Childhood Memories of Dorset

It was a warm night in July and we were so excited we could hardly contain ourselves – my sister, brother and myself, to be exact.  We were going on holiday to see my grandparents and we were travelling through the night on a train.  We did this every year.  Mum was returning to her family roots and sat deep in thought on the bench, luggage beside her. She had been raised in a sleepy village in Dorset, a county that was gentle and welcoming, a land of contrasts from the gentle rolling hills to the deep blue sea of the coast.  Dad stood at the edge of the platform talking to the engine drivers whom he knew from his place of work – the local British Rail workshops where he was a Toolmaker.  Flames flew out of the boiler into the dark night and I feared for his life as he stood there deep in conversation, safe of course, but to a child the unknown is unnerving.

   Mum’s family was a loving one.  My grandfather was a gentle, hardworking man, with a twinkle in his eye and a ready smile.  Grandma was the best homemaker in the world.  She made jam and bottled fruit from the garden, sewed with care on the old treadle sewing machine, created wondrous meals and pastry that melted in the mouth and her main role in life was to take care of ‘Our Dad’.  We looked forward to rushing into her welcoming arms as we got out of the taxi.

    12 Australia Road was a wonderful place.  It always seemed to be pleasantly warm.

                ‘Get the cardigans off those children, Freda.  They always seem to be wearing them.’

Grandma couldn’t understand why we wore cardigans but we were from the cold  North East and we were comfortable in them.

  The street was called ‘Australia Road’ because it was opposite an Army Camp that was built during the First World War to house the Australian and New Zealand troops that were injured in Gallipoli, The Somme and other battles.  As we grew older, we would rush up the road to watch the Cadets marching on the Parade Ground.

This is a view of the Army Camp in the distance but it is not the view from my grandparents’ house.  It is taken from the field bordering Hive Beach.

  There was a black shed in the front garden, framed with pretty pink climbing roses that smelled divine and accentuated its blackness and there were banks of beautiful orange calendula covering most of the front garden..  The shed was an Aladdin’s Cave to us and we liked nothing better than to spend time inside in the warm darkness, with the smell of chicken meal wafting into our nostrils and the exciting array of ‘treasures’ that Granddad stored there.  We didn’t need any expensive toys.  Everything we required was there in that shed. There was just enough light in there to make out its contents.  We savoured its secretive nature and drank in the musky smells.  We were safe and warm and stayed there until we heard Mum calling us for our lunch.


  The kitchen was quite large.  The entrance from the front garden was the main one.  It had a substantial wooden table and a dresser that held Grandma’s pretty plates and dishes.  There was a huge picture of a ship on a stormy sea on the wall above the table and the bathroom led off the kitchen.  One large cupboard near to the front door held more chicken food and a huge bucket.  Granddad put almost all leftovers into the chicken feed.  We watched with fascination as he made the ‘fowls’ food’, stirring it until it was completely mixed.  The cupboard next to that one was the pantry and this held, amongst the usual food items, bottles of Corona – fizzy drinks in various flavours that Grandma always bought for us during our holiday.  I loved the cider apple one best.

  It was an idyllic place.  The view from the sitting room window or from the huge garden was amazing.  There it was – the best view in the world.  We sat on the warm back doorstep.  The water of the Fleet Lagoon sparkled and the Chesil Beach provided a contrast in colour, sandwiched between the deep, rough waters of the English Channel and the calm lagoon.  We marvelled at the tiny red ants that scuttled along the steps and we smiled at the slow, contented clucks of the hens in the henhouse. 

  On most days, the sea sparkled in the sunshine but on the rare occasion that the weather was poor, the waves lashed onto the Chesil Beach and the sea looked grey and dismal.  Thankfully, this was not a common sight.

High waves on the English Channel bordering the Chesil Beach at West Bexington.

 

                                            A fisherman taking no notice of the high waves!

   
   

 What more could a child ask at breakfast time?  We went to the henhouse, opened the little door and checked the nesting boxes.  There was always a warm egg in the straw for each of us and we lifted them out carefully and carried them ceremoniously to the kitchen where Grandma put them into a pan of water to boil for our breakfast.  They were delicious.  Grandma cut the tops off the eggs and we dipped soldiers of buttered bread into the warm yolks.  We always finished by eating the white that lay waiting in the top that she had sliced off.

