Dorset Coast, Day Two (or: Ready, Aim, Fire!)

Sunday, April 26, 2020

Before we were so rudely interrupted by a global pandemic, your humble blogger was fed and showered and inhabiting an upper bunk at the Lulworth Cove Youth Hostel enjoying the righteous slumber of one who has hiked 20km in a wind tunnel and then downed half a bottle of very credible red wine. At least Sunday’s hike promised to be much shorter, though I was alarmed when the morning briefing included the warning that the day's route would be "quite exposed". ("What, compared to the cozy and sheltered outing yesterday?” I thought, and braced myself.) The weather forecast also wasn’t promising, with rain expected.

Nonetheless we dutifully packed our bags, tidied the hostel, and laced up muddy boots for a ramble to Old Harry Rocks, another of those wacky rock formations you find along the chalky south coast. First, though, we drove to the start of the hike in Swanage. One of the attractions of the group's itinerary that weekend was the chance of a ride on the steam train run by the Swanage Heritage Railway, though it was unclear during the previous evening’s planning whether the train was running that day.

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Empirical evidence later proved that the train was indeed in operation.

But the train rides would have to wait, for there was hiking to be done. Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers will have noted the clear blue sky the the photo above but rest assured it did not last. Not long after striking out to the east along the beach in Swanage the skies clouded over and we all paused to put on our waterproofs just as the rain arrived. It wasn’t torrential by any means, but it was enough to dampen my spirits. It also didn’t help that not much later we passed though a small cluster of urbanity and saw a sandwich board out on the road advertising the local pub. It promised real ale and hot food and I knew that if I hadn’t been with the group I would have peeled off without the slightest hesitation to wait things out.

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And yet I didn’t. I’m still not sure why. This photo doesn’t really show the rain but it was there.

Luckily, the skies did clear and we made it to Old Harry Rocks in the sunshine. The rocks themselves are the remains of a chalk causeway that once linked the Isle of Wight to the mainland. The causeway eroded over time and left towering stacks of rock, one of which includes another natural archway (like Durdle Door) that will eventually turn into two stacks.

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You can also just see the beginning of cave on the mainland in the bottom left of this photo. Eventually that will become and arch and then the opening under the arch will get taller and taller until that bit of the headland is cut off. And in case you think we’re talking about a geological time scale for this stuff, think again. Our guide Lee said that new cave wasn’t there when he did this hike a few months ago, which seems positively supersonic.

Naturally there were other people at the site taking in the view - you could just make out the Isle of Wight in the distance. But there were also signs warning people to stay away from the edge of the cliff, as there are along all those high chalk cliffs that edge the south coast. Equally naturally, there were also people blithely ignoring the signs, including one notable idiot who climbed down a particularly precarious path to a lower section of the headland. And just to make it that extra bit stupider, he did it with carrier bags tied over his shoes, so he had the least amount of grip possible. It was evolution in action, and we were all expecting to have to hang around and give statements to the air rescue pilots, so we quickly pressed on for the last leg of the walk back to Swanage.

By this time you can see that the skies had cleared a bit though it was still windy. However there were sheltered areas, and they were a welcome relief, until we encountered the last of the day’s obstacles.

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I’m not saying it was Passchendale out there, but for someone a bit fed up with the general environment and wearing shoes that had recently been discovered to have small holes in the waterproof lining, this was a LOT of mud. And this is just one of the long stretches of gumbo we traversed.

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It’s time to retire these shoes.

The rain started up again once we reached Swanage and I was profoundly grateful that the promised group tea at the end of the walk had to be abandoned because the tea shop at the Steam Railway was closed. It was an easy excuse to quit the group, and Piran and I hurried back to the car to seek dry shoes and socks and to make our own plans for the rest of the day, which is when things got much, much better.

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Because we went to Corfe Castle!

Corfe Castle is a magnificent ruin set on a hill above the town that bears its name, located smack in the middle of the oddly named Isle of Purbeck, which is patently a peninsula and not an island at all. One would think that a nation that produces maps so superlative that they differentiate between lighthouses, disused lighthouses and beacons and have different symbols for gravel pits as opposed to sand pits could have got this one right, but apparently not. Corfe Castle was built by William the Conqueror in the 11th century, and was one of the first castles in England to use stone as opposed to wood and earth. It was also one of the last Royalist strongholds during the English Civil War, before it fell to siege in 1645. After being captured, the castle was slighted on the orders of Parliament. And lest you think that slighting, in this context, means that it was not invited to the annual summer garden party, think again. This sort of slighting is a trifle more forceful than that and is a term used for deliberate damage to important buildings - especially castles - to reduce both their practical and symbolic value. In the case of Corfe Castle, they went so far as to use explosives, which is why many of the castles interior walls sit at a jaunty angle today.

