time in the harbour water in his clothes. He was about 2. His father is a rower in a big boat and basically ignored him in favour of the dog. This was nothing compared to the treatment his sister received. Or rather, didn’t.

We also indulged in some delicious ice cream (maple & walnut, mmmmmmm) before moving off to tackle the hill. Mirinda left me to wander around the fossil shop where I purchased a 370 million year old cuttlefish (Orthoceras) while she had a head start. I also had a quick squizz around St Michael the Archangel’s church. By the time I reached the car, Mirinda had been waiting for quite some time, having over-estimated the length of the hill by a goodly distance!

Back at the apartment, we settled in for the night, eventually watching the gender biased and lack of true depth Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Mind you, we did watch it all the way through. Good God, how could anyone over six possibly enjoy the book? Oh, of course, it’s incredibly easy…I forgot.

Watched Chelsea beat Aston Villa, then, happily, to bed.

Miserable Axminster street

Why, oh why, would anyone want to go to Axminster? It sounds like somewhere you need to visit. If for nothing else then for the carpets. Let me disappoint you. The place is pretty awful. It has one of the few churches that I’ve visited which appears to have nothing interesting about it. The high street is a mish-mash of ill conceived shops. There are two Tescos, for God’s sake!

The café near the TIC where we first stopped has a loony rush. There is no warning. The crazy woman comes in first, as a sort of demented warm-up act, and engages the waitress in meaningless drivel about the differences between 10 and 20 pence coins. Then the door flies open, as if from a hurricane, and standing, silhouetted in the doorway is a man who mumbles something incoherent to no-one in particular. He continues having this conversation as he wanders about the café, pausing momentarily to comment on the fact that someone seems to have left the magazine part of a Saturday newspaper behind.

“Has someone left their newspaper?” He enquires of the empty café.

OK, it was empty apart from us and the mad woman but we quickly left the questions unanswered and the crazies to themselves.

Originally we were headed for Sherborne but the A30 was closed. I mean, how the hell can they close a road? I think I asked this about a motorway once. I’m still not satisfied with an answer. Not even of any kind. We were almost there! Then we had to turn back and head towards Chard. I think we should have visited either Crewkerne or Chard rather than go for Axminster. I’m not going to talk any more about Axminster.

Next we had decided to visit Lyme Regis but lunch was hollering and Mirinda had heard about an excellent seafood restaurant at West Bay. She couldn’t remember from whom or where. She tried to find the reference in our guide book but it evaded her. The reference, not the guide book! Figuring West Bay to not be overly big, we guessed we’d find it. And we did.

West bay was actually the port built for Bridport except they couldn’t get it deep enough and so it’s basically a marina with lots of trailer park space and caravan lettings. And an EXCELLENT seafood restaurant. And we arrived just in time to watch the rain and wind lash the windows and drive the poor hapless tourists to find shelter.

Riverside Restaurant, Bridport

The scallops were lovely (I feel sorry for the woman at the next table who didn’t have them when she quite obviously should have) the skate wing, which I’ve never tried before, was delicious and I don’t think I really need to comment on the fig and pistachio frangipani tart with real vanilla ice cream. We also had a lovely bottle of wine from Saumur on the Loire, our Christmas destination.

Apart from the wonderful food, the service in this place is extraordinary. And the speed is mind boggling. I have never seen anyone work so fast. They were all quite quick.

Outside, the weather continued foul and didn’t let up just because we’d finished and were leaving. We felt very sorry for the bride who was about to arrive at St John’s church and for the wedding guest whose dress seemed to prefer being above her head. I mean, who would plan a wedding on such a day.

The day was still young and we were getting steadily older so we decided to investigate the shower cap situation in Bridport. Bridport seems like a rather nice place but the weather didn’t really give us much of a chance to inspect it beyond the chemist. Sadly, we never returned.

We spent the rest of the day in our apartment listening to the buffeting wind and ignoring the 30 foot crashing waves behind us.

