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Uphill All of the Way
Dorset, England

Our walk that morning couldn’t have been better orchestrated to impress Stan if it had been stage directed by David Lean. The set was perfect, everyone came in right on cue. Amber was waiting for us by the old ice house when we came downstairs, ready to lead the way. As we turned down the lane that led to the balustraded bridge (I love that word – we don’t have anything balustraded in LA), Robert, Peggy’s husband and the farmer responsible for keeping the sixty or so acres of farmland around The Court in top condition, was leading twenty of his beautiful caramel colored Jersey cows from their barn to a nearby meadow to graze. He stopped to chat and explained that today was the big day. He would learn if all his effort painstakingly applied to laying out a new irrigation system was going to pay off. His excitement was apparent and I could see that Stan envied him his enthusiasm.

Swan and cygnets

A little further down the lane we encountered three baby lambs standing with their mothers. Baby anythings are cute but lambs are especially appealing. A few yards more and we saw a chestnut filly in a field of buttercups posing as if waiting for us to take her picture. We obliged, then explored the remaining wing of the old manor house until Amber reminded us it was time to move on to the bridge. Just as we were crossing the bridge a mother swan with seven cygnets following along behind passed under its pretty arch – right on cue.

Through all of this “Land of Oz” landscape the weather retained a steady perfection. Stan’s amazement was growing but of course I said that what we were seeing was nothing unusual. Dorset was always like this.

During breakfast, back at The Court’s lovely dining room, his amazement continued to grow. I’ve always believed that the guests who choose to stay at The Court have all passed some indefinable test that determines their eligibility to stay based on agreeableness and charm. The nice thing about returning to the same place at about the same time each year is that I often greet guests I’ve met before.

This time it was the headmaster and his wife and their two lady friends, the ones I met last year when I learned all about their visit to buy shoes in Street, the company town run by Clark’s Shoes. Stan agreed that they were fun to talk to and had no trouble making new friends of his own. An ex-RAF wing commander and his pretty wife were at the table next to us. In no time at all Stan was carrying on an animated conversation just as if he had known them for ages. I joined in too and soon we had made plans to visit Corfe Castle together as soon as we finished breakfast. David and Judy made us feel that they would really enjoy our company.

This was where my carefully laid busing plans began to fall apart. That morning I had intended to introduce Stan to the country bus that stops in Frampton on its way to Dorchester, but quickly decided that a tour of Corfe in pleasant company would be even more fun. Little did I know that this would be setting a precedent that would continue for our entire stay in Dorset. David and Judy were the first of many kind hearted people to offer to chauffeur us. Somehow they all managed to convince us that we would be the ones doing them the favor!

Stan looking less than pleased to be at Stonehenge

In making my careful plans I hadn’t counted on the remarkable generosity of Dorset people. I should have. In my previous seven visits I had encountered it often enough – but how could I know that from the moment we arrived we would be treated like royalty? We were chauffeured from village to village, from town to town and even to far afield places like Stonehenge, Wells and Glastonbury. We were driven to charming pubs and attractive restaurants, to quaint churches and pretty beaches, taken on picnics and invited to tea. We moved effortlessly from guest house to guest house, our bags carried for us right to our rooms, all as if it was the most natural thing in the world. We were never made to feel we were imposing, quite the opposite, we were made to feel we were performing the kindness. My friends from previous visits came forward as if they had been rehearsing the best possible way to make a favorable impression on Stan.

But it wasn’t just old friends. We made new friends like David and Judy, and they too seemed determined to impress Stan with Dorset hospitality – or perhaps it was just English hospitality. Stan kept giving me sidelong glances and kept whispering, “Why are they being so nice?” My picky, finicky, hard-to-please husband was duly impressed and really appreciated it.

We had a lovely time with David and Judy that first day as we explored the pretty stone village that clusters around the hill that bears the famous Corfe Castle. We saw no hint of the bloodshed that is woven into Corfe’s history. It started with Queen Elfrida who was in residence when her stepson, young King Edward, tired from hunting stopped for refreshment. Jealous and wishing her own son to reign, she brought him a cup of wine and as he drank it, plunged a dagger in his back – or so the story goes. Some say a servant did the deed, but it doesn’t matter as he galloped off and died in the saddle on the way to Wareham.

Then there is the story of Lady Banks who, with her servants and maids, beat back one hundred and fifty Poole seamen by pouring hot ashes over them as they tried to scale the castle’s steep banks. Today the castle stands at a decided tilt because parliament ordered it to be blown up in 1645. Over our lager and ploughman’s at the Greyhound Hotel I discreetly pointed out to Stan that Hawaii has a scarcity of equally interesting tales. “You’re right about that,” he said, “Dorset is way ahead when it comes to bloodshed.” I’m not sure I won that round.

We continued exploring Dorset the next day with David and Judy. Judy was looking for a good pair of walking shoes and I remembered that the Lasting Classics shop in Wimborne Minster carries a wide choice of good walking gear. I was wearing a pair of Mephistoes I purchased there four years before that were still in good shape and Judy wanted to see if she could get a similar pair. We made a day of it and explored Wimborne and lunched at The Vineyard Wine Bar. We decided that Wimborne would be a lovely town to live in. It seemed a bit up market compared to some of Dorset’s other towns; a place Yuppies might choose to live – but only nice Yuppies. With all of its fashionable shops it reminded me a lot of Westwood Village in Southern California, the town that has grown up around the University of California and still calls itself a village.

Stan climbing over stile in Sturminster Newton

Judy was happy with her new walking shoes and Stan was happy because the tall glass of lemonade he had with his curry was filled with ice. Wimborne Minster had made a good impression. I suggested stopping at Sturminster Newton on our way back to Frampton. It was a little out of our way but I thought we might enjoy inspecting the old mill and walking by the Stour River along the footpaths Thomas Hardy loved so well when he and his first wife were living there. I took my favorite picture of Stan here as he climbed over a stile on the way to the mill. I laugh every time I look I look at it. It’s so unlike him, not at all typical. I doubt if my city-bred husband had ever seen a stile before, let alone climbed over one.

The countryside around Sturminster Newton is matchless. I shot my usual thirty-six frame roll of film and thoroughly enjoyed myself. I assumed Stan was doing the same. I was a bit taken back when, as we were starting back to Frampton he said, “There’s really not much going on here is there? If I had closed my eyes while passing through I would have missed it,” David and Judy agreed.

Oh, oh, I was loosing ground. “I like Wimborne much better,” he said, “There’s more going on.” Whoops! – I liked Stur best precisely because there wasn’t much going on, unless you count Market Day on Mondays. If he thought Sturminster Newton boring what would he think of Evershot – population about three hundred? We would soon find out. We were scheduled to move from The Court to Rectory House in Evershot the next day for a four day stay – and after that we were going to Stourcastle Lodge. And where was Stourcastle Lodge? Why it was in Sturminster Newton about a hundred yards from where we were standing.

Time to gear up. Uphill trudging ahead!