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Dorset Duck Pond Revisited
Frampton, England

As my taxi passed through the leafy, green tunnel of beech trees on the A36 just before Frampton, I started to wonder which of Peggy and Maureen’s seven pretty bedrooms I would occupy this time. This would be my seventh visit to the Court guest house. So far I had experienced pleasant dreams in four of the seven attractively furnished bedrooms. The last two times I had been very comfortable in the little yellow and white single on the West side of the house overlooking the heather garden and the raspberry patch, but my favorite is a twin with pink and white Laura Ashley wallpaper on the other side of the house overlooking the duck pond.

I knew I could only have that one if Peggy and Maureen didn’t already a couple occupying it, and that wasn’t likely because their lovely country house is usually fully booked far in advance. The word is out about their delicious cordon bleu cooking and their lavish use of their own dairy products and their home grown vegetables. The relaxed atmosphere in this lovely home set in sixty acres of gardens and beautiful woodland beside the Frome River is so appealing I dream of it all year long in smoggy LA, I can’t wait to return. It’s just like coming to visit old friends who just happen to live in paradise.

After a warm welcome from Peg and Maureen I learned I would be in the little yellow and white room as I suspected. That’s the only trouble I’ve discovered with traveling on my own. I love the freedom but usually the single rooms aren’t quite as nice as the doubles and twins. Never mind. My room was still very pleasant by any standards.

There’s a special magic at the Court. All of the places in Dorset – the small hotels, the little inns, the guest houses and B&Bs – have a touch of this magic. But at the Court it’s especially potent. It’s as if only charming and gracious guests are allowed. There was a sweet little lady who told me the name of every bird who settled on or near the pond, the German gentleman who was so proud of Boris Becker as we excitedly watched Wimbledon on the TV in the lounge. And the couple from London who insisted on driving me to my next stop – they said it was right on their way, but it really wasn’t. Then there was the gentleman who worked for the Forestry Commission who good-naturedly defended the Commission’s decision to plant multitudes of conifers. He was at a disadvantage. All of the other guests didn’t see why there couldn’t be more variety. The conversation in the dinning room is always pleasant and relaxed and even though we have separate tables there is always plenty of back and forth repartee.

New ducklings

After settling in my snug little room I started my annual tour of the grounds to check on how things had progressed since last year. Robert, Peggy’s husband, says he wants his guests to feel right at home and feel free to wander. I take him at his word and wander around as if I’d just returned home after a long time abroad. First I head for the pond to check out geese mallards, moorhens and various other water fowl. I note the new goslings and ducklings. I count the bantam hens in the nearby hen house to see how many had survived the winter. This year I noted that the gorgeous peacock was missing and was saddened to learn that a roving fox was the culprit. The peahen was still there, looking rather lonely. I was sadder still to see a new little headstone in the pet graveyard at the rear of the property in back of the blazing rhododendrons. My old friend Tessa, the golden retriever had taken her place among the twenty or so other cherished pets in this tiny little cemetery. Some of the headstones date back to the early 1800s. I remembered she had seemed to be feeling her age last year.

I noted that the roses were quite early this year. Maureen said it was because of an unusually warm spell in early spring. Now it was the first of June and temperatures were back in the 50s and 60s. It seemed delightfully cool to me after leaving 90 degree temperatures in the San Fernando Valley. I noticed that Robert had built a new bridge out to the island in the pond for the convenience of the seventeen different kinds of water fowl that inhabit the pond. I sat for a while and watched the little bird community going about its business. Then it was time to stroll down the lane to the balustraded bridge over the Frome River and on to the Peacock Lodge on the other side.

This is one of the nicest lanes in Dorset – even when it rains as it did as I continued my inspection tour. It travels past what remains of the Georgian Manor that once belonged to Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Jr., grandson of the dramatist. When the main part of the manor was pulled down in 1934 many of its architectural features were saved and a short while later, incorporated in the lovely three story brick house that Peggy and Maureen now call the Court. It’s fun to think that the staircase that I climb each time that I go to my room could once have been climbed by such literary figures as Thackeray, Mary Shelly, William Barnes or Thomas Hardy as they visited members of the Sheridan family.