Mirinda has, apparently, always written lists. It seems that when she dies she’ll not leave a diary but, rather, lots of half crossed out list items on any manner of writing material. Be it writing pads, envelopes, small pretty books from smelly shops, etc. I am also a victim of these everlasting lists. Naturally there are lists with my name on them. Fortunately old ones tend to get superseded by newer ones as some items are removed. Why am I writing this in our travel journal? Because each night there has been frantic list making and each day a litany of items are revealed in conversation. My life is becoming a list.

Another glorious day, anyway, apart from an icy wind which didn’t feel so bad when it stopped blowing. I went wandering off for another walk along the coast, this time taking in the Jurassic cliffs from the shingle beach. I had decided on round a trip but a landslide decided this was not to be. So I turned back and retraced my steps. Some of the rock formations were pretty amazing!

Rock formations on the Jurassic coastline near Burton Bradstock, Dorset

Regardless of what Mirinda thinks! I should mention that the rock slide happened a long time ago and not while I was standing there. Mirinda was a tad concerned when I said a rock slide had stopped my path.

We were on our way to Forde Abbey when a sudden urge to visit an ATM required an unscheduled stop in Beaminster. What a perfect little town. It has everything. A butcher, a fishmonger, a greengrocer, a pharmacy, two pubs, a very big church, and so much more. Most of all it doesn’t have any chains or superstores. I could really live in Beaminster.

The church (St Mary’s) is fantastic. It has the most amazing sculptures running up the sides of its tower.

Gargoyles on the tower of St Marys, Beaminster, Dorset

Rather than the usual piece of A4 folded three ways, they were selling a very big and comprehensive guide book. This proved very informative.

As we entered, a whole herd of little old ladies was preparing the flowers – getting rid of the old, replacing them with new blooms. We weaved our way between them, admiring the wonderful rood screen which turned out to be nowhere near as old as I’d hoped, and the two tombs of the Strodes one of whom fancied himself a bit of a Caesar by the looks of his statue.

We wandered around the inside then the outside then we wandered the back streets of Beaminster before returning to the car and continuing on to Forde Abbey. An excellent, if accidental, diversion.

Now, Forde Abbey has a bit of a chequered career. It started life as an Abbey 850 years ago. The early history is rather bizarre and starts with the establishment of the first Cistercian monastery in England which is just down the road from where we live (Waverley Abbey). Someone came from there and decided to build a daughter abbey somewhere else but then he died and when the crops failed for the millionth time, they all upped sticks and wandered over to Somerset where they bumped into this woman they all knew and she gave them the land where Forde Abbey was eventually built. Weird. And possibly a bit confusing.

Old chapter house, Forde Abbey

For the next four hundred years things went swimmingly at Forde Abbey but then came Henry VIII who dissolved it all, including the final abbot, Thomas Chard. The crown took over the Abbey and leased it out to Richard Pollard and it went pretty much to wrack and ruin. And then along came Prideaux.

Edmund Prideaux transformed the Abbey into the magnificent private residence that is now being privately lived in. Apart from stupidly inviting the Duke of Monmouth to tea one night and almost being executed as a traitor, he managed to live out his life at Forde Abbey. Then came the Gwyns.

By 1815 the last of the Gwyns (John Fraunceis) moved abroad and rented the place to Jeremy Bentham (a total eccentric in his own right!). When the last of the Gwyns died, the place was sold to a Bristol merchant who lived in five rooms and left the rest to rot. He eventually sold it to Mrs Bertram Evans in 1863 and she fixed the place up again.

Finally the Ropers came along in 1905 and they are still there, hidden upstairs while strangers roam the rooms and garden of this massive estate.

Whew.

We wandered through the rooms, marvelling at the marvellous and tutting at the few tuttable things. It’s generally quite a nice place and bares witness to its many changes over the centuries. It’s best feature, however, has to be the extensive gardens. They are truly glorious. Particularly the pleached beech hide overlooking the tranquil pond (the size of a lake) where swans floated, butts up.

