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A Little Bit of Hardy’s Wessex
Osmington, England

Beehive B&B

I should be used to it by now – that startled look of utter amazement on the face of guest house proprietors when they answer my knock around eleven in the morning. Mary Kemp’s response at the Beehive in Osmington was a classic example. I’m sure that most B&B visitors don’t arrive until sometime in the middle of the afternoon; some not until dinner time. But then I’m not like most B&B visitors. Since I believe in Thomas Hardy’s dictum that it’s better to know a little bit of the world remarkably well than to know a great part remarkably little, I only travel fifteen or twenty miles between stops. If I check out of one place at ten I invariably arrive at my new stop before eleven. This early arrival alarms landlords who are usually scurrying around making beds and tidying up after recent departures.

Mary looked as if she couldn’t believe her eyes. Her expression clearly said; “what’s this foolish woman doing here so early?” I hurried to assure her that it didn’t matter if my room wasn’t ready – I just wanted to leave my luggage. I promised not to return until late afternoon. My previous stop had been at Insacre Farm House in Shipton Gorge near Bridport. My taxi driver had picked me up at 10:30 and even though I told him to take his time and we had encountered heavy traffic around Dorchester, we still arrived at the Beehive shortly after eleven.

My choice of Mary’s little stone, thatched cottage was influenced by three people: Thomas Hardy, Elizabeth Gundry and Anne-Marie Edwards. Hardy’s influence is obvious. I’ll explain the other two. Elizabeth Gundry’s Staying Off the Beaten Track is my favorite bed and breakfast guide. Elizabeth described the Beehive as being “tucked away – in a pocket handkerchief garden down a steep lane leading to countryside of great beauty, with lovely walks.” How could I resist?

Mary quickly recovered after my “alarming arrival” and gave me a warm welcome. She proved to be just as Elizabeth Gundry said, “a delightful hostess.” Her father was Lord of the manor at Osmington and the Beehive was the holiday home of her childhood. She pursued an academic career at the University of Nairobi which accounts for the presence of fascinating examples of African crafts in the lovely old cottage which is now her permanent home. I know that if I had asked she could have told me many interesting African tales but I have this acute Dorset addiction and only cared to hear about Dorset. She could answer every question I asked without even referring to her large collection of books and maps on all aspects of Dorset history and wild life. She even let me look at an early edition John Hutchin’s History & Antiques of the County of Dorset. The venerable volume I perused must have weighed at least a stone. The beautifully colored illustrations were magnificent and it was fun to finally examine the source of all those quotations I’m constantly running into during my Dorset studies.

I could see George III on the hillside between Sutton Poyntz and Osmington

One of my most treasured volumes in my own Dorset library is Anne-Marie Edward’s Discovering Hardy’s Wessex. Each of it’s fifteen chapters takes a different aspect of Hardy’s life and discusses his work against the background which inspired it. It was the chapter entitled “Sutton Poyntz, and the White Horse Down” that led me to visit Osmington. Mrs. Edward’s description of this quiet and beautiful part of Wessex was irresistible. I couldn’t wait to follow in the footsteps of Anne Garland, Hardy’s heroine. When Anne’s mother sent her off on regular visits to collect the newspaper from squire Derriman, it was the walk between Sutton Poyntz and Osmington that Hardy had in mind, so naturally Sutton Poyntz was my first destination after I settled in the Beehive. Most of the way I had a splendid view of the large chalk figure of George III on horseback cut from the turf of the downs. I diligently tried to follow Mrs. Edward’s instructions and only climb over styles and through gates with the yellow public footpath arrowheads but somehow, when I finally emerged near the mill pond, I found to my dismay that the last gate I passed through had “private property” written on it. I must have been trespassing as I walked through the last field. My map reading and guide following skills are far from expert.

There is much to delight the avid shutterbug in Sutton Poyntz: the mill and the pretty thatched cottages and quaint stone bridges all framed by the soft green downs – but more than any of these I was captivated by a group of “teen-age” piglets occupying a pen near the Springhead Pub. There were twenty of them and my Minolta got a real workout.