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Check out that jauntiness!

That weekend the castle staff were demonstrating several different medieval crafts, including a station where one woman was busily engaged in mixing up a bucket of daub near a small outbuilding that had been constructed inside the castle walls using traditional techniques. A precursor to lathe-and-plaster construction, wattle-and-daub walls are made from a lattice of thin woven sticks (the wattle) set in a structural frame and covered in a sticky mix called daub. It’s often whitewashed over, resulting in the familiar half-timbered look we usually associate with Tudor building and endless suburbs.

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Small amounts of daub are usually mixed by hand, though larger batches were often mixed by animals stomping around on it. This woman’s recipe included clay, aggregate, horse manure and slaked lime. She was preparing it to repair the wall behind her.

And if you think hand-mixing animal dung into plaster is painstaking, consider the other traditional craft that was being demonstrated - the process of shaving animal horn into tiny translucent panes to be installed in a window frame, thus allowing a thin bit of yellowy light into an otherwise dark room.

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This young woman, in her festive wooly cap, was using a sort of chisel to shave down the surface of a 1” x 2” bit of cow horn that had been boiled in the pot behind her. I know times were tough back then, but this seems slightly ridiculous. I know actual glass must have been rare and expensive, but who would possibly look at a bit of old cow horn and think, “You know, this stuff is ever so slightly translucent. I bet if I spent hours and hours of smelly, painstaking labour I could produce a minuscule piece of something slightly MORE translucent!"

Just visiting the castle and seeing the activities on display, especially on what turned into a lovely sunny day, would have been enough to lift my bedraggled spirits after the morning’s muddy tromp. But Corfe Castle ended up having much much more to offer because we’d arrived just in time to see the demonstration of the castle’s working trebuchet!

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This is a small scale version of the traditional siege engine. However, its size is modelled on an authentic “traveling trebuchet” that was actually built at the time. Trebuchets use a counterweighted arm to throw a projectile from a sling. Modern reproductions of the largest medieval ones stand up to 60’ high and can throw an 80 lb. projectile almost a thousand feet.

The Corfe Castle trebuchet uses 3/4 ton of counterweight, and is winched into position by volunteers from the crowd, which on that day included Piran and I. And perhaps because I might have hopped up and down chanting “pick me pick me”, we were the ones chosen to assist in the firing. Yay for unbridled enthusiasm! (Screw you disappointed children - only adults allowed for this activity!) Having spent last summer winding lock gates open and shut, Piran and I were both eminently qualified for winching activities.

Once the arm was in place the National Trust volunteer running the show carefully positioned the projectile - a plastic children’s ball filled with water weighing about 12kg - in the sling. And then, in an act of supreme generosity, Piran let me step forward when one of us was given the chance to actually FIRE the loaded trebuchet. (A thousand thank yous for that!) (Also, Piran is mounting a campaign to have his own tag on the blog. Perhaps that would be just reward for such a magnanimous gesture...). And that's how this happened:


When I posted this video I titled it “Ready, Aim, Fire!”, but in my head it’s always been called: “Does this trebuchet make my ass look big?” (Answer: Yes. Yes it does.)

The trebuchet was undoubtedly the highlight of my day (week, month, life…) but later I did also enjoy a very nice warm Cornish pasty and fortifying cup of hot tea from the award winning bakery in town. And we got to meet a lovely long-haired basset hound nearby, who had a charming name I neglected to write down. Let’s say he was called Chester. I also neglected to take a picture of Chester, but he was fantastic. (And: long-haired basset hound! Who knew?)

On the way back to London we took one last detour to experience the Sandbanks Ferry, a chain ferry that crosses the entrance to Poole Harbour between Sandbanks and Shell Bay. A chain ferry, of course, is a ferry that is guided back and forth by pulling itself along a chain that’s stretched between the two banks.

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Chain and ferry, with Sandbanks in the background.

