World Travel Guide Online

A Dorset Idyll
Sturminster Newton, England

Stourcastle Lodge

The color print of Stourcastle Lodge had been taped to my out basket on my desk at Cal State, University Northridge since last July. I looked at it every time things got a bit hectic in the office and it never failed to offer a promise of peace and tranquility. I took the shot in Sturminster Newton in June of last year standing on Bridge Street looking down Gough’s Close. The pretty black and white Georgian cottage caught my eye as I was passing and it seemed easier just to snap a picture then to get out my pen and notebook to record to record it’s name and location.

I had fallen love with the little market town of Sturminster Newton in England’s County of Dorset and regretted that I had only one day to spare investigating. I decided to look for a place where I could stay for a week’s visit when I returned the following spring for my seventh visit to Dorset.

After taking the picture I turned down Gough’s Close to have a closer look and was pleased with what I saw. Something comes over me when I’m in Dorset – I do things I would never do at home in LA. I peek in windows, look over garden walls and through doorways – my curiosity gets the better of me. This time I peeked in the window and saw a beautifully equipped kitchen that could only belong to an expert cook. It looked cozy as well as efficient, with a beamed ceiling and lots of copper and brass. There was an oversized electric mixer probably used for making bread and a beautiful antique scale balanced artfully near the window looked as if it was still getting regular use. A weeping willow and a golden laburnum graced the neatly kept garden and bright orange nasturtiums trailed from baskets on each side of the door.

A large black cat was sunning himself on the lawn; he seemed to know he matched the black trim of the white lodge. I often rely on favorite bed and breakfast guide books when planning my English holidays but this time I had found the ideal guest house on my own.

Fiddleford Mill, a short walk from Stur

I hadn’t been back in the San Fernando Valley for two weeks before I began to long for the cool, green, tranquil Dorset countryside. No wonder – we were experiencing 110 degree temperatures in Northridge. I taped the enticing print of Stourcastle Lodge to my out basket just to remind myself that such an agreeable place really did exist. The question was: how could I survive for nearly a year until time to return?

The long hot summer finally came to an end and while the rest of Northridge was looking forward to Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas, I was just marking time waiting for these holidays to pass so I could start planning for the really important event in my life – my return to Dorset! I made myself wait until the middle of January before addressing my letter to Stourcastle Lodge Guest House, Gough’s Close, Sturminster Newton, Dorset, England. I didn’t know the proprietor’s name or zip code but felt sure my note would reach its destination.

I received my reply from Ken and Jill Hookham-Bassett the first week in February. The tariff, £16 per person bed and breakfast en suite (this was in 1989) seemed very reasonable and I had no quarrel with the £6 extra for single occupancy. (My husband, foolish man, still prefers Hawaii so we’ve agreed to take separate vacations.) Dinners would be £8. Actually I felt rather smug because I thought I had found a real bargain. By staying in Sturminster Newton, or Stur as the natives call it, I would have the best of both worlds: the charm and appeal of quiet English village and the convenience and comfort of a town with all the traveler’s necessities nearby. Stur has banks, restaurants, tea rooms, chemists, and that vital establishment travelers always look for but seldom find – a Laundromat! I could have even indulged in a toothache because there was a dentist’s office just down the lane from the Lodge. There was a photographers shop were I could leave my film plus a post office and a library. There was even a smart dress shop where I remember seeing a pretty dress in a Liberty print I really should have purchased. Best of all for travelers on their own, there were many buses coming and going throughout the day.

Except for market day each Monday, the streets, a fascinating blend of medieval gables and coaching inns and pretty Georgian cottages, are quiet, and visitors feel they have discovered a remarkably attractive village rather a busy, bustling town. Once I had sent off my deposit I started counting the days until my departure early in June.

