A Church of Wonder in the Forest

On Tuesday Mum and I made a trip to Sainsbury's to get my hoard of goodies to take home, and to have breakfast. I had mine fully loaded, and it was divine.

I relished each and every mouthful, a breakfast this fine should be consumed slowly and with much appreciation. It should, but sadly I have to say it wasn't. I came close to bolting it down but Mum's presence opposite me held me back a little.

 My haul of English goodies after I arrived home. They had completely filled one case, but it was totally worth it. I even brought back slabs of extra mature cheddar, not shown here.
I took another trip to the chiropractor in the morning after shopping but once again it was only a temporary relief. I would be glad to get back to the U.S. and see my own doctor. But I wanted to go out exploring again, there was a church nearby in Lyndhurst that I had read about and wanted to see.

The small town is known as the capital of the New Forest since 1079 when William the Conqueror established it as a royal hunting ground. The town is also known for its dragon slaying, a brave knight killing it with his two dogs being lost in the battle. The knight never recovered from the lengthy fight and after dying, his body supposedly turned into a yew tree which is still there today. I didn't see the yew tree but I did spot this horrendous kid atop an ice cream cone outside a shop, which I thought did little to entice folks in to buy a treat.

The impressive Gothic church of St Michael and All Angels, built between 1858-1869. but the inside was what I wanted to see. Pre-Raphaelite windows, some designed by William Morris and Edward Burne-Jones, as well as a mural by Lord Frederick Leighton with local residents as models. It is a church of immense beauty, designed by artists whose work I adore.

There was to be no stint on the ornamentation of work and that is evident. Everywhere I looked were stunning carvings in stone and wood. Even the brickwork was an art piece. Wherever my eyes traveled I saw intricate detailing, on every surface within the church. It was quite breathtaking. The stonemasons were chosen by competition, each carving a pillar and then covering before the winner was selected. William Seale from Thomas Earp's in London was chosen, he and his team worked 10 hours a day for 7 shillings daily.

These glass windows took my breath away, the details were so lifelike and intense, like paintings from a story book, and instantly recognizable as the Pre-Raphaelite style. The bottom 2 were designed mostly by Edward Burne-Jones, but with input from William Morris and Philip Webb, (Standen House designers), while the top photo is traditional Victorian, designed by J. R. Clayton and A. Bell, showing more static figures in blue, red and green.

The fresco by Leighton showing the parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins. Jesus warns listeners to be spiritually prepared. Then shall the Kingdom of Heaven be likened unto ten virgins, who took their lamps and went forth to meet the bridegroom. And five were to be wise and five were to be foolish. Local folklore says the 'wise' were painted from wealthy parishioners while the 'foolish' were portraits of the poor. Leighton was the first painter to receive a peerage, just a day before he died.

I could have stood and looked at these incredible windows all day long. Pre-Raphaelite artists often painted each other, or family, or friends in their art and I'm sure all these beautiful faces were from someone who actually existed.

The Flaxman Memorial, "an exquisite thing, in time and taste infinitely superior to other memorials."
Described by Brian Vesey Fitzgerald on this sculpture, dedicated to Sir Charles Philip Jennings. Sculpted by John Flaxman who worked at the Wedgewood Pottery and was later a sculpture professor at the Royal Academy. Being a Pre-Raphaelite fan it immediately reminded me of the painting, Isabella and the Pot of Basil by William Holman Hunt.

This poignant marble sculpture was designed by Samuel Pepys Cockerell, an English architect, of his 23 year old wife, Anne, who died in childbirth in 1880. The butterfly from a chrysalis represents the resurrected human soul.

Alice Liddell, who was the inspiration behind Lewis Carroll's book, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland and Through the looking-Glass, is buried here. she was actually known by her married name of Mrs Reginald Hargreaves.
It was hard to leave the church. It was easily the most meticulously resplendent church I've ever been in, simply stunning. And to have featured my favorite art style was the icing on the cake. Even the church clock, made by Thomas Cooke, who is renowned as one of the finest clock makers, is regarded as a national horological treasure. As we walked back to the car I looked up for one final look at the magnificent 141ft spire, added in 1869, and visible from the Isle of Wight.

Mum wanted me to see Lepe Beach, part of the New Forest, so we slowly drove across moors and through woodlands towards the coast. As well as the New Forest ponies roaming about, the locals are allowed to let their own horses, cattle and even donkeys have the freedom of the forest. Traffic has to give way to any of the animals, who seem to be fully aware of their privileges and will take their time crossing a road. The homes all have cattle grids or cattle guards in their driveways to protect their gardens but the animals roam freely into the villages and will lay down in front of village stores or pubs. It's strictly forbidden to feed them.

It was chilly and very blustery by the time we reached the beach. Only one other lady was walking alongside the sea, doing the exact same as me, picking up shells. Remains of wartime defenses can be seen here but my head was kept firmly down. The wind was fierce and Mum had once again opted to stop in the car, but for once I wasn't complaining. The shells I picked up the most was the painted top shell, a beautiful whorled shell, its glimmering mother-of-pearl colors which continuously cought my attention. I filled my pockets with shells and pebbles, scurrying back to the car once my eyes began watering and impairing my vision. Time to go home for a hot mug of tea!