Once we got to Sandbanks we took a brief spin around what, unexpectedly, turns out to be the most expensive coastal property in the world. Hard to believe, but buying a house on Sandbanks’ Panorama Road will set you back more than if you have your sights set on Monte Carlo or Miami Beach. Apparently it’s popular with footballers, though John Lennon also owned a house there. Whatever the reason, we didn’t linger and soon hit the highway back to London and real life. Despite the wind and rain and mud and group-i-ness of it all, looking back from just six weeks later it seems positively idyllic. Bunking up with total strangers crammed into a crowded hostel. Visiting public attractions. Popping in and out of shops with reckless abandon. Ah, the good old days!

Fourteen Days

Sunday, April 12, 2020

As I implied in my last blog, there’s more to say about my walking weekend in Dorset. But just like everyone else on the planet my life is upside down these days, so I'm publishing this earlier than my self-imposed loosely-followed bi-weekly schedule. For me, upside-down life manifested itself in a last-minute dash back to Canada to lock down closer to family, which meant I had to self-isolate for fourteen days after I arrived. Luckily, I was able to book a very comfortable AirBnB with a helpful and accommodating host where I hunkered down. (I hasten to add that said host was also fully informed of my potentially virulent status as a foreign traveller, and the possibility that I would be slathering every surface in the house with the plague.) And because there aren't enough lockdown diaries these days, here's mine. Just be thankful this is my outlet, as opposed to me contributing to the apparently infinitely-expanding body of YouTube videos of people re-writing songs from Broadway musicals with Covid-19-inspired lyrics and then performing them with family members and home made props. You're welcome.

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Monday

Arrived late in the evening on Sunday, so I’m calling Monday Day 1, as reflected in the thoughtfully-provided inspirational message from my AirBbB hosts. Spent most of the morning unpacking and getting set up. This place is remarkably well-equipped though I can’t figure out why there are two teapots but no kettle. There seems to be everything else, including the retro felt letter-board, a salad spinner, a stick blender and baking parchment paper. I boil water in a pot on the stove to make coffee. Text with Karen about the set-up and remark that it’s no different than showing up for a long-term gig somewhere new, “Except for the End of Days, of course”. Family have stocked the place up before my arrival, including a three litre box of what turns out to be dangerously tasty red wine, and 15 cans of beer. Do they think I’m planning a house party over here? Run 10k on the river trails and enjoy a long hot shower. This is definitely an upgrade from #boatlife.

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Tuesday

Woke up at 4am. Luckily I have coffee and, unlike life in the UK, I have proper cream to put in it. Also, I found the kettle! It was disguised - a blue ceramic teapot with white polka dots that has a built-in heating element. All set now. I’m also kind of working remotely on a future Dubai project and they’re all 10 hours ahead of me so being awake at this hour is actually productive. Go for a run later in the day and Karen helps remind me what to wear for winter running. I remark that I should have brought my old running tights, which are warmer. At least I’ll know for the next global pandemic.

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Wednesday

Last week seems a lifetime ago. I was still in London. I was still unsure if I’d be travelling. I was still stocking up the boat for possible isolation at the marina, stopping frequently at the small local shop where (unlike the big supermarkets) they actually had pasta and tinned tomatoes and, remarkably, toilet paper. Now Prince Charles has the virus, Patrick Stewart is reading a Shakespearian sonnet every day on Twitter and I’m doing remote tech support to get my Dad’s household set up on Skype. I revive “Russian Word of the Day” with my buddy in Azerbaijan, where they’re locked down so tight they’re not even allowing travel between cities. The word is нуждаться, the verb “to be in need of". It’s reflexive, so I take the time to learn the rules for conjugating reflexive verbs in Russian. Because why not? Get a drop of a few more groceries from local friends, including an all-important additional supply of coffee. They stand on the sidewalk and I stand on the front porch. I also Skype with a designer in Shanghai about the Dubai project, even though it’s blindingly obvious that it will have to be postponed; the organisers just haven’t got around to admitting it yet. Tonight would have been the opening night of the show I was working on in London before the Zombie Apocalypse arrived.

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Thursday

A buddy in Dubai proposes a rousing round of online Exploding Kittens, which turns out to be great. I download the app and spend several hours with her and colleagues in London and Baku. It’s the highlight of the day. Run 8k, and I’ve started doing YouTube Yoga with Adriene. As ever, I struggle with Downward Dog. How on earth is this considered a “rest pose”? My shoulders scream and my hamstrings tell me in no uncertain terms: “We can EITHER be tight enough to run 8k at the drop of a hat OR we can stretch enough for Downward Dog. Not both. Your choice.” Evening is spent on the couch with “Avengers: Infinity War”. I’ve been diligently working my way through the entire Marvel Movie canon over the last year or so, in preparation for watching “Endgame”. Infinity War is number 20 out of 23. The end is nigh. Please keep your spoilers to yourself.