  The house was comfortable and welcoming with views down the extensive garden and beyond, to campsites and rolling fields.   Sometimes Dad and I walked up to the fields to look for mushrooms which we brought home for breakfast.  They were always snow white with pink gills and very fresh as they were taken straight from the earth.  I loved them and still do.   As we walked, beautiful small butterflies flew past and the fields were like carpets of wild flowers.  I have never seen any blue butterflies in the North East like this.  We spent hours in the garden catching grasshoppers for Granddad. He gave us a penny for each one that we caught.  Then he let them go so I suppose the task was to keep us quiet and focused.   Even as a small child I loved the sea view.  To the left  of our view and in the distance was the island of Portland, creeping out into the Channel and if the sea was a bit rough, there would be ‘white horses’ of spray on the water.  The Fleet was always still.  It seemed to have no tide, just tranquil water that teemed with wildlife of all kinds, from fish that made the water ripple as they came to the surface for a fly or two, to crabs that scuttled on its soft bed.

There was a tide, of course.  This photo was taken in the morning when the tide was in.  In the distance you can see Portland.

This view is similar to the one from my grandparents’ house but theirs was better as they could also see Portland island.  To the right is the firing range of the army camp.  If the red flag was up, you couldn’t go onto the beach at this point.

  I spent long days in the garden. Granddad was a strong man and his garden was enormous.  It was set with every vegetable we could think of.  There were deep orange carrots peeping out of the soil, their feathery fronds as fine as pale green lace.  Runner beans climbed up canes, with lots of fiery red flowers delicately poised on the thick leaves and there were lots of firm white cauliflowers in their strong green beds of leaves.  Cucumbers trailed along the soil and lettuces of several varieties looked crisp and clean.  Even tomatoes grew outside.  There was no need for a greenhouse in the warm Dorset sunshine.  My favourites were the soft fruits.  When we arrived, we rushed into the garden and savoured the taste of raspberries, blackcurrants and huge sweet gooseberries. Granddad’s gooseberries were not the sour ones that we were used to at home but large, luscious fruit that was soft and sweet.  We were given licence to eat as many as we wanted, as long as we didn’t step onto his marrows which were his pride and joy. 

This is an old black and white photo of Grandad’s garden.  He used to do the garden next door as well for two old ladies that lived in the house adjoining his.  You can see the henhouse halfway down the garden.  He grew all of these vegetables until he was in his early eighties.

  There was an Anderson Air Raid Shelter in the garden.  It was stuffed with straw that Granddad put in the henhouse. My uncle said that he saw many a dog fight over the Channel so it was used a lot by the family during the 2^nd World War.  My grandparents had an evacuee from London who stayed with them during the War and he regularly visited them after the end of hostilities.  The shelter fascinated me.  It was sunk into the garden and covered with turf to keep it safe from enemy eyes.   Uncle Bill said that he saw planes shot down over the water, catch on fire and whizz down to earth, their engines droning in panic.  He stayed in bed during the raids rather than go into the shelter. 

  Granddad would shout ‘Quick, the invasion’s coming.  Lots of planes are over the sea’ but he took no notice and turned over in his bed.  On the day prior to D Day, plane after plane was seen flying across the Channel in a never-ending stream.

  The other thing that that fascinated but terrified me at the same time was the fox.  I sometimes heard my grandparents talking about a visit by the fox the evening before and this scared me.   The hen house had a number of hens but they were secure so I never heard if any of them had fallen foul of Reynard’s clutches.    

  Our favourite part of the holiday was when Mum and my two Aunties, Kath and Hazel, took us to Hive Beach.  For years, I thought this was called ‘Oive Beach’ until I realised that the Dorset accent had changed the sound!  It was a short walk to the shore along a country lane that bordered the Army Camp. High hedges, interspersed with one or two houses, lined the road and a ditch held several horrors for us – deadly nightshade and bright orange snake berries.  We walked in the sunshine with a bag of jam sandwiches and a bottle of Corona.  Soon we reached the white coastguard cottages and opposite them, the five-bar gate led us onto the path to the shore.  Fields of barley and wheat bordered the path on either side and the ears of corn wavered in the breeze.  To the left, we could see Tidmoor Cove in the distance.  Then before we knew it, we were there.  The jetty invited us to walk along to the end and peer into the water.   We lay down on the warm boards  and swished our hands in the water.  It always felt so good to feel the water on my skin.   No doubt we scared the crabs that we saw scuttling along the sandy bed and I loved the feel of the boards that made up the jetty as I walked along its length, almost bouncing as my feet hit the wood.  Here and there, planks were loose which brought me back to reality.