I like to boast that there isn’t any place in Dorset I can’t get to on my own using public transportation. My favorite mode is the little country bus that exists for the convenience of the villagers – but sometimes I cheat. I have two very good friends, Joyce and Hugh who live in Corfe Mullen just outside Wimborne Minster. Sometimes they pick me up at one B&B and deliver me to the next. Joyce worked at Gulliver’s Bookshop in Wimborne Minster. For months we corresponded in a business-like manner about Dorset books I was ordering from the shop. One day Joyce slipped in a personal note indicating she was as interested in Los Angeles as I was in Dorset. I responded with facts of interest about LA and we continued our correspondence on a more personal level. We have been fast friends ever since. Our correspondence reminded both of us of the book: “84 Charing Cross Road” only fortunately for us, unlike Helene Hanff and her bookshop friend, we managed to meet. Joyce has even visited me in Northridge for three weeks. It was Joyce and Hugh who delivered me to Stourcastle Lodge when June finally arrived.

Along the way we had a lovely adventure that came about because of my carelessness in reading an open to view garden schedule. I was sure that the day for Bloxworth was that Sunday. Mary Kempe, from my B&B in Osmington, had told me that it was one of the prettiest houses in Dorset. Hugh had a little trouble finding Bloxworth on the Ordnance Survey map. Seems it’s one of those spots that’s right on the edge so you have to juggle No. 195 and No.194 at the same time. After I promised that next time I would find something of interest right in the middle of the map, we proceeded west along the A35 past Lytchett Minster to the turn off on the lane leading to the village.

We should have suspected something when we drove through the gate and right up the drive to the manor house without seeing another car. A pretty young woman was sitting on the lawn playing with three children. One of them, a bright young blond fellow of about eight came up to the car window and very politely asked if he could be of service. We explained we were looking for the open gardens. He seemed puzzled and was joined by the young woman who very graciously asked if she could help. We explained our mission.

“Oh dear, someone has given you the wrong information, the gardens won’t be open until next Sunday – have you come a long way?” Joyce and I were too embarrassed to say anything but Hugh said, “The two of us live in Dorset but this woman has come all the way from California.”

Bloxworth House

“Well,” she said, “in that case I will be happy to show you around.” And she and her children did just that. It seems she was the lady of the manor. The three of us had a private tour that included, in addition to the garden, a look at the cider house with its venerable press that in spite of its age looked as if it could be put into good working order again. And a beautiful raised and tiled swimming pool. She brought out a book with pictures of the early 17^th century brick house when it was almost completely covered with ivy. Her husband, whose business it is to renovate lovely old houses, had most of the ivy painstakingly removed because he was concerned about the damage ivy can do after so many centuries clinging to even the sturdiest brick. We agreed that it looks much better now. We met a little dog standing guard under the archway of the walled garden and enjoyed the company of our guides energetic children as they showed us the proper way to climb a ladder in the cider house and let us see their own private tree house.

We were still talking about our good fortune at Bloxworth when we crossed over the Stour River on the medieval bridge that has been carrying traffic for nearly five hundred years and entered Sturminster Newton with its pretty shadowed gables, mossed roof tiles, deep thatch and gracefully curved bow windows. When we reached the octagonal steps of the 5^th century market cross I directed Hugh to turn left into Gough’s Close – and there it was: the charming black and white lodge in the picture taped to my out basket for the past eleven months. Somehow I had managed to survive.

Joyce and Hugh helped carry my bags from the car park in back of the lodge and as we entered the garden Jill came from the kitchen to greet us, temporarily leaving behind something that smelled delicious. I was glad that Joyce and Hugh were joining me for dinner before returning to Corfe Mullen. We peeked into the dining room on the way up to my room (my nosy habits are contagious) and saw four tables set with pretty linen and good silver and china. There were attractive paintings of the Dorset countryside on the walls and lace curtains at the window overlooking the garden. Each table had fresh flowers. Hugh winked at me. He was already anticipating the evening’s feast.

Jill had given me a large, comfortable pink and gray double room. I had my own bathroom and plenty of space to move around. I looked out of my window and saw that the black cat who had been sunning himself the year before was lying in the same spot on the lawn looking just as pleased with himself.

We sat for a while before dinner in front of the fireplace in the beautifully furnished sitting-room. Ken told us the history of the interesting looking coffee table. Seems a friend of theirs was able to retrieve several strips of the original wood paneling from the House of Commons after the German bombing in 1941. They remained in her attic for years before she remembered them and with Ken’s assistance had them made into the beautiful coffee table on which we were now balancing our tea cups. There was a small stack of magazines sitting on this table that had echoed the words of statesmen from Palmerston to Winston Churchill. In it I noticed the May 1988 issue of Dorset Life. After Jill called us to dinner and everyone else had left the room, I pulled it out and folded back the pages so that my story about Wareham was prominently displayed. I left it on top of the stack on the table – probably the closest association I’ll ever have with the House of Commons.