I remember historian Alan Chedzoy’s story about the slightly notorious sister of Richard Brinsley (junior), Mrs. Caroline Norton, who had induced Lord Melbourne, when he was Prime Minister to visit at Frampton Court. Chedzoy tells many more tales of fine carriages, splendid livery, and dinner parties and visits by leading politicians of the Whig establishments such as Lord Holland and Lord Lansdowne. Before the Sheridans, the Frampton estate had been the home of the Browne family who had bought it during the reign of Elizabeth I.

One wing of the original Frampton Court still stands and as I passed by I could see that its conversion to several individual luxury flats was nearly complete. One of my first visits to Frampton had been during the time the estate was up for auction. Peggy and Maureen took me along when they went to inspect the interior and the estate agent took us over the entire property. I had plenty of opportunity to imagine what it must have been like to live there long ago in more romantic times. Now it was to be a group of what we in California call condominiums. Probably very nice but not nearly as grand as in Sheridan’s day.

Mother with new colt

I have developed a definite proprietary feeling about this part of Dorset. At home in Northridge I can shut my eyes and visualize every foot of the half mile or so walk from the Court guest house to the Bridge. I’m sure the Golden Labrador that came to greet me as I passed by his farm is the same one I’ve seen there for the past three years. He seemed to say welcome back, how have you been? There was a young chestnut filly standing by the fence near the bridge hoping for a carrot treat. I think it was the same one I saw standing by her mother last year when she was just a few days old. I saw her mother on the other side of the field with a new foal at her side. Maybe I would be lucky enough to see how it turned out next year. I like the feeling of continuity that my walks in the countryside bring. It’s nice to know that no matter how hectic life gets at home in LA I can always dream of this tranquil land where life seems so peaceful.

I finished my inspection tour just in time to change for dinner and came down to the dining room to enjoy a splendid English roast beef with horseradish sauce and Yorkshire Pudding. Conversation that night was mostly about music since two of the guests, a husband and wife, were members of one of the large London orchestras.

The next day was Thursday, the day the Pearce Darch & Wilcox Comfy Lux bus comes through on its way to from Dorchester to Sherborne. I always make sure my stay in Frampton includes a Thursday because I have traveled this route several times and know it well. It passes through Maiden Newton, Cattistock, Evershot, Leigh, Chetnole and Stockbridge as well as some of the prettiest countryside in Dorset. But it’s not just the lovely scenery that makes this ride so enjoyable. It’s the other passengers and the drivers. Country buses like the Comfy Lux that exist for the convenience of the villagers are national treasures that haven’t been discovered by most tourists. Most of the riders know each other and use their journeys to catch up on village gossip. The bus operator is an amiable friend as well as driver. He helps elderly passengers board with all their bundles and often gets out to assist young mothers with their children and push-chairs. He waves to villagers who aren’t taking the bus that day and will wait while a tardy rider closes his garden gate and says good-bye to his dog. There’s a warm and friendly community spirit aboard these buses that I wouldn’t trade for the most elegant chauffeur driven limousine.

Comfy Lux bus

At 9:17 the next morning I was waiting by the Southover bridge when the bus pulled up. This morning it was Peter behind the wheel. His grin let me know that he remembered me from many previous rides. I hopped on and we were off to travel through beautiful fields and meadows without passing another vehicle, we went gliding down peaceful lanes with cows grazing by the roadside. Every so often we stopped in a village to pick up a new passenger. This was always a cause for a round of friendly greetings from those already aboard.