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Friday

I’m particularly proud of today’s letter-board message. I think it should be a trending hashtag: #stayINalive. I have no interest in doing anything to make that happen but Astute Go Stay Work Play Live Readers could run with it. Otherwise, a strong start to the day. I do loads of niggly life admin computer stuff like updating software and business accounting and downloading bank statements and such. I’ve also got lots of time for the cryptic crossword these days and Karen gives me some advice on Downward Dog that helps. Boris Johnson has the virus. People home in London are clapping for the NHS.

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Saturday

A routine has formed. Get up, have breakfast, and read the Guardian cover to cover. Morning of ditzy busy work on the computer, then coffee break and crossword. Yoga with Adriene. Lunch and YouTube videos of tiny houses. Run late in the afternoon then shower and have a small glass of wine and a tightly controlled volume of snacks while reading a book, until it’s time to make supper. Supper. Videos. Bed. Rinse and repeat. Added activity today: I learn how to do lattice multiplication. Because, like conjugating reflexive Russian verbs, why not? Also, it’s cool and when we have to rebuild society those of us with a broad range of transferable skills will be in high demand. At the end of my run I go past mom’s place a block away and pick up a jar of real maple syrup that’s left for me on the front porch because tomorrow is...

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Sunday

Pancake Day! Normally I’m not a big lover of pancakes - more of a French Toast kind of gal. But the AirBnB included a partial box of pancake mix, and my mid-week grocery delivery included a small bag of frozen saskatoon berries. I’ve been very careful so far to keep food intake in check, but today I’m not bothering. Pancakes for breakfast. Generous treats, including a stropwafel, with morning coffee. Gooey grilled cheese sandwich for lunch. And for supper, the piece de resistance - steak and baked potato. My sister shares her Disney+ log in so I get to watch “The Mandalorian”. Baby Yoda! I also have a long WhatsApp voice call with Uganda Rob, who’s now living and isolating in Pretoria with his wife and kids. He’s done some research and says that Saskatchewan has far more ventilators per head than London, so that’s something. Run 6k. New York is a mess.

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Monday

Half done this isolation thing. I email a few more friends to check in. Winnipeg. London. Vancouver. I also add a few more time zones to my iPhone’s World Clock, which is now displaying Calgary, Saskatoon, Winnipeg, Toronto, New York, Santiago, London, Gothenburg, Athens, Pretoria, Dubai, Baku, Chiang Mai, Jakarta, Beijing, Tokyo and Sydney. There are friends, family or colleagues in each of those places. Finally, finally, I get word that my Dubai gig is postponed, though it’s not official yet and we don’t know the length of the postponement. I immediately stop working on the few things I was doing and concentrate on more important stuff like joining in a virtual Hash get together with my old peeps from the Abu Dhabi Hash House Harriers. It’s a blast, though it’s 8pm in Abu Dhabi but only 10am in Saskatoon so I refrain from cracking a beer open. That’s a slippery slope I’m still clinging to the top of. Elves from the outside world deliver fresh home made cookies and two bags of Doritos.

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Tuesday

It’s practically April but there was heavy snow overnight, continuing into the morning. This is one of the things I really don’t miss about no longer living in Canada. Spend much of the day trying to set myself up with a Canadian SIM card for my phone, which I normally accomplish by walking into a store. Now I’m doing everything in chat windows and on Skype. Bell Mobility’s chat guy is so utterly useless that I end up swearing at the screen but eventually manage to set up an eSIM for local calls with another company, while maintaining my UK SIM in the same phone. Pleased that Apple has finally got on the dual-SIM bandwagon, however late. I donate some money to Yoga Adriene and download her 30 Days of Yoga videos. (Downward Dog, I WILL conquer you!) Despite the snow I manage a run outside and reward myself with sushi delivered to the airlock (A.K.A. front porch). Manitoba suspends Kindergarten to Grade 12 school indefinitely.

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Wednesday

When I wake up the temperature outside is -19º C, -28 with windchill. WTF? Is this an April Fool’s joke? I used to do four hour marathon training runs in these kind of conditions, but I’m no longer mentally or wardrobically equipped for that. Rely on 40 minutes with Adriene and a bruising couple of circuits of indoor interval training rather than facing a run outside. Spend a few hours going back through the photos stored on my computer and purging to free up disk space, another of the things that’s on my “Ditzy Stuff to Take Care of List”. This means a lot of time remembering my big trip day by day, including places and people and things that I’d forgotten, which is quite nice. I have Facetime supper with my sister’s family in Calgary. It's odd but also not. In London, the NHS is converting the ExCel exhibition Centre into a 4,000 bed hospital.