Swans on the pond as seen from the hide

They also served one hell of a great lunch. Pheasant with apple gravy and fresh veg. Brilliant.

Mirinda decided to take an evening stroll tonight. She wandered down to Hive Beach then walked along the shingles until she reached the other end of the cliffs and suddenly realised the sun had gone down. So, in the almost pitch, she walked back along the crumbling cliff edge to where her husband was waiting for her. Crazy Mirinda!

As my eyes slowly opened I realised the whole world had turned into milk. I glanced at the still visible clock – it was 7:30am. I once more looked out into the milky world and went back to sleep.

Today we returned to Abbotsbury. A village we have discovered, with more tea shops than is really decent. Today we visited two. One for lunch and the other for dessert. Both of them were better than the one we didn’t have a roast in the other day.

Sadly the coffee shop at the Sub-Tropical Gardens was not open. This is a repeat of the Swannery behaviour and is surely the time of year rather than a lack of coffee and tea in Abbotsbury. Unless the multitude of tea shops have cornered the market. This is entirely possible. But, despite this, we ventured into the gardens anyway.

In the late 18th century, a big mansion was built for Elizabeth, Countess of Ilchester. It was her summer residence. Her main home was a tiring 22 miles away. The mansion was called Abbotsbury Castle and the walled garden at the Sub-tropical Gardens is all that survives. In her portrait she resembles a milk maid.

Monk's hood, sub-tropical garden, Abbotsbury, Dorset

From a very formal Victorian Garden, we followed the helpful white arrows around the massive place. Up a very steep hill there is a wonderful viewing point that scans the Jurassic Coastline in both directions. Chesil Beach is visible for it’s entire length. I could even make out the hotel viewpoint on Portland where I snapped the opposite photograph looking west a few years ago. The artillery sheep made it clear we were not exactly welcome. We left before they’d turned the cannon all the way round.

The whole garden is a pretty amazing place if you ignore the gunneras. And quite popular. There were lots of identical old people – always one with a stick – in beige anoraks walking very slowly.

Mirinda had fun feeding the carp and the duck. Somehow I think the duck knows when people pop 20p in the machine that it’s going to get some fish food. We also saw a Quercus nigra which wasn’t black.

Mirinda wanted to buy one of the sculptures in the Jubilee Sculpture Trail but we decided against it as it wouldn’t fit in the car.

Back in Abbotsbury we parked the car in one of the tiny non-car roads and wandered over to the teashop we didn’t go to the other day. What an excellent decision. Not a cranky person in sight and no-one was told off.

As I’ve already mentioned, Abbotsbury is a small village that looks like it just popped off the lid of a biscuit tin. It is idyllic. It is the sort of place you dream of living in until you visit a couple of times and realise it just simply heaves with tourists at all times of the week. The streets are narrow and choked with cars and the pedestrians out number the sheep. And there’s lots of sheep!

It’s understandable why there’s so many tea shops! The height of summer must be awful in Abbotsbury. Luckily for us, this is October and quite chilly. We wandered the streets admiring the olde worlde charm and making our way to the church.

Interior of St Peters Church, Abbotsbury, Dorset

St Nicholas’ church once stood beside the much larger St Peter’s that was attached to the Benedictine Abbey which is now just a bit of wall. It is all tower and low body. Quite odd from the outside but inside is all light. No need for a flash – very rare!

Two wonderful things spring immediately out at the visitor. The magnificent reredos inserted in 1751 and the plaster ceiling installed in 1638 showing three dimensional cherubs and angels. Two other things that don’t exactly jump out but are a reminder of the civil war, are the bullet holes in the back of the pulpit.

From the church we wandered down to the Abbey House Tea Shop for a cream tea in the sunny garden overlooking the very old tithe barn which hopefully we’ll see on the weekend. While there, I watched a poor old woman hobble down the steps on her two sticks. Some strange relative of hers was snapping photographs around the bottom garden but as she started to mount the steps back up, was mysteriously standing behind her, mumbling something about his photographs. As she tried to climb the first step she started saying how it was too steep for her and how she hadn’t realised going down. She asked him to stand really close to her as she went up in case she fell backwards.