Teenage piglets at Sutton Poyntz

I arrived at their dinner time and watched with fascination as these frantically scurrying little creatures demonstrated just what it means when we say “as greedy as pigs.” The farmhand had divided their food into two troughs so they nearly went crazy running back and forth between them to see if their companions were finding something better at their trough then what they were gobbling from at their own. The spectacle must be fairly common in Dorset because none of the villagers strolling by seemed to take any notice. But I couldn’t take my eyes off the pushing and shoving little pink bodies. Every once in a while a curious fellow would come over to inspect me with his intelligent little eyes but then he would remember what was going on back at the troughs and dash back to push and shove with his siblings to make up for any lost time.

After this lively exhibit I stopped at the Springhead for a Stilton ploughman’s. No way would I have one of the ones offered with ham. As I listened to the Brahms concerto playing softly on the pub’s stereo system I studied my map for my return trip to Osmington and the Beehive. The pub may have changed little since Hardy’s day but I’ll bet he didn’t have anything as nice to listen to when he stopped in.

The route to Osmington in Discovering Hardy’s Wessex requires climbing up White Horse Down and takes the walker right over George III’s hat. I love walking but uphill is not my strong point. I chose instead a route over level ground that must have been similar to the one Hardy chose for his heroine, Anne Garland, when her mother sent her to collect the newspapers from the squire. Although I studiously tried to follow the little arrowheads I still managed to exit through a gate marked “private property” in Osmington. Where did I go wrong?

The next day I had better luck walking in the opposite direction. The Dorset Coastal Path, as it travels past Osmington Mill is so obviously marked even I had no trouble staying where I belonged. I walked east above Ringshead Bay past several World War Two bunkers and enjoyed the splendid view as I looked back toward Portland Bill. I heard a twenty-one gun salute around noon but never found out what occasion it was honoring. I’ve followed many public footpaths but none as well traveled as this one. I passed eight groups of walkers during a two hour period. At lunch time I retraced my steps and enjoyed a more than generous ploughman’s at the Smugglers Inn. This is one of the nicest pubs I’ve visited in Dorset even if it was bustling a bit too much with tourists to fit in with my “Hardy in Dorset mood.”

Dinner that night back at the Beehive in the big cork floored kitchen was more in tune with my nostalgic feelings. Mary produced a traditional Dorset meal consisting of Dorset Paté, Martlemas beef – which had been marinated in wine and vinegar then rubbed with spices before being baked – and apple hedgehog followed by delicious cheeses. Gabriel Oak would have felt right at home.

Walkers on the Dorset Coastal Path

One special bonus that comes with staying at guest houses rather than at more expensive hotels is the comfortable, friendly atmosphere around the breakfast and dinner table. I’ve met many interesting fellow travelers. One of my favorites is the young newlywed I met at Mary’s. Amazing but true: she has discovered a cure for Asthma! As a child she suffered terribly from Asthma; her Doctor suggested that it might help to take up a wind instrument, so she did – the Bagpipes! The Asthma completely disappeared and she’s now in great demand at parties. Her husband says no one can match her when it comes to blowing up balloons!

During my last breakfast at the Beehive the couple entertained the rest of us with stories about their chaotic wedding and honeymoon on an isolated Greek Island. It seems the charming piper once belonged to a very large band whose tradition it was to play every member’s wedding. Since she hadn’t been with the band for some time, she forgot about this tradition until right after she said “I do”, the church doors burst open. And she heard their unmistakable whine – forty members strong as unannounced they appeared at the church entrance and marched down the center aisle just as the ceremony concluded. Her surprise was nothing compared to her husband’s, not to mention the minister’s. The band didn’t stop there but accompanied the guests to the reception where they played into the wee hours of the morning leaving her hired orchestra with nothing to do. The members insisted she play a tune herself for old time’s sake. And she did, voluminous white wedding gown and all.

Osmington church yard

I was still holding my sides with laughter when her husband launched into the story of their honeymoon where they arrived on the Greek Island and found it would be a week before the promised furniture, including the bed, for their rented cottage would arrive.

I doubt if I would have had nearly as much fun while eating my boiled eggs and soldiers at a Trust House or Forte Hotel. After this entertaining breakfast it was time to move on to my next stop in Evershot. I packed slowly and tried to take as much time as possible saying good-bye but it was barely ten o’clock when my taxi arrived. The journey to Evershot would only take about thirty minutes. That meant I would encounter another startled expression on the face of my new hostess. But this time I was staying with Chris Walford at Rectory House and it was my third visit to her cozy home. Maybe by this time she was used to foolish Americans turning up much too early and alarming their hosts. I hope so because I’m having too much fun to change my ways.