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.

Umpteen Tanks and a Crumbling Castle

 After brunch at Kimmeridge Bay, it was on to Bovington Tank Museum. The last time I'd been here had been with my parents and brother when I was a child. I have a memory of huge tanks, some that we could climb on and being driven in the back of an armored vehicle up a very steep dusty hill, when we'd all ended up with grubby, brown faces afterwards. We'd loved it. I couldn't wait to see it again.

We had to take a different route because the road the GPS wanted to take me on had been closed by the MOD, due to firing practice. Lulworth has been the home of the Armoured Fighting Vehicles Gunnery School since 1916 and was the birthplace of the Sherman Firefly, the first Allied tank that could penetrate the German tanks in WWII. We even passed a tank pulling out of a T-Junction as we drove along a country lane, they were likely off to get a cream tea. But this detour meant we passed a gorgeous country manor, which we stopped to admire. We arrived at the tank museum, and I got a kick out of parking the car behind an armoured personnel carrier. As soon as we walked inside the museum, I didn't recognize anything; it had undergone some extensive upgrades.

There's over 300 hundred tanks here; the place is vast, but the best part of it was we were visiting on a weekday, so there weren't too many visitors. Some of the exhibit rooms we had to ourselves, which meant we didn't get in the way of people with our cameras, and vice versa. It's said by many that this is the finest tank museum in the world, and although I didn't take loads of photos, because I was enjoying looking around so much, the website is extremely informative with plenty of pictures and videos. I've always been fascinated by these hulking metal vehicles. I remembered watching Battle of the Bulge as a kid and being terrified by the squeaking of their wheels and the deep rumbling of their treads and engines. And that gun turret swinging round, pointing determinedly and decisively at its target made my blood run cold. Yet there was something challenging inside me that thrilled me to stand in front of this huge hulk and stare down the gun barrel. These things are awesome.

We had fun fooling around too. I pretended to be caught under the wheels of a tank, and then in a war trench area, there were vests on hangers, and helmets, for people to take photos. I rather liked my patriotic pose, but Elliott looked pretty mean and psychotic charging on his horse! There were videos games that could be played and displays with buttons and handles to be turned. Some of the tanks could be climbed inside, showing how tight the space was in some of them, having to negotiate a way around what would have been very hot and noisy engines.

In many rooms, some very realistic scenes had been built, battle scenes, dugouts, trenches, and even campfire settings. We rounded a corner and came face to face with 2 gunners behind rolls of barbed wire, triggering a sensor, that set off their machine gun. The loud reports made me jump out of my skin! 

There were a few areas hidden by screens that were being set up for future displays, but this place was vast. We were on a tight schedule so didn't linger too long anywhere in the museum, but we were amazed when we emerged from the building and discovered we'd spent over 2 hours in there. Apparently Rudyard Kipling visited Bovington in 1923 and saw the remnants of tanks left over from WWI, and suggested a museum should be built. So a shed was set up to house the relics and it finally opened to the public in 1947. It's come a long way since then, and I wish we'd been able to see the outside demonstrations that take place in warmer months. But regardless, it was wonderful to revisit this phenomenal museum which had always been such a fond memory since childhood.

Our last visit of the day was Corfe Castle, another place I remembered from childhood, but had never been inside. 4 years ago, it had been covered in scaffolding, undergoing cleaning and repairs, but today it was standing proud on the skyline, and we got there with just an hour to visit it before closing time. Owned by The National Trust, it dates back to the 11th century, and was one of the first to be built of stone, local grey Purbeck limestone, (considered the finest limestone in England), in a time when castles were usually built from wood and earth. Corfe means cutting, or gap. Built by William the Conquerer, it had a great defense position up on the hill, guarding the main route through the Purbeck Hills, and many of the arrow slits are still there in the walls. King John kept his crown jewels there, and it has a similar tradition as the Tower of  London, where ravens nest close by, with local legend, saying the same as the Tower, that if they leave, the castle would crumble. A lot of the castle though, was destroyed during the Civil War, orders came from Parliament, (it was regarded as a threat), and many of the locals used the stone to build their homes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

We walked quickly to the top. The guide had suggested we concentrate on getting up there first, and taking photos on the way down; it was good advice. Once again, our timing was perfect for the photos, the stone was highlighted with defiant bright bursts from a setting sun, with contrasting shadows where its rays couldn't reach. There were a few other visitors, but it wasn't crowded, although Elliott did have a problem with a man in a bright orange hoodie that kept walking into his photos, which I found funny. The views were magnificent, bright emerald grass and trees barely showing any signs of autumn, even though we were in November. It was warm, with a light breeze, and this would've been a perfect setting for a picnic with a bottle of wine, if it had been allowed.

 

 

We were fortunate to see the last train of the day pass by from the Swanage Railway, tooting a loud goodnight as it passed, and billowing clouds of steam. I visited the station 4 years ago, but it was shut down, so it was lovely to see it running today. The line had fallen into disrepair through lack of use and was going to be dismantled in the 1970's, but a public outcry led to its restoration, and it now offers several rides a year, only because its infrastructure can't maintain daily trains. There's now a museum, and several money raising events a year.

We walked slower on the way back down, the sun now having dropped below the horizon. We had taken our photos just in time. Passing a pretty cottage with a waterfall, we ended up in Corfe Castle village, where I was lucky enough to catch the sweet shop before it closed and buy the last of their Winter Mixture sweets, which are an acquired taste, but I love them. I even had time to run to the post office and write a quick postcard and mail it to a friend in America, and then we walked back to the empty car park to drive back to Mum's house and meet her and Greg. A long, busy, yet extraordinary day, steeped in history and natural beauty.