Posts Tagged ‘Weymouth’
Where Have All The Poppies Gone?
I had the misfortune to have to visit London briefly last week. I was thoroughly disheartened to see how few people in Hammersmith were wearing poppies.
They should be ashamed of themselves. More worrying though was just how difficult it was to buy one. Hardly any of the shops had them available. Even those that we should be able to rely on to show a responsible lead like Tescos and Sainsburys are letting down our heroes. None of the staff are wearing them. What is going on? Weymouth and Dorchester are doing much better and the BBC appears to make it a compulsory requirement – and that’s no bad thing.
London is a miserable place full of miserable, selfish people and it reminds me again how I have no enthusiasm for ever returning there. Tired of London? Yes, tired of death.
“Why, Sir, you find no man, at all intellectual, who is willing to leave London. No, Sir, when a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.”
— Samuel Johnson, 1777
Samuel Johnson
To someone living in 18th century Britain this famous quotation may have had some relevance After all, you could walk from the heart of the city into open countryside in little more than an hour.
Today, any man, with any intelligence, will spend only as little time in London as he has to, for today London is all about death.
The death of our children as they run wild, out of control, knifing, abusing and assaulting each other.
The death of liberty as we are watched and spied on relentlessly without proper cause by jobsworths and parasites.
The death of our culture as we have allowed minorities to create ghettoes that now overwhelm our indigenous communities.
The death of integrity as those who run our government and financial systems become ever more venal and corrupt.
Perhaps the only cause for hope in London is the bright light that is Boris Johnson. This apparent disinterest in the Poppy Appeal, this insult to our heroes really is the final straw for me. London has become a vile, oppressive hot bed of greed, violence and selfishness. I shall fiddle with delight while it burns.
The Heart And Soul Of London
I Must Go Down To The Sea Again…
My first few weeks in Weymouth are brim full of experiences, pleasures, delights and precious few disappointments.
Here I am, nestled away in the delightful village of Sutton Poyntz in a deep cleft in the chalk hills in the biblically named valley of the River Jordan. Behind me, to the north (for an old sea dog always looks towards the water!) is my mountain. In fact, my recent purchase of an Ordnance Survey map has revealed that it achieves only one quarter of the height needed to qualify as such. Believe me, when you climb it, as I do most mornings, it seems plenty high enough. I used to think the miles that I walked with Capone and Carla around Chichester Harbour meant I was fit but in Dorset there are hills!
To the south is the most stupendous view across Weymouth Bay to Portland. The Jurassic Coast tumbles away towards Lulworth. The monstrous cliffs of Portland join the town’s Esplanade along the great shingle isthmus that is Chesil Beach and the sky, usually blue, reminds me every minute that I must be close to paradise.
It is not always a peaceful scene and I look forward eagerly to some vicious winter storms. Last weekend, Portland was hosting its speed trials and, sure enough, a 40 knot wind was blowing across Chesil Beach. The wind and kite surfers sailing parallel to the road were clearly outstripping the cars and the breeze was very much more than brisk.
I parked up, released the beasts and we set off to walk west over the shingle spine. The wind was as fierce as any I have known. Carla whimpered. Capone struck on. I struggled. Chesil shingle is large pebbles, difficult to walk through and with the blast in our faces almost impossible. As my head peeped over the crest I remembered what real wind means. Reaching the top I could lean my whole weight into it and riding the gusts, stand like Kate Winslet at the sharp end of Titanic, supported on air, resplendent in space.
We stumbled down the far side, an awe inspiring sight before us. Eight foot monsters pounding down. Spray flying thirty feet high. The majesty of the ocean before us. The huge, roaring, raging, thundering of the shingle dragged back in the undertow. A lump in my throat, my tears mixing with the stinging spray. The overwhelming, compulsive, massive power of it. I am part of an island race. The salt must run in my veins because this is being alive. Nothing can be more complete, more absolute, more real. Time stands still while the incomparable terror and beauty of nature displays itself.
The walk back is much easier with a helping hand up the hill and in the lee of the shingle mountain the wind now feels gentle and modest. This is why I came to the ocean. This is what feeds my soul.
I remember more than 20 years ago standing on the north coast of the island of Iona with my four month old son in my arms and being similarly overcome. If this is what Weymouth offers me in the first month then i am here for life.
Today, it was blissfully calm. The sea at Bowleaze Cove was as flat as the millpond at Emsworth. Above a million feathers of high cirrus cloud, slightly below, scudding cotton wool puffs, dark at the edges, a Dali-esque caricature of a sky but real not surreal. This is my new home and I love it!
The Eagle Has Landed
I have now found my feet in Weymouth or, to be more accurate, the delightful, picturesque village of Sutton Poyntz – and what a place it is!
This is the view from the “mountain” behind my house. Any words are simply an injustice…
So this is my first post in weeks. At last my broadband is on and my office is beginning to come together.
Expect much more soon!
A Plug For The Bluebell
Before I am outblogged by a blogger, I have to put in my plug, plugs and more plugs for The 
Bluebell Inn in Emsworth. Until now, mentioned only once in Walking The Dog 2, I have certainly been remiss in failing to acknowledge the important part that The Bluebell plays in my life in Emsworth. I am, after all, desperate for a free roast beef and horseradish baguette.
I am not a pub person. Or, at least, I wasn’t until I started frequenting The Bluebell but even here I confess that having walked in in the evening I have walked straight out again after discovering a tribe of boorish, beered-up twenty and thirty-somethings.
During the day though, The Bluebell is a delight. It is only right that I share the responsibility of propping up the bar with Owain and Sid because otherwise it might fall down and where would Giles and Chris and Nicole be then?
Tom, the former landlord, who I hold very responsible for the genial atmosphere that prevails is presently recuperating at home. My sympathy for him is, of course, not at all compromised by the three weeks he spent in Cuba with his 19 year old girlfriend immediately before his health scare.
Capone and Carla are made very welcome and I am considering starting a fan club for them as potentially a far more lucrative business than anything else I have ever done!
It is no exaggeration at all, though, with or without a roast beef and horseradish baguette, to say that the food at The Bluebell is exceptional. I have never been less than delighted with anything from a pot of cockles to a baked sea bream. They even do the best frozen chips in town!
Last week I travelled to Dorset and, just north of Weymouth, called into The Old Ship Inn at Upwey. There I selected, for £5.95, a ham and tomato baguette which, when it arrived, was probably a fraction longer than the word itself and “filled” with carefully crazy-paved supermarket ham (we have to go metric here because two millimetres thick doesn’t work in imperial) and a couple of slivers of tomato. That, combined with ten crisps and two slices of red onion, made me appreciate what I have at home.
The Bluebell does not even deserve comparison with that. Nowhere will you find finer food at better value and if I’m offered a roast beef and horseradish baguette for saying so, I will, for propriety’s sake (but very reluctantly) give it to my dogs.
Peter Reynolds 