Dinner that night proved that my hunch about Jill’s cooking was correct. It consisted of watercress soup, chicken breasts in sherry and cream, hazelnut meringue with raspberries, and Blue Viney cheese. The vegetables were homegrown and delicious and my guess about homemade bread was right. It wasn’t just that everything tasted so good, it was the gracious way in which it was served. After dinner, and another pleasant chat in the sitting room while we were served coffee, I said good-bye to Joyce and Hugh and climbed the stairs to my cozy pink and gray room. I would be on my own until Saturday morning when they returned to take me to my next stop in Evershot.

At 10:40am the next morning I was standing at the bus stop on Bath Road across from the library waiting for Southern National’s No.X94. At 11:15am I was still standing there. The women standing with me said it wasn’t at all unusual for the bus to be this late. When it finally did arrive we were greeted by a rather grumpy driver who in answer to my question said that the fare would be £2. Two pounds just to ride to Blanford just a few miles away? He told me I had said Bournmouth, but I’m sure I said Blandford. Blandford would be only £1, still a bit pricey compared to the country buses.

The ride wasn’t nearly as much fun as rides I’ve had on buses run by smaller independent operators. The atmosphere was entirely different. No one was talking to their neighbor and no one gave me a welcoming smile. Everyone was staring straight ahead in a preoccupied manner. I might as well have been on a bus in LA.

Everything changed when I got off twenty minutes later in The Market Place in Blandford. The brightly shining sun was reflected in the cheerful Victorian and Georgian shop fronts. I stopped in the tourist information center on West Street, had a chat with the scholarly gentleman behind the counter and learned that the lovely Georgian town center with its fine classical church and fine town houses was the work of Thomas, John, and William Bastard: the renowned team of father and son architects was commissioned after the disastrous fire in 1731. Their skillful influence in directing the rebuilding the center is responsible for its pleasing unity. I picked up a town guide and for an hour or so had fun following the Visitors Trail picking out the fascinating points of interest such as The Old Bank House and St. Leonard’s chapel. I had my traditional Stilton Ploughman’s lunch at the Greyhound, the former coaching inn is still licensed, and from its sunny premises I could watch the shoppers coming and going in the large Safeway supermarket across the way. We have Safeway’s in California so just for fun I looked inside. I felt right at home; I think the staples and sundries are arranged in the same order as they are in LA. I could find my way up and down the aisles and I knew right where to look for a jar of peanut butter.

After enjoying a riverside walk and checking the local history collection in the museum opposite the Parish Church I checked my traveling library of bus timetables and learned that I could catch the Wilts & Dorset No.139 right outside Harding’s Bookshop on West Street on its way to Shaftesbury. Since I was a few minutes early for the bus I went inside to browse. That was a mistake. When I emerged only five minutes later I was carrying three rather heavy volumes of Dorset history to add to my collection. I would have to lug them all around Shaftesbury and back to Sturminster Newton.

View from my favorite seat on the bus

On the way to Shaftesbury we went through Stourpaine, Shroton, Iwerne Minster, Fontmell Magna and Compton Abbas. The ride took a little less than an hour and the countryside was delightful. The Wilts & Dorset bus wasn’t quite as friendly as those of the independent operators but it was a double Decker and I had the compensation of sitting in my favorite seat – the one in the very front of the top deck. It’s an ideal way to see the countryside. Now if I could just remember to carry a pad moistened with window cleaning solution…

In Shaftesbury I indulged my Dorset addiction to clotted cream and scones at the Governor Hotel and then browsed around the shops. I crossed to the other side of the street when I came to Harding’s Shaftesbury shop. I didn’t trust myself to go in. I knew I couldn’t have resisted the sign that said: “Books on every subject under the sun.” So instead took my annual stroll along Park Walk in front of the Abbey ruins enjoying the magnificent view of the Blackmore Vale and then I held my breath as I turned the corner by the massive buttresses of the Abbey wall because I knew what was coming next: the incredibly beautiful view from Gold Hill. It never fails to delight me. As usual I got out my camera and clicked away. This time I persuaded a perfect stranger to take a shot of me walking up Gold Hill. He must have thought I was very forward but I didn’t care.

