Monthly Archives: October 2018

Blue skies and unexploded bombs

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It’s not the noise of gunfire I’m bothered about, it’s the unexploded bombs …

Our new home at Lulworth Camp in Dorset has been full of surprises. There’s the occasional rattle of gunfire, but with a sea view from almost every window, I’m not complaining. I’ve also nabbed the room with the best view as my study – so no excuse about lack of inspiration for writing.

UNADJUSTEDNONRAW_thumb_194aThe night before we moved in we enjoyed a stay in a local hotel overlooking Lulworth Cove. It was a real treat. We were even upgraded and that never happens to me. The suite had its own colour coordinated settee and tea and proper coffee and an enormous bed. The trouble is moving house and all the excitement didn’t equal a peaceful night’s sleep… At 4am we were discussing a nightmare about a crab (something to do with what we’d eaten apparently), when I was unnerved by something and let out a bit of a scream. Moments later there was a knock on the door asking us to, “keep it down in there.” One of us shouted that we were all right, convinced they would think there was a murder happening. Breakfast was a little awkward. Moving scrambled egg around the plates, we wondered which of the other couples had banged on our door and did they know we were ‘the screamers’?

We’re in Thomas Hardy country now, so exploring should be done on foot, or at least by bicycle. The local ordinance survey map shows footpaths galore, with one small hitch; many of the paths crisscross the army ranges that surround us and live firing means they’re only open at weekends and during school holidays.

After the hazy days of unpacking boxes, painting rooms (because you can only take so much magnolia) and finding our way to a supermarket – the first free weekend arrived bright and sunny. Although the garage sort out was beckoning, we turned our back on it and joined two energetic members of the family pedalling east in search of a forgotten village and an almost deserted beach.

The long climb up Tyneham Hill made me dream of an electric bike, but the view from the top and the sausage sandwiches helped. It seemed strange to be cycling through a firing range where cows and sheep grazed in amongst rusted out tanks. There was really very little to show that this was army territory apart from some large florescent numbers that stood out from the gorse on the hillside.

The next surprise was Tyneham village – a place that time forgot. The deserted village is only accessible when the firing ranges are open and lies just up from the sea, nestled in a valley at the foot of a fantastic freewheeling hill. The cluster of stone buildings includes a church, a school, some tumbled down cottages and the remains of a vicarage. When we arrived there were small groups of people wandering between the buildings, but unlike many tourist spots, a hush had descended. People spoke in muted voices as if, Doctor Who-like, we had travelled back in time to the 1940s when the village folk had moved out to allow the army to prepare for D-Day.

Tyneham_Church_-_geograph.org.uk_-_1889

Tyneham Church by Ben Gamble  www.geograph.org.uk 

The story of Tyneham deserves a dedicated blog and I’ve vowed to return for longer next time and soak up that palpable history from the beautifully preserved schoolroom to the church with its colourful tiles and walls lined with photographs from the past. A remembrance service is held there each year, which must be very poignant. Part of the sign left on the church door by parishioners in 1943 read: “…We have given up our homes to help win the war to keep men free. We will return one day thank you for treating the village kindly.” Sadly, they never returned.

After a tough cycle, for some of us, and an exceptionally hot day for October, we were looking forward to a dip in the sea. There was a slight hitch as no-one had brought a bike lock and a zealous ranger told us we couldn’t even push our bikes on the range path to the beach. Undeterred we hid the bikes in some bushes and hoped for the best.

Warbarrow Bay emerged around the corner glistening in the sunshine and we all stripped off and plunged into the very cold crystal clear water. Five minutes was long enough for me to say I’d had a swim to the anchored boat and back. It was amazing to think we were swimming in the bay we could see from our house.

The next weekend wasn’t quite as warm, but we decided to explore the other end of the bay on the range walks and battled our way up a very steep hillside on the cliffs, while a sharp northerly wind made me pull my woolly hat down over my ears.

We spotted a sign warning us to keep off the barb wired beach due to unexploded shells, which we dutifully obeyed. Further up the cliff the path broadened out and with no-one about one of us decided it was safe to venture off the path a few metres into some shrubbery to… you know, call of nature. It turned out this was a bad idea. Catching up with me a few minutes later I heard how he’d spooked himself after kicking over a piece of metal, only to read the words: ‘Danger unexploded shells – keep out’. At which point he looked around and spotted dozens of pieces of metal poking out from the undergrowth in all directions.

Oops!

Lesson 1: Use the facilities before you venture out on the ranges. Unexploded anythings deserve respect.

cliff walk lulworth

The ghost of Thorney Island

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I’m not afraid of ghosts. These past few weeks I’ve been living with a very lovable one and I don’t think he’ll disappear until all the boxes are packed and the removal van chugs off down the road.

It’s three years since we arrived to live on Thorney Island, in the heart of Chichester Harbour. I never expected to become so attached to this place, but it has a way of seeping into your soul. I’ll miss the rattle of the halyards from the boat yard, the whirr of planes overhead, even the noisy chatter from the squirrels.

Most of all I’ll miss the shoreline; its rhythmic beauty as the tide slides in and out, alternately masking and revealing the bright green grass and muddy banks that lie beneath. I’ll miss my walks to the beach, watching white sails glide past the fields and breathing in those big skies that stretch right out to the Isle of Wight. I’ll definitely miss the swimming at all heights of tide and in all temperatures – including Christmas Day – knowing a hot shower awaits just around the corner. I’ll also miss the serenity and the sound of nothing but birdsong, most of the time.

Today, as I wander through the empty rooms of magnolia walls and beige carpets, merging into one, it feels as if our time here has been sucked up with the final hoover. There is barely a sign that our family, and particularly our cat, ever lived here.

A couple of weeks ago, I saw him around every corner. I heard the rattle of the cat flap – even when it had been removed. I heard his meowing chatter as he arrived in from a night of hunting and saw his face at the window peering in. It has been like living with a ghost – the ghost of Simba past.

Jpeg

Simba was the Cypriot cat who arrived without warning in our garden in Cyprus one morning, and who for the past five years has been a big part of our family. None of us are keen on cats and yet he found his way into our hearts and it was very painful to see him waste away over the last few months and eventually succumb to his illness.

Simba was a character. He accompanied us on walks beside the sea, he scared off spaniels beside the sailing club with his massive mane spread out and back arched high, he stalked squirrels, caught mice, sunbathed on the decking and was the longest cat living when he stretched out on the settee. He was also very beautiful and loved to cuddle up close, nestling into your neck on a cold winter’s night. He was known as the ‘Lion Cat’ by our neighbours – knick-named for his fantastic mane and lion colouring.

Now it really is goodbye Simba and farewell Thorney Island. The two will stay together and when we return, as I’m sure we will, we’ll pause by his favourite pine scratching tree and remember our time here with one member of the family who is sorely missed, but not forgotten.