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Thursday

Get a resupply of coffee but it’s whole beans and I have no grinder. But no matter because it’s Quiz Night in Abu Dhabi! Spurred on by the success of Monday night’s virtual gathering, the Abu Dhabi gang have organised a virtual pub quiz, and I’ve signed up. My team spans 13 time zones - Saskatoon, Abu Dhabi and Chaing Mai. I open the Zoom link and also maintain a separate WhatsApp chat group with my team while we try to navigate a culturally UK-heavy set of questions with a team consisting of one Canadian, one Indian and one American. How many questions can there be about rugby and The Wombles?? Despite our disadvantages, we’re near the top going into the final round (music) when we flame out and have to settle for fourth place. Chiang Mai pleads sleep deprivation because it’s 1am there. Flimsy excuse. It’s still freaking cold outside so I do another round of nasty circuit training. Finished “The Mandalorian” so I start watching “Tiger King”, like everyone else on the planet. I’ve lost track of how many times a day my Apple Watch says, “Time to Stand!"

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Friday

Still. Here. I get another humanitarian aid package which includes a coffee grinder and an unexpected bonus supper of frozen chicken fingers and oven potato wedges, complete with tiny jars of ketchup, chili sauce and vinegar. Do a bit more ditzy life admin work and fetch some warmer running gear from a dead drop at my mom’s. My crosswording stills have sharpened considerably in the last week, and I even managed to finish one completely, though usually the day ends with one or two unsolvable clues left hanging. I pass these on to the crossword coach currently isolated in France. Even though it’s still cold, it’s very sunny so I head out for what turns out to be a great 8k run, getting some much-needed vitamin D and earning my potato wedges and a beer for supper. The Tiger King is running for President, proof that even before the apocalypse the world was not exactly running smoothly.

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Saturday

Finally get around to starting a blog called “Fourteen Days”. It’s snowing heavily, but I go for a run anyway. There’s a sense on invincibility you get after a run in really foul conditions which is exhilarating. Piran sends me a photo of himself relaxing in a hammock on his sunny balcony, wearing shorts. I send him a photo of the snow-covered street outside and I think he’s genuinely surprised that it’s still so emphatically winter here. Come to think of it, I’m also surprised at that. I finally cook up the box of Kraft Dinner that was part of my original supply drop - a momentous occasion, worthy of the letter-board. And I’ve started doodling a tiny cartoon robot every day, which is pleasingly diverting.

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Sunday

Last full day in this particular brand of captivity. The tiny cartoon robots are becoming more and more diverting, and I start to dream up a game revolving around them, leading to more tiny cartoons and taking up a lot of mental energy, which is excellent. Plus once we descend to “Lord of the Flies” level chaos we who can capably use hand tools, provide amusements like cartoon robot games, and also conjugate reflexive Russian verbs will surely rule over you all. I run another 7k and order in pizza for my last supper while the UK rolls out the biggest gun it’s got in times of crisis - a message from the Queen. They must have Her Majesty and Prince Philip suspended in individual sealed bubbles up there at Windsor Castle. Boris Johnson is taken to hospital.

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Monday

Free at last, free at last. Did a full fourteen days, plus the evening before and the morning and I wasn't felled by the virus, so I don’t think anyone can argue I didn’t do this isolation thing properly. My dad comes to pick me up and even though it's April 6, it's snowing heavily. Because it's April in Saskatchewan and winter is not giving up without a fight.

And that was my 14 days. No profound conclusions here, because none of this is concluded yet. I’m just bobbing along in a continuing state of limbo along with everyone else. Next time we’ll resume our regularly scheduled post from the Dorset coast with more hills, more wind, an inevitable drenching, and at least one Very Excellent Thing.

The Dorset Coast, Day One:

Sunday, April 5, 2020

Public Service Announcement: We here at Go Stay Work Play Live World Headquarters (A.K.A. GSWPLWHQ) continue striving to bring you top quality content in these trying times. Thank you for choosing us in between Zoom Pub Quizzes, takeaways, and episodes of "Tiger King".


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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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A downward slope on the other side of The Beast.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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

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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.)

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

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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Many muddy boots on Saturday evening