World Travel Guide Online

Where Broad Stream Lillies Throng
Dorset, England

Young man and his tractor

The young man got down from his tractor and walked towards me. “Excuse me
ma’am, but I couldn’t help noticing. You’ve been wandering back and forth for
some time. Are you trying to find your way to the mill?”

“Yes! Yes! I am,” I answered with some embarrassment but with more relief. Once again I had
encountered a snag as I attempted to follow one of the many inviting “Dorset
Walks” published to enhance the enjoyment of the countryside. This time it
happened on the meadows beside the Stour River just east of Sturminster
Newton. Before today I had followed Chris Jesty over Sudland Heath, Nigel
Clark through the Undercliff at Lyme Regis, and George Osborne over many an
ancient burial mound. Each excursion had been rewarding but none had gone
smoothly.

Just a few days before, while staying at my favorite B&B in
Frampton I encouraged another guest to accompany me. His name was Heintz and
he was a very fastidious German gentleman. We followed Rodney Legg’s
prescribed walk from Evershot to Melbury Osborne. (No. 16 in his Walks in
West Dorset.) It was June so I thought we could disregard his advice that
winter conditions called for rough clothing and gum boots.

Heintz

He said there
were a few obstacles to overcome in the first section of the walk but
encouraged us to believe that for the most part it would be easy going. And
it was easy going right up till we were told to look for the blue gate under
the ash tree. After searching for an eternity through a boggy field with
knee-high grass we finally found Rodney’s “blue gate.” True – it did have a
patch of blue paint left but just one square inch! After squeezing through
we found the indicated path. But surely Rodney didn’t mean for us to climb
this slippery, slimy, overgrown, muddy track? He must have for we could find
no alternative. I’m glad I have someone to blame for what happened next.

Heintz had no difficulty scampering up the slushy surface. But my shoes
wouldn’t cooperate they insisted on sinking down over their tops. I was
making a sound very much like suction pump with every step. I made it half
way up but then the inevitable happened. I found myself sitting in a very
unladylike fashion in the middle of the slushy track. It seemed as if I had
been pulled down by quicksand! The expression on Heintz’s face when he
turned and saw me was one of sheer horror. It wasn’t so much that he thought
I had been injured, I was laughing too hard for that, it was because he was
thinking: “How am I going to let this ridiculous woman ride back to Frampton
in my immaculate Mercedes? I wonder if I could manage to leave her in
Evershot?” However his German good manners overcame his rude thoughts and he
gallantly helped me to my feet. He even picked a large bunch of grass and
resourcefully made a rudimental brush to help me tidy up.

Melbury House

Fortunately, as we left the muddy fields and continued through the majestic
parkland surrounding Melbury House, my clothes had a chance to dry and I
became slightly more presentable – but only slightly. When we reached
Evershot at tea time we were both longing for a cup of tea. I knew Heintz
was hesitating because he was considering the consequences of being seen in
public with a muddy American. But his thirst and hunger overcame his better
judgment and at my urging he consented to stop at Rectory House for one of
Chris Walford’s cream teas. I had stayed at Rectory House the year before
and knew that Chris served the best clotted cream in Dorset.

Chris answered our knock and quickly concealed her look of alarm when she
recognized me. She seemed to be thinking: “What has she been up to? She
seemed so sensible last year when she and her husband stayed here. What is
she doing with this German fellow and why does she look as if she was the
looser in a mud wrestling match?” There was only a slight hesitation before
she invited us into our spotless dining room. I was about to volunteer when
she suggested that perhaps I wouldn’t mind removing my shoes and leaving them
outside? I think I managed to look nonchalant as I sipped my tea and nibbled
my scones among Chris’s other elegantly dressed guests. It wasn’t until we
were leaving that I lost my cool. I looked back and noticed an outline on
the seat of the chair I had been sitting in.

I remembered my adventures with Heintz and the mud as the young man from the
tractor approached. I was in trouble again. This time it wasn’t mud it was
confusion. Anne-Marie Edward’s directions in her book Discovering Hardy’s
Wessex had seemed so simple: “from the market cross in the center of
Sturminster’s square, turn right down Penny Street and take the path on the
left for Fiddleford, walk by the Stour to Fiddleford Mill.” What could be
easier? There wasn’t even a blue gate to find. This time the problem was
that I couldn’t find anyway to walk by the Stour because of thickly growing
waist-high grass bordering the River. It was destroying my flimsy sandals.
Of course, a more experienced Rambler wouldn’t have been wearing sandals. But
it was a warm day and I had expected to stay in Sturminster Newton. It was
Monday, market day, and Sally Wingate-Saul, who I was staying with at
Holbrook Farm just a few miles away in Lydlinch had invited me to come into
town with her for the morning.

Penny Street in Stur

I found Stur (Sally taught me how to sound like a local) so delightful I
asked her to return without me. I would taxi back in time for dinner.
Browsing in the newsagent’s shop on Bridge Street I discovered Ann-Marie
Edward’s book and had been having a lovely time learning all about Hardy’s
“happiest time” as I followed her suggested rambles around this lovely old
town’s gables, coaching inns, and pretty Georgian cottages.

I enjoyed a Stilton Ploughman’s at the White Hart Inn then explored St.
Mary’s, the town’s 15^th Century church, with it’s rounded ‘wagon roof’
decorated with carved wooden angels. Near the church I found the ‘old boys’
school built of honey colored stone. I was amused at Ann-Marie’s account of
how William Barnes, while a student at the school, attracted the attention of
the very wealthy solicitor Henry Dashwood, who lived in Vine House (the
house is still there opposite the school) It seems Barnes, age twelve, was
sent to clear a field of manure. Instead of getting on with his job, he
turned his wheelbarrow on end and began to chalk a drawing of a cow on one
side of it. Mr. Dashwood happened to be passing. He was so impressed with
the drawing he called at the school and learned that the artist was also a
very clever student. He immediately employed Barnes as a clerk in his office
and the rest is history. Dorset’s most loved dialect poet must have been a
brilliant scholar because he learned seventeen languages as well as Greek and
Latin.