Jollity and Jurassic Gems

We had a lazy day on Friday, just visiting a couple of Mum's friends. Jay and Alma. Alma was suffering in bed from a cold but Jay, who is a 89 year young lady, was someone I wish I had more contact with. As sharp as a razor with a great sense of humor, we had an afternoon of laughter. The funniest moment was when her friend Marie called, a depressed old lady who was hard of hearing. Jay put her on speaker phone and the conversation went like this:
J: Hello Marie!
M: Are you there? I can't hear anything on this bloody phone!
J: Marie, can I call you later?
M: What? Oh, isn't life hell...
J: I'll call you at 8 tonight.
M: I'll call you at 10?
J: No, I'll call at 8.
M: You'll call me at 9? Hold on, let me take my teeth out, I can't talk properly.
J: Put your teeth back in, you'll look like bloody Dracula!
Mum and I were on our backs, legs kicking, we were howling so hard, and Jay, laughing, was trying to hush us so she could finish her conversation with Marie.
I was in awe listening to Jay's tales of living in London and I learned that a pig's cheek is called a bath chap, apparently very tasty. We told her we were going to Mudeford and she then talked about fish, particularly stewed eels, which sounded horrendous. But I found the old shop she used to go to in London for stewed eel pie and mash in liquor, Cooke's in Shepherds Bush, and showed her photos. It's still run by the same family as when it opened in 1899. I did find another place not far from her that said they would cook it for her if she gave them 24 hours notice, so she has that to look forward to. She was then salivating as she talked about cockles and mussels, so I promised to get her some the next day.
It was a blowy day on Saturday when Mum and I went to Mudeford Quay again. I've always loved this place, there's always a salty breeze and the constant crying of seagulls as they swoop low over people buying fish or fishing for crabs, hoping to grab a morsel or whole fish from someone's unsuspecting hands.

Starlings perched on crab baskets looking a little wistful as although they can be cheeky birds, they lack the outright brazenness of the seagulls who were perched on the cafe roof surveying all activity around them.
We had got here just before lunchtime to ensure a table in the pub where we'd have fish and chips. On previous times the place had been packed and we'd had to wait for our feast yet today we walked into an empty saloon. Only a couple of guys were at the bar drinking beer so we ordered and quickly grabbed a table. When our lunch arrived we realized why there were no crowds. The fish was smaller than I remembered and greasy. No longer did we have a bowl of tarter sauce or a bottle of ketchup but instead we had small sachets of an unfamiliar brand holding watered down sauces that were not worth squeezing on to our plates. Bitterly disappointed we finished our meal, realizing there would be no reason to return to the pub in future.

We walked along the quay for a while watching The Run speed by, a channel of water that rushes past and is very dangerous Small boats whisked by downstream while a jet ski struggle to make any progress upstream. Adults and children were lined up, leaning over the railing trying to catch crabs. There were plenty of buckets with water sitting by their owners' feet, waiting to hold the catch, but I only saw one crab. The Seven Sisters on the Isle of Wight looked very close but they were actually miles away.
We got some bags of cockles for Jay and I got one portion to have a taste myself, but mainly to share with the gulls. Once they realized I was throwing fish about pandemonium ensued and the surrounding air was filled with flapping wings and high pitched squawks.Their treat disappeared in seconds.

On Saturday, after exploring local bookshops and antique shops on Saturday, and me sliding down a couple of Dorset's fine ales in between stops, Mum and I got home early where we learned of the imminent arrival of Hurricane Florence in America. I was concerned about whether it would affect my flight so kept a close eye on its path over the next few days.
On Sunday we drove towards the coast, stopping to admire some huge pigs at a pig farm and some swans gliding up river from a beautiful bridge in Spetisbury. Mum wanted to stop at Wareham so we found a parking place and walked about.

It was blustery so we never stood still for long but it was wonderful to see a large family of swans greet a group throwing bread. It wasn't until I moved to the States and saw none of these majestic birds that I realized how much I'd taken them for granted while living in England. All unmarked swans are owned by The Queen, the others are owned by The Worshipful Companies of Vintners and Dyers, two of the oldest livery companies in London. Everybody loves the swans and seeing the large cygnets following their parents made me smile. Apparently though, England has had problems with immigrants killing them to eat, with a lack of, or no, regard for English culture. This is particularly upsetting as swans are one of the few animals that mate for life, some even dying from depression when they lose a partner.  Mum and I walked about the town but I had itchy feet and wanted to continue down to the coast so we returned to the car.

We drove through military training grounds, passing a sign that warned us of gunshots, and had no sooner driven past it when an extremely loud report made us both jump. It had sounded like someone had shot from behind the hedge. The scenery began to flatten, the undulating hills spreading out as the sea came into view. It's amusing that it doesn't matter what age you are, you always become excited at your first sighting of the sea. I hadn't seen a coastline for quite a few months so the adult in me had to fight to not flatten the accelerator just so I could get there quicker.