Me on Gold Hill

I wanted a picture of myself in this very special place. Its picturesque charm appears in almost every English guide book, often on the front cover. I know it’s been used in countless advertisements, commercials and movies but I have a definite proprietary feeling about this place. When I happened to see it as part of a demonstration on the screen of an Apple Computer in the bookstore on the campus of Cal State University where I work, I nearly shouted; “what are you doing with my Gold Hill?”

After recording this year’s view of Shaftesbury, it was time to catch the 3:48pm Shaftesbury & District back to Sturminster Newton. This time I was lucky. It was an independently owned line and the driver was the amiable sort I’d grown to expect. He smiled and said: “I hope you have brought your ear plugs.” I looked at the thirty or so other passengers for the first time and realized they were all school children. As far as I could tell they were mostly about eleven or twelve and had on uniforms with green check shirts. I don’t think it was my imagination but they all seemed unusually good looking. They had healthy, glowing complexions and bright lively expressions. I didn’t really need ear plugs, although they were animated and naturally talkative with lots of changing of seats and a little giggling.

Lady tending her garden

We passed through Cherry Orchard, Guy’s Marsh, Margaret’s Marsh, and Farrington on our way to Stur. It was fun to see where each child lived. Sometimes the family dog would be waiting to greet them, once it was the family goat! One pretty little girl jumped off leaving her sweater on board. The driver had started up the lane when he noticed it. He carefully backed up, honking his horn and held it out the window so she could retrieve it. Each child would wave merrily at the driver and his friends still on the bus before turning, often to be welcomed by a mum standing at the door who would wave as well. When we arrived back in Sturmister Newton I was as cheerful as the children.

Each day in Sturminster was as pleasant as the first. Sometimes I would hop on one of the many buses passing through and visit places like Bournemouth, Poole, or Sherborne. One day I rode all of the way to Dorchester just to have a piece of warm bread pudding with cream at The Horse With the Red Umbrella. The memory of a piece enjoyed on my last visit had been haunting me all year. I set aside one day to take care of practical matters like doing my laundry at the neat and tidy Laundromat in the square. While I was waiting for my clothes to tumble dry I chatted with a townswoman who was also waiting. She was one of the sweetest ladies I’ve ever met. While we were talking I noticed that her eyes kept searching the floor. She apologized for being for being a bit preoccupied and explained she had been mending while waiting for he dryer to finish and had dropped her favorite needle. She was very disappointed when she couldn’t find it. I helped her look but she soon let out a triumphant cheer declaring she had found it! She couldn’t have been more pleased to have found a lost diamond ring.

I met many other nice Sturminster Newton people in the shops and in the tearooms. One night I enjoyed a very elegant dinner in GiGi’s restaurant. I peeked in the window and was intrigued with the lovely setting inside and knew the only way to see more was to have dinner inside. The poached Salmon was delicious and nicely served, I enjoyed Chopin playing softly in the background but – I missed Ken and Jill’s cozy dining room. The intimate atmosphere in nice guest houses and B&Bs like Stourcastle Lodge are really more suited to women traveling on their own.

Cat in Church Street window

Some of the time just I stayed in Stur and poked (and peeked) around the lanes and followed the footpaths. Church Street, Penny Street, White Lane and The Row are all quite charming. I knew no shame as I brazenly snapped pictures over garden gates and through doorways. I took pictures of cats, dogs, cows, and pretty ladies tending their gardens. My favorite is of a cat looking out of a window on Church Street. I had a thoroughly good time!

When Joyce and Hugh came to pick me up on Saturday morning I would have been sad to leave – except my next stop would be in Evershot. I had been there once before and couldn’t wait to get back and follow the road that lead to Old Girt Farm. I had followed this lovely footpath part way and found the little valley it lead to irresistible and couldn’t wait to explore it more thoroughly.