None of this was particularly remarkable except that he never stopped talking about his photographs while she never stopped speaking about the steps. Neither of them heard anything either of them said. Most curious. Eventually the old woman made it to the top garden with much relief at the assistance her relative had given her…while standing a good ten feet away. As she continued into the tea room to pay, she continued discussing the size of the steps, though there was no-one there.

Back to the car and off up a very steep back lane on a quest to see the Grey Mare and her Colts. No, this isn’t a horse and her off spring. It’s a burial mound topped with a load of big stones. At some point in the distant past, the stones were somehow arranged in a significant way but the years have toppled them and so they lay in disarray.

Grey mare and her colts, Abbotsbury, Dorset

A little (read a long) way further down the path there is a stone circle. Mirinda wisely went back to the car to read while I traipsed off to see it. It wasn’t very big and nothing was sticking up out of the ground. Still, it was a stone circle.

The weather was lovely today and our fingers are crossed for another just like it tomorrow.

Maiden Castle is a fantastically huge iron age hillfort that overlooks the edge of Dorchester, commanding the countryside around it. It must have been incredibly impressive just before the Romans came along. Poundsbury is a new eco-town on the edge of Dorchester, described as Prince Charles’ model village. We visited both today.

Before the days tourism truly began, I took off on a walk along the cliffs, hoping to reach West Bay but only managing to get to the trailer park in the inlet. These people are sleeping below sea level with only a wall of shingle to protect them. Are they insane? Possibly.

Group of students head for the cliffs along part of the Jurassic Coast, Dorset

I saw a group of geologists, happily donning hardhats to protect them from the massive boulders and cliff edges that were likely to squash them should they fall. Isn’t it amazing how these little pieces of reinforced plastic can protect us from nature.

Parked at Maiden Castle, looking out at the rain spattered countryside we decided to return to Dorchester and maybe check out the eateries in Poundsbury. I should stress that these eateries are proclaimed in the guide book we have. We only found one, which was full. We also found a corner shop called The Corner Shop but it hadn’t actually opened for business yet. We found a fair few real estate agents.

Poundsbury is an interesting concept. It’s very much like the garden cities of the 1930s but with a wider mix of styles. 20 architects worked on the building designs and it shows. Though it all looks vaguely Georgian and a few of the bending crescents do remind one of Bath to some extent. A lack of trees means it all looks a bit movie set-ish and sterile. I didn’t mind it, Mirinda not so keen.

We had to once again go to Dorchester for a meal. We went to an old almshouse which now serves cheap food to unsuspecting tourists. The beer wasn’t very good. I managed to buy a decent coffee at Starbucks across the road, though, so all was not lost.

Eventually, we returned to Maiden Castle and the sun decided to join us. What an absolutely amazing place. Mirinda actually walked the perimeter which is quite a long way. The only reference to the size of the castle I can find online is that it is the size of 50 football pitches. This is pretty useless. I’d prefer acreage. Anyway, it’s a long way round.

Part of Maiden Castle, Dorset

Along the side that faces Dorchester, there’s a public footpath which goes straight across one of the ditches. There’s (obviously) steps either side. That’s what the photo is of.

Naturally I scrambled all over the place, from the western to the eastern end and around to the Roman Temple site. There were lots of dog walkers and sheep. Nice to see the place is well used.

It’s very easy to imagine the place thriving with life and industry pre-Roman conquest. It’s also easy to imagine the former rulers sitting in their Roman town houses in Dorchester looking across the A35 and chortling about the high winds and awful weather. The place doesn’t have the homely feel of a town!

The children on Supernanny can’t possibly be real. Who the hell brings up children to act up on television on command? Sickos. Just smack them!!! And WHY the hell can’t Supernanny speak properly? ‘Thing’ NOT ‘fink’! God!