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Not One But Two Americans in Dorset
Frampton, England

“But what if I don’t like it?”
“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll like it, in fact I know you will.”

“But it’s always raining, they don’t put ice in cold drinks and I won’t be able to find any bagels.”
“Those are little things; there will be dozens of good things to make up for them.”

“They only drink tea. I won’t be able to find a good cup of coffee.”
“They know how to make coffee.”

“What if we don’t even have our own bathroom?”
“I’ve only booked one guest house without our own bathroom and it’s so special you won’t even mind.”

“You know me better than that.”

Duck pond at The Court in Frampton with ramps and bridges

My husband and I had been bantering back and forth like this ever since he finally agreed to accompany me on my eighth trip to England. It would be his first. Stan had agreed to come on several of the other trips but had always backed out at the last minute because of a job offer that was too good to pass up. He’s a film editor and in the motion picture business one rarely turns down a good offer – it might be too long until the next. At least that’s what Stan claimed. I’m sure his reluctance to have his comfortable routine upset was equally responsible. He was dragging his feet up until time to leave for the airport. I’m married to a very stubborn man who’s more than a little set in his ways.

For months I have been trying to sell him on the joys of Dorset but his heart still belongs to Hawaii. We are having a monumental tug of war. He wants to retire in Hawaii; I want to retire in Dorset. At least he had agreed to come and see what all the fuss was about – �but he was sure he wouldn’t like it. I knew it was going to be uphill all the way, so I planned our trip very carefully and picked only my very favorite guest houses and hotels, ones sure to make a favorable impression.

I’ve always been too chicken to drive in England and Stan wasn’t any more anxious than I to try driving on the “wrong side of he road” or learn to negotiate the roundabouts and narrow lanes. I’ve always told myself there would be plenty of time to learn after I moved to Dorset permanently. I assured Stan we had nothing to worry about. All we had to do was take the National Express Coach from Heathrow to Poole where my good friends Joyce and Hugh from Corfe Mullen had volunteered to meet us and drive us to our first stop in Frampton. From there it would be a simple matter to hop on the little country buses that travel from village to village to sight-see and every three or four days, when we changed guest houses, we could call one of he convenient taxi services that operate throughout Dorset. Not only would we eliminate the worry of driving, it would be much less expensive than car rental.

Buses and taxis – that’s really what I had in mind. This method had worked very well for me in the past. I have always found the Dorset buses, especially those run by the independent companies, fun to ride and taxies are a very agreeable way of moving luggage from one village to another. The drivers of both kinds of vehicle were amiable and often better informed about the countryside we were passing through than most tour guides. I hoped Stan would be as impressed as I was.

Ten and a half hours packed into a 747 jet crowded with crying babies and irritable passengers does little to improve the most benign dispositions. Somehow we managed to endure the seemingly endless flight and when we landed at Heathrow Stan was suffering only twice as much from jet lag as the average traveler. I too seemed a bit more wilted than usual and we still had the two and a half hour ride on the coach to endure before we reached the safety of Poole and Joyce and Hugh. When we boarded the coach we got the last two available seats and couldn’t even sit together. I was next to an overweight bearded fellow with garlicky breath and Stan sat behind me with a plump mother trying to hold an active three year old on her lap. I avoided looking back at him because each time I did could read the pained expression in his eyes. It said, “What are you doing to me Jo? I knew I shouldn’t have come.”

When the coach finally pulled into the terminal behind the Dolphin Shopping Center in Poole we saw Joyce and Hugh waving cheerfully. It was a very weary and bedraggled couple that staggered off the coach to meet them. By LA time we had been up all night and it was now
6:00am.

Peacock at The Court in Frampton

Introductions were in order because Joyce and Hugh were a very familiar and welcome sight to me but this was Stan’s first chance to meet them. We had exchanged many letters and we had spent the greater part of my last five visits together. Joyce and I met through an exchange of letters that I started when I wrote to Gulliver’s Bookshop in Wimborne Minster asking for them to mail me some Dorset history books. We were soon adding little personal PSs and arranged to meet on my second visit to Dorset. Now in Poole our joint efforts produced a successful method of loading two huge suitcases, several pieces of hand luggage and four people into an over burdened Austin, we were on our way. Within a few minutes we passed through Poole’s city limits and headed for the countryside on the A35.