The journey to Sherborne took until 10:45 – longer than it would have taken in a private car – but it was much more fun. In Sherborne I had plenty of time to check out all of the smart shops along Cheap Street before stopping for lunch at The Three Wishes. I bought several new books about Dorset at the Abbey bookshop, and at the Sporting Classics Shop I bought a pair of those wonderful moleskin trousers that are so hard to find in California and was back in the Culverhayes parking lot at 12:40 where I joined Peter and the morning’s commuters for the return trip. By 2:30 I was back in Frampton settled in a comfortable lawn chair by the pond.

I was finally making some progress reading Lawrence of Arabia in Dorset when four other guests returned from a day of shopping in the town of Street in Somerset. The group consisted of a headmaster at a primary school, his wife and two other ladies. The headmaster was getting along very well considering that one man and three women isn’t always an ideal traveling party. He was proud of his two new pairs of Clark’s shoes. But I noticed his companions had purchased three pairs each! They told me all about the Quaker family, the Clarks, whose skill in making and selling shoes is responsible for changing a small village in neighboring Somerset into a sizable town. It was 1829 when Cyrus and James Clark started to produce sheepskin rugs and slippers. This venture was so successful it ensured the family’s fortune and the well being of many employees who have prospered from the factory, one of many that stands in the town of Street today.

The next day was Friday. There were showers off and on all morning but, since walking in the Dorset countryside is what I dream of all year as I sit at my desk at Cal State Northridge, I decided to walk to Sydling St. Nicholas. Even though I love walking I don’t have much aptitude for walking uphill. The stretch between Frampton and Sydling is ideal for my purpose because except for one rather steep hill that runs along Frampton’s Church of St. Mary and crosses over he A37, the route follows the Sydling Water over beautiful level grassland that would delight the most languid rambler.

Red farm house

After struggling to the top of that first steep hill I was rewarded with the spectacular sight of a rainbow arching over one of the prettiest farmhouses I’ve ever seen. It was red with white trim and has a white conservatory attached to its side. It stands in the hollow of the little valley just below the A37. As I pulled out my Minolta it started to rain, but this time I was undaunted by raindrops because I was prepared! Some might say a tad over prepared. My rambling outfit included not only jeans, a sweater, waterproof jacket and hood, gloves, and stout walking boots that laced up over my ankles – my husband said they looked like combat boots – and for the first time ever, I was wearing rain trousers! The unpredictable English weather had caught me unprepared for the last time. I felt rather smug as I sheltered my camera and focused on the pretty red farm house.

Twenty minutes later I wasn’t feeling so smug. The sun was out and I was roasting inside my hermetically sealed rain gear. The jacket was easy to remove but the trousers presented a problem. I foolishly pushed them down to my ankles intending to step out gracefully. But I forgot about the combat boots. I managed to pulling the right leg off over the boot but no mater how I tried I couldn’t get the other leg to follow. I was hoping around on one foot muttering a few choice words when a group of six obviously experienced hikers walked by. I hadn’t passed a soul all morning and now I had an audience to watch me bouncing around like a lunatic. I finally had to sit down by the side of the road, unlace the offending boot, remove it and the rain trousers. Of course, the laces weren’t cooperating because they were very wet and had managed to get knotty. Finally I was free, but had only a few minutes to enjoy the sunshine before it started raining again, harder than before. No way was I going to put those trousers back on!

Fortunately by this time I was near Sydling’s Greyhound Inn so I made a dash for it. I managed to enjoy my Stilton ploughman’s and my half pint of lager even though the six hikers who had passed me hoping around down the lane were sitting at the next table. I tried to be nonchalant and act like a veteran rambler, but I doubt if I pulled it off.

Cottages by Sydling Water

The weather was much more agreeable when I left the Greyhound and I had a very satisfying time exploring Sydling. The tiny connecting bridges to Sydling’s ancient cottages which line the banks of the Sydling Water reminded me of the bridges Robert had made for the inhabitants of the pond back at the Court. But the citizens of this village weren’t making nearly as much noise as their counterparts at the pond. It was the village’s charm and not my demonstration of how much Californians have to learn about the use of rain gear that I made the topic of my conversation at Peggy and Maureen’s dinner table that night.