  Several lerrits, or flat-bottomed boats suitable for use on the Fleet Lagoon, were moored in the shallow water.  We spent many happy hours playing in them.   We would pretend that we were sailing to foreign lands and trailed our hands in the water that was always quite warm.  There was lots of seaweed at the water’s edge and we loved the feel of it on our bare feet.  Swans love the eel grass that grows in this area.   At the end of the jetty, a double row of poles stretched out across the lagoon towards the Chesil Beach.  Boats rowed across through these poles as they provided a safe passage.  I always longed to go in a boat to the beach but never did.  It was an unknown land that fascinated me.

 Lerrits at Hive Beach 

This is the jetty that fascinated us so much during our childhood.  Some of its planks are missing now and the poles that guided the boats across have been taken down.    Barnes Wallis tested his bouncing bomb on the Chesil Beach using a Wellington Bomber.   This was used to bomb a dam in the Ruhr in Germany in the 2^nd World War.



  We played for hours at Hive Beach and because we were occupied, my mother and aunties could have a rest and a good gossip.  It didn’t cost my Mum anything and it was safe because usually, we were the  only people there.  We didn’t go into Weymouth to the sands apart from once.  Dad was left on the beach to look after us whilst Mum and Grandma went shopping in the town.  This was the first and only time because my brother got lost and we had to go to the ‘Lost Children’ hut to retrieve him!  Dad wouldn’t have been ‘flavour of the month’ that day.

Watch this space for ‘Moonfleet’   

                      

Dorset - A Best Kept Secret

                                              

I’ve considered setting up a blog for some time now but it wasn’t until I attended a ReadToWrite conference on e-publishing recently that I was encouraged to do it. Writers Wendy Robertson, Avril Joy and Gillian Wales ran the conference.  They have taught me so much and have supported and encouraged me over the past few years.  Without their inspiration, I would not have reached the current point in my writing.  Wendy suggested that I create a blog and here I am.

I wanted to think of a name for my blog and then I remembered a poem by Rumi  (Jalaluddin Rumi – 1207 – 1273) in a volume called ‘Rumi: We Are Three’  translated by Coleman Barks.

My love wanders the rooms, melodious

flute-notes, plucked wires,

full of a wine the Magi drank

on the way to Bethlehem.

We are three.  The moon comes

from its quiet corner, puts a pitcher of water

down in the centre.  The circle

of surface flames.

One of us kneels to kiss the threshold.

One drinks, with wine-flames playing over his face.

One watches the gathering,

                                   and says to any cold onlookers,

                  This dance is the joy of existence.

I knew then that the name of my blog had to be ‘Dancing through Life’ which is the way I feel about the writing process.  It is pure joy most of the time.

I am an aspiring writer and I am currently working on a novel that I hope to finish very soon.  The novel was inspired by my love for South West Dorset.  My mother was born in this region and I have visited this beautiful county almost every year since I was born.  If you don’t know Dorset, it’s because it is a best-kept secret. Devon and Cornwall are always lauded as being the counties to visit but Somerset and Dorset are often overlooked by tourists in their rush to reach Devon or Cornwall.   Dorset has beautiful rolling hills and dramatic seascapes, lovely little villages and interesting harbours.   The Jurassic Coast has the same protection as The Grand Canyon so you can see that this part of Dorset is very special.   It is a UNESCO designated World Heritage Site.

I think this view is stunning but I am biased.



It shows the view along the Chesil Beach from the island of Portland.  Weymouth, together with Portland, is the sailing venue for the 2012 Olympics.

The Chesil Beach is famous.  It is 18 miles long and it is said to contain approximately 180 billion pebbles.  It stretches north-west from Portland to West Bay and there are treacherous currents and a strong undertow in the English Channel that borders the Chesil Beach.  There have been many shipwrecks in this area and there are communal graves in local churchyards for those who have perished on the sea. For much of its length, the Chesil Beach is separated from the mainland by the Fleet Lagoon which is a shallow area of saline water.  The beaches and the lagoon are important wildlife areas.

The pebbles on the Chesil Beach change in size along its length, starting off quite large in Portland and ending up at West Bay as small shingle.  It is said that smugglers landing their cargoes of contraband on the Chesil Beach knew where to find their booty, once stowed, because of the size of the pebbles.