Thomas Hardy’s view

Following Anne-Marie’s instructions, I found my way down Ricketts Lane to the
war memorial and recreation ground, then passed through the gate running
beside a wide green to the last house on the right and stood before Thomas
Hardy’s Riverside villa – I don’t seem to have trouble following walking
guides in towns and villages – problems only seem to develop in the
countryside. I turned right and went through the gate and just beyond this
gray, semi-detached, typically Victorian Villa and was immediately confronted
with the scene Hardy and his Emma loved so well. No wonder they found this
country so irresistible. I was standing on the top of a gently sloping
grassy cliff. Beneath me, the Stour River, edged with water-lillies swirled
round a willow covered island and vanished in the distance between tall banks
of rushes. Stretching to the horizon beyond, I saw lush green farmlands that
seemed even more beautiful than Anne-Marie’s apt description.

A little later on Bridge Street in the town center I was overcome by my
Dorset addiction and stopped in the Rose Café for a cream tea. Refreshed, I
decided to tackle the guides recommended walk to Sturminster Mill. It went
like clockwork – I found Colber bridge, turned left at the second gate,
rambled across the field to Stalbridge Lane, then continued on for about a
third of a mile, then continued left to the style and down the hill to the
mill. John Hillaby would have been proud of me. All the while my Minolta
was getting a workout. Stur and its adjoining area would get a *** (three
rolls of film) rating in anybody’s book.

Flushed with success I felt my next venture: the two mile walk to Fiddleford
Mill would be ‘a piece of cake’ – Wrong – I hadn’t anticipated the thick
waist high grass that seemed determined to destroy my sandals. When the
young man on the tractor rescued me I had been about ready to give up and
turn back. That would have been foolish because he told me it wasn’t
necessary to stay right by the Stour. I could follow his tractor track
nearly all of the way to the mill. I had nearly reached my destination when
I took a turn on the wrong side of a hedgerow. He patiently waved me over to
the right track and a few moments later I was rewarded with a splendid view
of the delightful old mill. As I loaded my camera for the third time that
day I could hardly imagine a more peaceful scene.

As evening approached I was tempted to return to Hardy’s Riverside Villa and
wait for the sun to set so that I could see the view that so impressed the
man that Hardy wrote about in his notes: “A man comes to the cliff in front
of our house to see the sun set, timing himself to arrive a few minutes
before the descent.” One particular evening when the man had come as usual
just as the sun was sinking, a cloud suddenly obscured its beauty and Hardy
noticed the acute disappointment on the man’s face. I was sure the sight
would be spectacular. But if I waited I would be late for Sally’s dinner
back at Holbrook Farm in Lydlinch. It wouldn’t be just a good dinner I’d
miss; I would be deprived of one of the things I like best about my visits to
Dorset – The company of the other travelers around the dinner table.

I enjoy the freedom when rambling on my own during the day, but in the
evening nothing is more satisfying than to exchange experiences with fellow
travelers. It’s all the more fun for me because I take care to choose small
hotels, inns, and bed and breakfast houses where the other guests are likely
to be English. I see no point in traveling 5,000 miles to hear nothing but
American accents around the dinner table when England’s greatest asset is her
people! Those in the group staying at Holbrook Farm that week were
particularly pleasant. I couldn’t wait to get back and tell them that I made
it to Fiddleford Mill and to hear what they had accomplished since our
conversation at breakfast that morning.

So instead of waiting to see Hardy’s sunset, I found the post office in the
market square and checked to see if I could find a taxi service listed on the
village bulletin board. Sure enough, Thomas Clarke had his number
prominently displayed. Within ten minutes we were speeding back to Lydlinch.
I found Mr. Clarke such good company, I made arrangements with him to pick
me up the next morning at Holbrook Farm and take me to my next stop in West
Bexington. As usual, I found traveling without a car in Dorset no problem at
all.

Water lillies

Dinner that night in Sally’s cozy country kitchen was a very agreeable
affair. The conversation included reminiscences about Dorset during World
War II, a lively discussion about the differences in the English and American
educational systems, and much exchanging of advice about which vegetables grow
best in English home gardens. Swiss chard and cauliflower seemed to be
favorites but one gentleman from Hampshire was holding out for broad beans.
I was congratulated on my conquest of the Fiddleford meadows and learned a
few things to look for at West Bexington the next day. Sally’s pork roast
was a triumph. I had my first taste of crackling. The delicate vegetables
picked that afternoon were at their peak, and the freshly baked treacle tart
was scrumptious. Everything seemed perfect. My contentment was only
slightly spoiled when Sally confided that she was glad the roast had been
good because it came from one of their own pigs! Oh dear! I hoped not a
relative of the cute little fellows I had seen that morning in their pens.

After dinner instead of watching the sun setting over the lovely scene at
Hardy’s Riverside Villa, I walked down the lane to see Lydlinch’s lovely old
church of St. Thomas a Beckett, the one William Barnes immortalized in his
touching poem: ‘Lydlinch Bells’

Vor Lydlinch Bells be good vor sound
And liked by all the neighbors
’round

Not a bad substitute – but then I have found that Dorset’s gentle, peaceful
countryside can always provide a remedy for the every day cares of the real
world. I even managed to forget that the delicious crackling I enjoyed that
evening once belonged to a bright little chap with a curly tail!