The Dorset Coast, Day One:

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There was a time when I did quite a few touristy group activities. My days back at Go See Run Eat Drink were a whirlwind of package tours and guided walks. And more recently I’ve enjoyed several AirBNB Experiences. But group activities come at a cost. There’s the financial cost of course, but there’s also a psychological one. Being part of a group means you are relieved of much of the bother of organising an activity but it also means you are relieved of the ability to make your own decisions about that activity. Still, sometimes it’s nice to just go along with the group, and it’s never a bad idea to have options when more individualised plans are tricky or impossible. At least that’s what Piran and I figured when contemplating The Outdooraholics two day walking trip on the Dorset Coast. Mostly it was that they were planning to get to an out-of-the-way but promising village that’s been on my list, and partly it was about trying something new. And I suppose there was also a generous measure of “why not?”

Whatever the ratio of rationales, that’s how I ended up in a rental car on a Friday afternoon with Piran at the wheel, en route to a youth hostel in the coastal village of West Lulworth. I assumed my youth hosteling days were long over, and I’ve thoroughly enjoyed my decade long transition from 20-bunk dorm to 5-star hotel. But it was only going to be two nights. And then we were offered guest rooms at the lovely home of a couple of Piran’s friends who lived very nearby, so then it was only one night, and that seemed very doable.

Yeah yeah, blah blah blah. What’s the number for room service?

The trip sounded good on paper - Jurassic Coast, special village, wacky rock formations, chalk cliffs - what more could you want? Of course walking in the UK in March is a crapshoot because there’s always the chance of miserable weather (though actually that’s a risk at any time of year) but then again what’s the point of a countryside ramble if you don’t end up scaling a rocky peak in the teeth of a force nine gale so you can squat on your haunches at the top eating a soggy sandwich?

We passed a very pleasant Friday evening with our hosts in the local pub and then repaired to our private beds in our private rooms Friday night. We arrived at the hostel on Saturday morning just in time for a quick second breakfast, a rapid round of sandwich making, and the group briefing.

The common room / dining room / briefing room of the hostel. Overwhelmingly adequate in every respect.

With the briefing complete, including the warning that there were three large hills in our future, we struck off from the hostel in a group of about 30 towards Durdle Door, which is not magical portal from Harry Potter but one of those wacky rock formations I mentioned. It was a sort of warm-up walk before the main part of the hike, and the pace and terrain were gentle.

Me posing at Durdle Door, which is that arched rock formation in the background. 
It’s famous, I promise.

After Durdle Door there was a quick toilet stop near Lulworth Cove (also famous, because it’s very round) and then we started out on the main part of the hike. The hike leader Milena - a slightly scary Bulgarian Woman - issued stern instructions that we needed to pick up the pace because we were falling behind schedule. “Now, we must hike!” And here I refer you back to my previous remarks about being relieved of the ability to make decisions about schedule. So hike we did, starting almost right away with a hill that the other hike leader - Lee - called "The Beast". Fun times.

A downward slope on the other side of The Beast.

We also walked a little ways around Lulworth Cove before the ascent, and the beach was pleasingly replete with roundy rocks in three colours - white, black and rusty red.

The main reason I wanted to do this particular walk was because it promised to include a visit to the abandoned village of Tyneham. Tyneham was inhabited by 225 people when, in 1943, the government ordered all the residents to leave so that it could expand the nearby tank firing range in preparation for D-Day. With just a month’s notice, all the villagers were required pack up and vacate, though they were promised they could return when the war was won. Poignantly, one resident left a note pinned to the door of the village church.

 “Please treat the church and houses with care. We have given up our homes where many of us have lived for generations, to help win the war to keep men free. We will return one day and thank you for treating the village kindly.”

Despite the government’s promise, the looming Cold War led the government to acquire the village by compulsory purchase and it remains part of the military range that dominates the area. The village's families were never allowed to return.

The range is still in use and access is understandably restricted when they’re lobbing live shells around. Happily, that’s one of the things that people who organise group excursions tend to verify in advance.


One hopes this particular tank is a target and not on active duty.

Even though we'd made it as far as the firing range, it would still be a long way and a few more big hills before we reached the village. And because the walk was along the south coast, it was a trifle exposed and the wind coming off the water was occasionally irksome, there being nothing between us and France to break its stride. Normally when I go out rambling I like to make sure there’s a convivial pub on the way which one could expect to stumble into around lunchtime for a fortifying pint and a hot meal. Indeed my favoured source for walking routes (the Saturday Walkers Club), that I have mentioned before, make a point of routing past pubs at approximately the midway point of a walk. Sadly that’s not how the Outdooraholics roll, which, again, is one of the perils of a group experience.

