The Ancient Allure of the New Forest

And all of a sudden, it was the last day to spend out in the English countryside. Tomorrow would be the trip back to America. We'd seen so many beautiful coastlines, ancient buildings and scenic countryside, and today we would spend a few hours in an ancient woodland, and here in Dorset is the New Forest. It's called that because 1000 years ago William the Conqueror spent a lot of time hunting in this area, it was 'new', to him, and 'forest' meant a hunting area. Much of the New Forest is actually open moorland, reminding me of North Yorkshire, but the area I was particularly interested in today was the actual forest part, which contains the highest concentration of ancient trees in western Europe, ancient meaning 400 years or older, although some are much older.

Although cold, the day was sunny, with shafts of sunlight spearing the leafy canopies overhead, puddling the forest floor, which was dense with thick leaves, moss and lichen. The ferns looked magical in this light, rusty fronds curled over, as though catching the rays of sun and then throwing them back up into the air, creating a blanket of orange.

And of course, no trip to the New Forest would be complete without seeing the ponies, which have been present since earliest times, and are largely responsible for the moors landscape, which would soon become overgrown with scrub without their grazing. Of course, after all these years of freedom in the forest, the ponies are completely indifferent to humans. There are strict laws about not feeding them, but a small group had wandered into a car park, discovering some discarded sandwiches on top of a rubbish bin, likely left for birds, and set to, demolishing the lot, completely ignoring us spectators, and a couple of men, who were trying to get to the parking meter for a ticket. The ponies on the moors were equally aloof and distant, ignoring all my groveling greetings and exorbitant compliments, sauntering past as though I didn't even exist, it was quite hurtful.

We were looking out particularly for the mustached variety, ponies I'd seen on my last trip with wonderfully excessive handlebar-shaped lip rugs that were stunning to behold. I found an interesting article on them here.  But, unfortunately, even though we drove down quite a few roads, the mo-ponies were nowhere to be found.

The gorgeous forest moors were with scattered flashes of bright yellow from the last blooms of the gorse. Ponies were plentiful in areas, some basking in the afternoon sun, while others were taking casual strolls along the roads, mindless of traffic, since they have the right of way. Even though the speed limit is 40mph, there are still accidents where ponies are injured or killed, and this, unfortunately, seems to be an increasing issue.

The woodland areas are my favorite part, with many large oak trees, beeches and holly. The beech and oak was once used by the Royal Navy for ship building in the later 18th century, including Nelson's ship, HMS Agamemnon, which fought in the Battle of Trafalgar. There's no restrictions on where you can walk in the forest, and while we wandered about we had our area completely to ourselves, not seeing a single soul.

 Some old trees had fallen, their crumbling trunks becoming an ecosystem of their own, rotting bark carpeted with thick emerald moss. The recent rains had encouraged some interesting mushroom growths on some of the decaying trees, but these were past their prime when I photographed them. It was an incredible feeling to walk through these trees, knowing this area looked almost the same as it had 1000 years ago when William the Conqueror went hunting here. Fallen trees are left in place, providing habitat for smaller animals and insects, and even create small dams in the streams, which provide shelter for fish and other freshwater life. Old trees which are dying are left to fall naturally, since their 'branch death' still provides invaluable sources of food and shelter for creatures, and they can still stand for many years despite their inevitable demise. The forest floor was dense with mosses and soggy fallen leaves, it was like walking on a plush carpet, albeit a little soggy in areas. The air was filled with the scent of rich earth and decaying trees, and with the deep silence, it felt almost mythical. You could sense the centuries that had passed here with little interruption, and feel the magic of it. With the occasional sunlight beaming into the glades, I almost expected to turn around and see a unicorn standing in a clearing, or catch a glimpse of William himself sauntering through the trees with his bow..

 As the afternoon drew to a close we drove back to Mum's and stopped for our last fish and chips, which we ate out of the paper, and it was delicious.

 And then it was Thursday, and time to leave home to return to the U.S of A. I'd been dreading this day and each visit never makes it easier. We said our goodbyes and left, with promises to return within 2 years. I munched on a pork pie for breakfast, this has now become a  Leaving Tradition for me. It was dark as the plane took off from Heathrow, leaving stationery planes below with a foggy lamplight surrounding them. As we rose higher, the headlights from the traffic twinkled like diamonds on a necklace as they slowly wound their way around the motorway. During the inflight meal, I managed to snaffle 4 small cans of red wine to go with the curry and chocolate caramel dessert, which cheered me up somewhat, but I left my heart back on that runway, and knew it would take a few days to get back into 'American mode'. But at least there were 3 fluffy puddytats waiting at the Blue House for us to return, and a ride on my favorite steam train to look forward to on Sunday. And 2 years isn't really that long...

The Cove and Door at Lulworth

Sunday and Monday were leisurely days with Mum and Greg. Lunch at a local golf club meant we got to eat another roast dinner, although it wasn't a patch on The Sun, but it was still perfectly acceptable. We shopped at Marks and Spencer for food to gobble down while we were here and also to take back to America. On Monday, we crammed in another outstanding cream tea at Pamphill Parlour Cafe, then ambled around Wimborne Minster, looking at the old church with its Astronomical Clock, and the local charity shops.

Then on Tuesday after another full English breakfast, it was back into exploring mode, and this time we were off to Lulworth Cove. We passed by the 2 gates that lead into Charborough House and the Drax Estate. I'd come across these in 2016, and knew Elliott would want photos. I was content to just peer through the gate at the amazing statues that line the driveway, and wonder what kind of lives lived behind these gates.

We arrived at Lulworth Cove, and parked the car in the visitor carpark before walking down the lane to the cove. It was extremely blustery, but thankfully, the rain was holding off. There were very few others braving the high winds, even down on the beach, there were only a handful of people.