This is a view of West Bay where the Chesil Beach ends.

Ian McEwan wrote a novel ‘On Chesil Beach’ which is set on the Dorset coast in the year 1962.  Edward and Florence arrive at a Dorset hotel after their wedding.  At dinner, in their room, they try to suppress their fears of the wedding night to come.  Their lives are transformed by the fact that they can’t talk about their problems.

Dorset has produced some famous authors.  The most significant one is Thomas Hardy whose rich language and brilliant stories lend themselves to dramatisation. His novels have been made into films and dramas, for example: ‘Far From The Madding Crowd’, ‘The Mayor of Casterbridge’ and one of his most famous novels ‘Tess of the D’Urbervilles’.  This is one of my favourite Hardy novels, together with ‘The Return of the Native’.  Hardy’s writing was brilliant but quite pessimistic and he believed strongly in Fate and that some of his main characters were born under a blighted star.  He was also a prolific poet, writing around 1,000 poems in his lifetime.  When I read that Sir Julian Fellowes had written a drama about the Titanic, which sank 100 years ago in 1912,  it made me think of Thomas Hardy’s poem:

‘The Convergence of the Twain’

(Lines on the loss of the “Titanic”)

I

In a solitude of the sea

Deep from human vanity,

And the Pride of Life that planned her, stilly couches she.

II

Steel chambers, late the pyres

Of her salamandrine fires,

Cold currents thrid, and turn to rhythmic tidal lyres.

III

Over the mirrors meant

To glass the opulent

The sea-worm crawls – grotesque, slimed, dumb, indifferent.

IV

Jewels in joy designed

To ravish the sensuous mind

Lie lightless, all their sparkles bleared and black and blind.

V

Dim moon-eyed fishes near

Gaze at the gilded gear

And query: ‘What does this vaingloriousness down here?’

VI

Well: while was fashioning

This creature of cleaving wing,

The Imminent Will that stirs and urges everything

VII

Prepared a sinister mate

For her – so gaily great –

A Shape of Ice, for the time far and dissociate.

VIII

And as the smart ship grew

In stature, grace, and hue,

In shadowy silent distance grew the Iceberg too.

IX

Alien they seemed to be:

No mortal eye could see

The intimate welding of their later history,

X

Or sign that they were bent

By paths coincident

On being anon twin halves of one august event.

XI

Till the Spinner of the Years

Said ‘Now!’  And each one hears,

And consummation comes, and jars two hemispheres.

                                                    Thomas Hardy

Hardy was an architect and he was born in a little cottage in a hamlet called Higher Bockhampton, in the parish of Stinsford,  not far from Dorchester.  This cottage is owned by the National Trust but it can only be viewed by appointment as a tenant lives in it.

The cottage where Thomas Hardy was born.

He met his first wife, Emma Lavinia Gifford in Cornwall and in 1874 they were married.  Later they drifted apart and when she died he was so traumatised with grief and guilt that he channelled this by writing love poetry to Emma. In time, he married his secretary who was 39 years younger.    When he died, his ashes were buried in Poets’ Corner but his heart was buried, with Emma, in Stinsford churchyard.  Near to his grave, the poet Cecil Day Lewis, father of the actor Daniel Day Lewis, is buried, such is the admiration that poets and writers had for Thomas Hardy.  Many young writers, such as Virginia Woolf and D H Lawrence admired him and Robert Graves , in his autobiography ‘Goodbye To All That’, mentions meeting him in the 1920s.  Hardy moved to Max Gate, near Dorchester and this is where he died.  Max Gate is also a National Trust property.

Two other writers of note that lived in Dorset were William Barnes, a dialect poet and T E Lawrence, better known as Lawrence of Arabia, who wrote ‘The Seven Pillars of Wisdom’ and who lived at a place called ‘Clouds Hill’  near Wareham.  He was killed on a motorbike very near to his home.  My father told me a story about when he was a young airman and had been told to work in the military hospital, keeping the floors of the wards clean.  The matron told him off and T E Lawrence, who was a patient at the time, told him to ignore her (in stronger language, man to man.)  My father had a signed copy of ‘The Seven Pillars of Wisdom’ but someone borrowed it and didn’t give it back.

What a shame.  I can remember seeing this book on a bookshelf at home when I was a child.

So my first blog post ends now.  Next time, I will talk about ‘Moonfleet’ by John Meade Falkner, who set his children’s novel in this area.  See you soon.