Somehow, soon after arriving at Mum's, I'd seriously put my pelvis out of whack and the pain down my left side was excruciating. (I later realized it was Mum's sofa bed that I slept on, as well as driving a manual car, that instigated the pain.) I managed to limp about but the agony became too much to bear and so I'd seen a local chiropractor. But the relief was temporary and on Monday I was still suffering. But I had refused to sit and waste my time and and so we were here at a beach that I'd loved in childhood. I think we only went there 2 or 3 times but it had wedged itself firmly in my memory as 'the coolest beach ever'. I am not a person who relishes baking on a hot sandy beach, turning periodically for an even tan. I'd rather be discovering hidden creatures in rock pools, studying pebbles and shells and interesting vegetation. So it was with barely contained glee that I pulled up at Kimmeridge Bay, and hobbling over to the cliff, looked down to the stone beach and sandstone cliffs, the wind buffeting me backwards.

Clavell Tower stands on the cliff top, safe now after having been relocated inland 80ft away from the crumbling cliff edge. I would have liked to hike up to it but my hip was in agony so I decided a walk down to the beach would have to suffice. Mum wanted to stop in the car so my time was limited. A shame as I had wanted to spend at least a couple of hours here exploring and reminiscing. Limping down the steps to the beach didn't take long and soon I found myself on a sandstone shore with slate-like gravel and stones that tumbled over smooth rock sheets stretching out into the water like fingers.

 As a child I had always believed the beach to be made of slate. It looks and feels like slate but is actually dolostone, a carbonate rock containing high amounts of dolomite. The cliffs are formed of shale and Kimmeridge clay, with thousands of fossils from the Jurassic Age held in them, which periodically tumble down on to the beach. As I walked gingerly over the rocks I witnessed 4 times parts of the cliff cascading down.

The rock pools had always been the biggest draw for me. I remembered spending hours looking for small yellow, orange, cream or green winkle shells, and today I chuckled as once more I saw them shining brightly against the dark rocks, like jewels in a treasure chest.

I walked around the cove, every footstep causing me to wince. Trying to crouch down for photos was extremely painful but the thought that I may not be back for years forced me to take the shots. There were many kinds of seaweed gradually being exposed as the tide slowly crept outwards. Bladder wrack and sugar kelp are above.

This is such an interesting beach, unlike any others along the southern coast of England. It hadn't really changed since my childhood, the tiny colored shells were there, the cone shaped limpet shells were still prolific, I remembered the little red crabs in the crab pools, the shiny black rock underfoot that led into rippling water, but what I had completely forgotten about were the fossils. Beautifully shaped ammonites were preserved forever in solidified clay beneath my feet. A few people were there collecting them, which is allowed as long as hammers aren't used or as long as they aren't extracted by force. I would have loved to spend longer on the beach but my left hip was screaming in pain and Mum had been sitting in the car for an hour. The time had flown by.

The tide was still retreating as I very reluctantly picked my way across the rocks to the car park, checking rock pools as I passed for living treasure, and was amazed to be rewarded by spotting 2 red beadlet anemones tucked under a rock. This beach is easily worthy of a day's exploring and I will be back. But for now I was happy to limp back to the car, rest my leg and then move onto Lulworth Cove.

Passing picture postcard cottages we approached Lulworth Cove, which, unlike Kimmeridge Bay, had changed a lot since I last was there. One of the finest examples of a cove in the world it attracts thousands of visitors. Hundreds of cars were parked in the chalk graveled parking lot, while multiple ice cream shops were competing for customers along with a large gift shop.

Mum made it very apparent how miffed she was at the escalation of commercialism by lamenting loudly. I couldn't really understand it as the actual cove looked untouched. Pretty wooden fishing boats were resting on the beach until the next launch while a few bobbed on the quiet blue water. I thought it was rather lovely, and even though there were many cars, there weren't that many people here. It was near the end of the day and the ice cream shops were closing down. Mum bought a large cone but I had no appetite, I was too busy gritting my teeth in pain. We walked up the hill into the grounds of a hotel where we had a lovely view of the cove from above. This vista was acceptable to Mum and she seemed happier than when we were down on the beach.

I had one more place to visit that day and it was just up the road from the cove, Durdle Door. Parking once again and leaving Mum in the car, I walked against the now cool breeze down the chalky pebbled track. But I soon stopped and miserably had to admit defeat. I wasn't in too much agony going down but I knew that coming back up would be almost unbearable. I was having a problem just getting my left foot in front of my right so I was getting along almost in a crab fashion. I knew to go further down would be foolish so I turned and slowly made my way back to the car. The day was coming to a close as we headed back to Mum's, the sun casting shadows on the hills and the clouds turning purple. The chalk cliffs gleamed as they faced the sea, a beautiful last image as we drove away.