Instead we huddled against a small hill trying to shelter from the wind and sharing out Tesco flapjacks. I’ve been trying to find a lovely half-remembered quote from Bill Bryson about the English and their love of blustery tea breaks on the side of a hill, so I might just have to nip off quickly to re-read “Notes from a Small Island” and get back to you. Until then you should all go read this because it’s fantastic.

And to demonstrate he’s generally more prepared and hardier than I am, Piran braved the unsheltered side for a bit of lunchtime recreation, also ably demonstrating the wind speed.

Finally, after a few more hills and few of our number dropping out due to exhaustion or chilblains or altitude sickness or something like that, we at last made it to Tyneham Village. Other than the remains of the stone buildings that are the heart of the village, there was a barn that’s been fixed up, a long section of fresh drystone wall, and several larger buildings further afield. It was a place I could have spent a very happy hour or more. For the Outdooraholics it was a place for a quick toilet stop and what felt like a five minute pause. And that’s when the whole group activity thing really fell apart for me and I had a bit of a melt-down. Having emerged from the church building to see the rest of the group disappearing up the road while I was just getting started, I was at a bit of a loss and determined not to shortchange myself so dramatically. One of the hike leaders, Lee, even came all the way back to chivvy us along, but luckily Piran was able to convince him that we’d be able to make our own way back to the hostel without guidance, well-equipped as we were with Ordnance Survey maps and common sense. Mollified, Lee trotted off to catch up with the group and we were free to explore.

This lovely little building was a seed store, propped up on specially shaped mushroom-like legs to prevent rodents from getting at the seeds.

And this gent was literally building a dry stone wall! The Tyneham site is used as a testing ground for the Dry Stone Walling Association. I’d have loved to have had the time and gumption to talk with this guy. (Also, I love the mere existence of the Dry Stone Walling Association.)

The heart of the village was Post Office Row - a string of attached stone and brick buildings that, unsurprisingly, once included the Post Office. (Also, I really should have issued a formal Comic Sans Warning ahead of that last link, because the website it leads to has made a very odd typographical choice, especially given the subject matter.)

The public used to be able to wander around in houses of Post Office Row, but they’ve now been deemed too dangerous.

It is still possible to go into the church, which is filled with displays and remembrances from people who lived in the village. I didn’t have a lot of time there, but I recall they ran heavily to tales of the congregation's joy upon the installation of a heating stove in the church and heart-warming stories of small boys earning tuppence to pump the pedals on the pipe organ.

The schoolhouse is probably the most interesting and well-presented building in the village, set up as it may have been before the residents left.

Young Fredrick Knight (third hook from the right) was apparently an ancestor of an employee of half of the couple who lived in the house where we spent our very agreeable Friday night.

Even though we knew the way back and had successfully extricated ourselves from the group, I still felt like we should be hurrying on to try to catch up, though there was no practical reason for this urge. Nonetheless, we headed off up the road about half an hour behind the crowd to revisit some of the favourite ascents from the walk there. I’d been expecting that the path back would follow a different, more inland route, because it didn’t make sense to retrace our steps when there might be new things to see, fewer dispiriting hills, and less Gallic blusteriness to endure. Sadly, the area covered by the military firing range is extensive enough that we’d have had to detour for many miles for that, so it was back to the high chalk cliffs and what seemed like and endless slog in a very steady gale. Cleverly, a few others of the group actually managed to blag a ride from Tyneham back to the hostel from a complete stranger in the visitor’s car park. Well played, ladies. I'd take my hat off to you if it hadn't been blown to Poole and beyond.

I think the slope of my shoulders and the colour of the sky in this photo are two good indications of my mood by this point.

We did eventually catch up with the straggling end of the group a few minutes before we reached the hostel. The day's walk had been about 20km, and the wind had been that unrelenting energy-sapping type that meant by the time we reached the hostel I was simultaneously chilled and sweaty and also quite muddy and comprehensively knackered. Naturally, the hot water system in the hostel was incapable of coping with the arrival of 30 people all in need of a shower so I think I just laid on my upper bunk in a bit of a daze for a while. The tour did include cream tea with (shop-bought) scones though, and it was nice to tuck into those and have a hot cuppa later. And eventually there was an easy amble to a pub in Lulworth Village for a swift half, and then there was finally enough hot water for a shower and then there was supper and an evening pouring over the OS map making plans for the next day. Sunday had a few high highs and few low lows, but your coffee is probably either cold or gone by now, and I’m over my self-imposed 2,000 word limit, so let’s save those tales for another blog.

Many muddy boots on Saturday evening