Wet at Weymouth and Chilly on Chesil Beach

 Saturday was a rainy day, the first day our holiday had really been affected by the weather. Greg suggested going to Weymouth, so he drove, giving me a break, and off we went.

 My first impression of Weymouth, despite the rain, was that it was a typical Victorian seaside town. We stood by the harbour with its pastel painted cottages, a seagull glaring at us as it perched on a boat, while we watched the bridge open up to allow a boat with a tall mast to pass through. It was a quaint area, and not a modern building within our view to mar it.

King George III made Weymouth his summer holiday residence, and spent 14 summers here, declaring, "I never enjoyed a sight so pleasing.". He had a bathing machine constructed, a replica of which sits on the sea front, and people would come out and cheer the King as he entered the sea in his bathing costume. His 'madness' was caused by a chemical imbalance that disrupts the nervous system, and it was believed that bathing in the salt water would help his illness. The original bathing machine was used by the public until 1916, and was then presented to the Weymouth Museum, where it can now be seen. A statue of the King was commissioned by the 'Grateful Inhabitants' of Weymouth and unveiled in 1810.

Greg and Elliott standing in a Victorian shelter; these are quite common along the coast on the sea fronts. I'm standing under the Jubilee Clock, built in 1887 to commemorate Queen Victoria's 50th year on the throne. It was restored and repainted in 2018.

Greg took a great photo of him and Elliott while I was down on the beach, collecting shells and stones to take home and put in a vintage mason jar. A lady asked what I was collecting, and I told her what I did, collecting what is found typically on a beach, and then putting it in a jar, with a label that I make, and putting the different jars on my mantlepiece. I have 6 so far. She was intrigued, and I wondered if she'd do the same. This particular beach had some pretty spiral shells with mother of pearl on parts of the outside, and there were also plenty of slipper shells. Lots went in my pocket.

We roamed the streets, looking in shops, stopping for coffee and cake, then got back into the car to drive to Portland Bill.

We looked down onto Chesil Beach as we climbed the hill of Portland Bill. Portland is a 'tied island', so is not technically separated from the mainland, but is joined by a thin strip which is Chesil Beach. This is the southernmost point of Dorset, where a tall red and white lighthouse stands. The waters here are known to be treacherous, so the lighthouse is vital. There are actually 3 lighthouses here, with the red and white one being the newest, built in 1906 and is fully automatic. The Trinity House Obelisk, which Elliott is standing in front of, was built in 1844, and helped to warn ships during daylight hours.

It was freezing cold here today. Gales blew and whipped us along the path as we staggered towards the rocks. We could barely hear each other talk, the howling winds ripped the words from our mouths. I took a short video but the waves were more ferocious than they seem on film. Elliott and I stood down on the lower flat rocks, but we could barely stand upright, we were buffeted from all sides. We put up with this abuse for about 20 minutes or so, and then gave up, desperate to get back to the tranquility of the car.

We drove back down to Chesil Beach and parked up, the rain trying to fall, but the raindrops were whipped away before they could reach the ground. Across the street from the beach was the bay, where some pretty serious and sturdy dudes were kiteboarding.

I jumped down onto the gravel beach and sat down, my back against a small bank, where I could get a little shelter from the wind. There were 2 men out there in wetsuits, and I couldn't believe that they weren't cold, or their hands frozen, as they whooshed past, close to the beach, and then flipped up into the air, looking just like the little Airfix plastic soldiers we used to play with as kids in the 70's. I had to snicker at that, but wow, these guys were hardcore, and I had no wish to trade places with them. We watched them for about 10 minutes and left them to it.

Greg took refuge in the car, but Elliott and I made for Chesil Beach. We walked on the wooden boardwalk, then stepped onto the pebble beach, shining wet from the rain. It was like walking in quicksand. We trudged up the hill to the summit, our boots sinking in the stones, the rain shooting needles of ice on to our faces, and the gales pushing against us. It wasn't much of an incline, but it felt like Mt Everest, and I was out of breath when I reached the top. It actually felt like standing on a mountain, and it was so noisy with the waves crashing, the pebbles being shunted on and then dragged off of the beach by the water, and the wind blasting us; I had to stand with my feet apart to maintain my balance. I took very few photos, the sea was being sprayed on to us by the gales, and to be honest, I was really enjoying the experience, it was almost unearthly.

Chesil Beach is 18 miles long, a shingle barrier stretching from West Bay to Portland. It's not a typical beach, dotted with deckchairs and people sunbathing on towels. As author, John Fowles, quotes: "It is above all an elemental place, made of sea, shingle and sky, its dominant sound always that of waves on moving stone: from the great surf and pounding … of sou’westers, to the delicate laps and back-gurgling of the rare dead calm….”

The pebbles start off as pea-sized at Bridport to potato-sized at Portland. made up of chert and flint. Chesil comes from the old English words 'ceosel' or 'cisel' meaning 'gravel' or 'shingle'.

 

We didn't stay too long, and started back towards the car. Although Mother Nature was battering me from all directions, I didn't feel any cold; my jacket was keeping me very snug, and it was a fun experience to go back the way we came, this time with the wind pushing us down the beach towards the car, where once inside the vehicle, the silence hit me. The weather outside had been a deafening roar.

 

We were all hungry by now and in need of a beer. I found a pub online, which sounded great, and when we arrived, it didn't disappoint. There were lovely gardens to be enjoyed in warmer weather, but today, there was a fire blazing, and along with the tudor beams, seating nooks, soft lighting, and the aroma of food, it was a delightfully, cozy welcome.

The Sun at Lower Burton is a carvery pub and the chef very evidently takes great pride in his food. We were warned not to take more roast potatoes than we could eat, as it annoyed him that many were wasted. We understood completely, and piled our plates high, with only 3 roast potatoes each. So many veggies, not the standard broccoli or collard greens, the staples of the U.S. There were even roasted beets and mashed swede here. I had something of everything. The dinner was devastatingly delicious. I say that because it was indeed lip-smackingly, truly wonderful, but, because it was so tasty, that I cleaned my plate clear of every crumb and drop of gravy, and paid dearly for being such a pig afterwards. My tummy hurt for hours, and even Greg had gone too far, we were both groaning in the car. Elliott ate his plate, then had dessert. No comment. But at least the chef was happy, no food wasted from these patrons, and the beer was spot on too. I hope a return trip can be made in the future.