Rocks

I went to the seaside the other day.

Kimmeridge, in Dorset, to be exact.  Mr WithaY needed to go and forage for edible stuff for one of his bushcraft assignments, so he picked the best day of the week weather-wise and we headed out early.

Kimmeridge is famous for being part of Dorset's Jurassic Coastline.  This does NOT mean that there are dinosaurs roaming the earth just outside Corfe, or that you will see volcanoes erupting in Weymouth.

Shame, because that would be excellent.

No.  It's all about the Jurassic geology.  And there's plenty of it to see.  Creationist readers, probably best if you stop reading and go and make a cup of tea while I finish this.  WARNING:  There will be fossils.

So.  A fairly long drive, a fiver to park in a big almost-empty field at the top of the cliff, a walk down the slopey slippy path, over a trip-trappy bridge, a nasty wade through the giant heaps of festering seaweed, and there is is!  The sea!

The sun was out, the sky was blue and it was about as perfect a day as you could wish for.

We got there just as the tide was starting to go out, so we walked along the beach as far as possible - the red flags were out so the Army were firing on the range, and we couldn't go all the way around the headland as a result - but we were able to go most of the way.  Then we turned around and walked back, peeking into the rock pools that were exposed by the receding tide.

The walk was enlivened by the occasional gentle patter of eroding cliff, showers of shale falling onto the beach.  Also machine gun fire, I assume from the Army range.  If not, it was all kicking off in Corfe big time.

I love the way you can see the different layers of rock in the cliffs, and watch how the tiny shale rockfalls gradually loosen up the bigger pieces of rock to cause a major cliff fall.  Fascinating.  Just make sure you stand several hundred yards away.

Closer to the water, the rock surface is eroded into geometric lines so that it looks like the skin of some giant sea-monster.   I decided that if I ever film a low budget sci-fi movie, I will use Kimmeridge for the location, as it looks like the canals on Mars.

In my head.

We discovered these markings on a rock. I have no idea what they are, I assume they are man made but they might be natural.  Whatever they are, they are funky and tribal looking, and I like them very much.

And of course there are fossils.  Pretty much everywhere you look you can see them, and as more of the cliffs break apart, more are exposed.

There's a causeway that is exposed at low tide, and we were able to walk along it.  A chap was there with a small dog, which was whimpering and straining at a tennis ball floating in the water, too far away to be reached.  We discussed it with the chap.  He was confident that the dog would jump in and fetch the ball.  Any minute now.  Aaaany minute.

As we watched, the dog screwed up its courage and leapt into the sea. At exactly that moment the tennis ball, waterlogged and heavy, sank like a stone to the bottom.

The dog owner sighed deeply, rolled up his trousers and waded into the water with a resigned look on his face.

I got the feeling that little scenario had played out more than once that day already.

Once we had walked along the beach, wading in the shallow water in our wellies, and staggering through the mounds of rotting seaweed, we went up the path to the little marine life museum/exhibition there.  They had a small display of native wildlife that could be found in the area, and there were several volunteers outside cleaning a huge World War 2 mine that had pride of place in the flowerbed.

We passed a pretty waterfall cascading onto the beach.

Awwwh.

Then we walked back along the cliff-top path to the car park, admiring the view from the hill.

Wellies off and back into the car to Swanage, where we walked from the car park at the edge of town through the park, and then to the excellent fish and chip shop.

If there's a nicer lunch than freshly-fried fish and chips eaten from a paper bag, sitting on a bench outside in the sunshine watching yachts on the sea, I don't know what it is.  Mr WithaY went mad and bought his own mini bottle of ketchup, which left his lunch bag looking like an axe murder scene.

Lunch finished, ketchup wiped up and leftover chips thrown in the bin, we waddled back up the hill and headed home.

At one point as we walked on the beach, the breeze blowing and the sun shining, we agreed that it was much nicer than working.

In other news: I've got some forms to fill in from the council which will (hopefully) pave the way for a new business plan.  Fingers crossed.

Feastival Time

May?  Already?  Gosh, is it really?  I've been so busy with, um, stuff, that I didn't notice.

Ah, I can't lie to you.  It's not true.  I haven't been particularly busy, at least not with anything interesting, or semi-interesting, or even mildly amusing.  My life has evolved into a slow, steady pattern of daily domesticity and occasional semi-inspired creativity in the sewing arena.

Actually, the Sewing Arena sounds like the world's crappiest full-contact game show idea.  Like Gladiators, but with thimbles and rouleau loop hooks.  And an ironing board.  Maybe I'll pitch that idea to Channel 5.

So. What have I been doing to fill my time, other than making frilly flouncy stuff out of fabric?

Well, I have been making a lot of chutney.  That's not a euphemism.  I went to the farmers market again last week, and bought another huge box of tomatoes for a fiver, went halves on a huge box of gorgeous red peppers for another fiver, picked up a dozen brilliantly red chilli peppers for three quid, and bore the whole lot home in a state of high excitement.

I made two more batches of terrifyingly spicy tomato chutney.  Apparently you aren't supposed to eat it for two months after you make it.  We're shovelling it down before it's cold in the jar.  Mr WithaY took some away with him to his bushcraft course last week, and the people there were asking if they could buy it.  Excellent.  He said that things turned ugly and there were almost blows exchanged for the last spoonful in the jar.  He may have been exaggerating, but even so.  Yay me.

I also made Hugh Fearnley-Whatever's recipe for sweet chilli jelly.  Unfortunately, I didn't have proper jam sugar, so it hasn't set into a jelly.  I swore a bit, considered the issue, regrouped, and decanted it into the empty vinegar bottles (washed, of course.)  Hey presto!  Sweet chilli dipping sauce!  And, dear readers, it is delicious.