Conversation was going well and our tensions were beginning to ease. I think it happened somewhere near Bloxworth Heath. It was like that scene in the movie The Wizard of Oz when Dorothy steps out of the bedroom of her house that a fantastic cyclone has blown all of the way from Kansas to the Land of Oz. The scene changes from dull black and white to glorious Technicolor. Our mood made just such a change, helped along by spectacular Dorset scenery and weather that was doing its best to make a good impression. Blue sky and bright sunshine set the gentle, soft, green hills off to their best advantage. The air was clean and fresh, a great relief from smoggy LA and the stuffy airplane and coach where we never had enough room to stretch. My favorite cow parsley and red valerian appeared everywhere and the copper beeches, the horse chestnuts and the lovely clumps of rhododendrons added their beauty to the already enchanting scene.

The enchantment continued when we arrived at The Court guest house in Frampton and lasted through dinner and followed us up to bed. Stan experience a few setbacks – like learning that ice filled soft drinks were not readily available and that it really was better if he didn’t smoke at the dinner table – but he took these tiny disappointments like a man and drifted off to sleep after turning in at 8:00pm, even though the sun was still shining and wouldn’t set for another hour.

Amber waiting for walk

Although I was really exhausted I couldn’t think of sleeping until I had made my annual tour of The Court’s lovely grounds to see how things had progressed since last year. The eiders, mallards, and moorhens by the pond seemed in fine fettle and so did the bantams in their pens. Miranda, the dominant goose was still bossing the pond’s entire bird community as usual and I noticed two new Siamese cats sleeping peacefully among the fuchsias and bougainvillea’s in the conservatory. Amber, the beautiful golden retriever who had replaced my old friend Tessa when her time came to join the other cherished pets in the little pet cemetery behind the rhododendrons, seemed to be taking her duties as official escort very seriously. She tried to persuade me to walk with her down to the balustraded bridge over the Frome River, but I declined. Even I had to finally succumb to jet lag. I promised to meet her early next morning. I tiptoed into our bedroom and found Stan still fast asleep – so far so good, but tomorrow would bring the real test – I crossed my fingers and made a wish.

I must have been doing something right because at 5:00am the next morning I was awakened by rays of sunlight striking my pillow. Beautiful golden sunlight this early? I jumped out of bed – well as near to jump as my age would allow – and ran to a window. We hadn’t pulled the shades the night before and the room was glowing with sunlight. From the window I could seen the duck pond with its weeping willow island. All of the seventeen different kinds of waterfowl that inhabit this ideal little bird community were already going about their daily business. The cloudless sky was peacock blue to match the real peacock and the pink and red roses that fringe the pond were in full bloom. Several acres of The Court’s beautifully manicured lawns, accented with violet rhododendrons were visible behind the pond and a fountain was flowing near a Greek statue. Our large, comfortable room had windows on three sides. The other two views, one of a heather garden and the other looking out over the countryside to the River Frome were equally spectacular. If Stan wasn’t impressed now he never would be.

Stan at Frampton Court

I put the kettle on knowing that its bubbly, boiling sound would waken him, and went back to bed to await his reaction. He stretched, got out of bed and went wordlessly to the window overlooking the pond. He was silent a few moments then said, “OK, you win. It’s lovely enough to compete with Hawaii.” Coming from him that was the supreme compliment. He went back to bed and I brought him a cup of tea.

Now came the ultimate test. He would have to walk a little way down the hall to the bathroom. This was the one special guest house that didn’t have private facilities. If he made it there and back without mishap I knew I was home free. A few minutes later he returned with a smile on his face.

“You can see part of the old Frampton Manor house from the bathroom window. It looks interesting: let’s get dressed and explore before breakfast.”

Hooray! For a little while at least we could coast downhill.