Although the cove is mostly protected by it narrow opening to the sea, the waves determinedly pushed through, crashing on the rocks, throwing up veils of fine spray or curling wisps of water, thrashing out their energy before finally tumbling on to the beach we walked on. There are usually a few small boats bobbing on the water, but today, the bay was empty.

During the summer, Lulworth Cove is a popular tourist destination, with over half a million visiting the horseshoe cove annually. The beach is shale and limestone, the limestone looking a lot like the chalk from Botany Bay, the pebbles have the same soft, white, porous and holey appearance. There's many footpaths to follow along the shoreline, and inland, but the gale force winds swept those ideas out of our heads, and today, we were focusing on just the beach.

The tide was coming in when we arrived, but with quite a lot of the beach still accessible, we walked around the cove before the tide came in completely. This panorama shot shows the cove entrance, created when the sea smashed through Portland limestone and then eroded the clays behind that. We met a couple on this side; the young man was English, and his girlfriend was American, from Massachusetts. She was loving England, and the English people. We stopped to chat, and then slowly made our way back as the waves were encroaching further in on the beach. An elderly man was hanging on to a trailer at the entrance to the beach, his eyes watering from the winds, but thoroughly enjoying the waves. He clutched a camera in his free hand, and we spent a few minutes swapping information on photo processing software, before leaving him to his photography. 

 

 

Back at the car, We made the dumb decision to walk up over the cliff tops to Durdle Door. It was only a couple of miles there, so we began the march up the long steady incline of steps. It was extremely blustery, and I battled against the winds to make headway, but finally we were up on top of the cliffs and looking down on to the cove just before Durdle Door. We were laughing as it was a real struggle to remain standing in one spot, the wind was hellbent on pushing and knocking us about. We felt the familiar pinpricks of icy rain on our faces, and decided driving to Durdle Door might be a better decision. And so we trekked our way back down to the car, the pebbled path now slippery from the rain, and our descent slower than the climb up. As we neared the bottom, a local man was walking his dog, and veered off the path to walk on the grass along the bottom of the hill, rather than going upwards. Sensible man!

At the carpark to Durdle Door, we had to trek down a hill to the beach, but it seemed a little more sheltered than our last arduous trek, and progress was made quickly. Durdle Door is one of Dorset's most photographed landmarks, and although it is open to the public, it's actually privately owned by the Welds family since 1641, and is part of the Lulworth Estate which also includes Lulworth Cove and Lulworth Castle. Durdle comes from the old English word, 'thirl', (meaning drill), which in turn comes from 'thyrel', (meaning hole).

 

 

 At the top of the cliff looking down to the left is this strip of shoreline, called Man 'O' War Cove. The name 'comes from the man-of-war, a sailing warship, and the animal's resemblance to the Portuguese version (the caravel) at full sail' These images on the Wikipedia page illustrate this, and now I can see why the cove is called this, the waves forming the same pattern as they rush towards the beach.

Looking down to the right, Durdle Door, stands proud in the bright sun, frothy waves crashing loudly on to the shore. Only a handful of people were down here, and I stood watching them for a few minutes as they were being blown along the edge of the water by the fierce winds. There were steep wooden steps to climb down to the beach, a few folks clambering up were having problems negotiating these while trying to keep their balance, as the strong gusts kept blasting us.

We stood patiently while these poor people stumbled and clung on to each other as they made their way up, taking advantage of the time to snap a slew of shots from the top while I waited. And then it was our time to climb down. Slowly at first, but I was getting impatient, and picked up speed, finally jumping down on to the pebbles, and then amazed, once I was level with Durdle Door, at how loud the waves were. They crashed and smashed against the rock arch, then clattered on to the pebbles on the beach with almost splintering explosions. I laid down on the pebbles to take some shots, but almost immediately gave up. You can see from the blurred, bleary areas in the photos that my camera lens was getting pummeled with sea spray.

 It was interesting to take photos from different perspectives of the door; this last photo looks like the arch is tilting. The beach looks like a red sand but is in fact, tiny pebbles, which had the same consistency as loose sand to walk in. We were ecstatic that we could take photos with nobody's footprints in it, the beach smooth and untouched. It would've been lovely to be able to sit on the beach for an hour or so, and let ourselves be hypnotized by the constant awesomeness of the waves thrashing against that arch, but it was cold down there, and the gales were ruthless. But I still preferred this wild, almost desolate scene to one with blazing sunshine, a tame sea and hoards of tourists.

 

Even though there were no seabirds to be seen, likely due to the cold winds, a seagull had lost a feather here among the bladderwrack seaweed, maybe washed in by the sea.

 

The tide was tumbling inwards as we left the beach to climb back up to the top. This, for me, was a lot easier than going down. There was no handrail to clutch, but with a forward momentum I soon sallied up the steps. Man 'O' War Cove was still displaying its 'sail' formation and looked different from earlier on, without the sunlight shining on the water.

It certainly seemed duller and more overcast as we reached the car. It was bliss to sit inside, with no loud noise or cold gusts assailing my ears, the silence was heavenly. We sat and looked out for a few minutes, then spotted a man, loaded with camera bags and a tall tripod, beginning his walk down to Durdle Door. And as he passed the gate, the rain began to fall. But what a hardy guy! We looked and waited, yet he didn't retrace his steps tot the car, he was going down. Good for him, but we were finished for the day.

On the way back to our caravan, we stopped at a pub that couldn't be passed, since it was named The World's End. We chugged a couple of well earned pints of beer, and I was impressed with my dinner. I never eat belly of pork, because of the fat, but the waitress said it was exquisite, and the best thing on the menu, and so I chose it. And she was right, it was wonderful