Yesterday I went to the Shaftesbury Feastival.  Yes, there's a FEAST right there in the name.

I drove out with a mate* to an industrial estate on the edge of Shaftesbury, from whence we took the teeny park and ride bus.  We went via every single municipal car park in North Dorset before finally being disgorged into the marketplace, where this glorious scene greeted us.  Imagine it with a blue sky, and less of a biting wind.  That's not how it was, but it might make you feel more spring-like.

There was an impressive balloon arch, courtesy of the local dairy, who had also provided a life size model cow with real squirting teats that children were being encouraged to milk.  They didn't seem keen, and frankly I can't blame them.

Look children!  It's leaking water into that bucket!  Go and grab it by the rubber udder and have a good old squeeze!

Nuh-uh.

There was a Maypole, complete with white-frocked little girls with flowers in their hair.  It was charming.  They stood there in the Siberian gale, fierce concentration on their faces, clutching the ribbons grimly.  A bloke with a mandolin played folk music, and they skipped around in complex patterns, weaving a pole-long plait.  And then they did it in reverse and un-weaved it, which I found even more impressive.

The thing that appealed to me most was the fact that Shaftesbury has a special Maypole Slot in the street, usually covered with a manhole cover.  Fantastic.  How many other towns have year-round Maypole access when required, eh?

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Shaftesbury, there is a gorgeous walkway along the edge of the Abbey walls, with a view across half of Dorset, and that's where the majority of the food stands were sited.

This is the start of the Parade O' Food, and this is the view across the valley in between the stalls.

There was bread, from several local bakeries, but I liked the look of this stall best.  The owner was being very cheeky, offering us his "small soft Italian." I told him I prefer mine larger and firmer, and he said "I get told that every week..."

There was a giant paella...

A whole roast pig....

 Chillies, olives, peppers, capers, garlic and all manner of savoury nibbles......

We saw posters for the upcoming Dorset Knob Throwing contest, which made us laugh immoderately.

In the craft stall area, along the main road, there was this rather excellent hearse, full of vintage handbags.

The local junior schools were selling teas and snacks in the town hall, and as we were walking back through the town to head home, several small children had obviously decided to increase their marketing area, and were standing in the middle of the thoroughfare with trays of food, holding up the crowds, asking people "Wanna buy a sandwich?" which I thought was very entrepreneurial.

So.  A grand day out.  I shall definitely be going along next year.

Other news:  It's been raining almost endlessly for what seems like a month.  My garden is battered flat, but there are strawberries starting to grow in my newly-planted tubs.

I have also applied for a part time job locally, as I am starting to go a bit mental from not being busy enough.  Fingers crossed, eh.





*Hello Jo!

The Underworld

We've just had the last Bank Holiday of the summer here, the traditional signal that Autumn is on the way, and then in no time it's winter, and then we might as well all just DIE in a howling void of ice and gales and closed roads due to 20 foot high snowdrifts. 

Maybe I'm reading too much into it.

Mr WithaY was away for the weekend, taking part in a re-enactment thingy as part of his cunning plan for future solvency through swordfighting.  I was, therefore, at home on my own for a 3-day weekend. What would Captain Kirk do?  Call his mate and suggest going out for a curry, obviously.

As it happened, Bestest Mate was available at the weekend as well, so we went out for a curry on Saturday night.  Mine was fab. His was good but not brilliant, partly due to unfortunate menu choices. For example:  garlic mushrooms as a starter. In an Italian or French restaurant, yes, fantastic.  Mushrooms. Garlic.  Butter.  Nom nom nom.  But in an Indian restaurant?  I'd suggest sticking to something a tad more traditional.  That way, there's not likely to be any surprises when you cut into your vivid orange-crumb-encrusted mushroom to discover a strange yellow curry-flavoured paste nestling in there along with the mushroom. 

As an aside, I learned a good deal about a product called "Ruskoline" that evening.  It's a (possibly) vivid orange breadcrumb-type "crumb dressing" used to cover fish. I expect it could cover all kinds of other foodstuffs but Bestest Mate seemed most knowledgeable about the fish aspects.  I'd never heard of it, he was insistent that it was well-known. Possibly only in Shetland, though.

The things you learn on a night out.

One thing I like about that particular curry place is that everyone in there seems to know everyone else.  I saw some of our neighbours, and said a quick hello, but the surrounding tables were full of people exclaiming at seeing old mates around them.  The restaurant used to be a Little Chef, so it's huge.  I like that; it never feels crowded even if there are 30 people eating in there. 

They have a childrens slide out the front of the restaurant, left over from the Little Chef days, in the shape of an elephant.  I noticed that now it has been adorned with eyeliner and golden bodypaint highlights, rather than just plain grey paint.  Excellent. 

The following day we decided to go to the coast for a nice walk and a crab sandwich.  Mr WithaY and I live in a landlocked county a surprisingly long way from the sea.  It's always a bit of a shock to realise how fara way the coast is.  We drove and drove and drove, miles and miles and bloody miles, till we got to Weymouth. 

"There's the road to Portland," I advised, in my role as unwilling human satnav. 

"Are you sure?" was the reply.  Never a good sign. We had an agreeable - if accidental - scenic tour of Weymouth seafront, before finally turning round and following the road I had suggested initially.  The one with the sign on it saying "Portland." 

*sigh*

Portland itself is an odd place.  As you drive through it on the way to Portland Bill, you pass a small shop for Portland's Feral Cats.   I imagine it is a fundraising shop, rather than a hellish room crammed with spitting furry pointy-eared bastards wearing labels saying "This one half price" or "Special offer - buy one get one free" and a terrified sales assistant in full body armour, poking at them with a long stick if they get too close to the till. 

We kept our eyes open but I failed to spot any cats whatsoever, never mind exciting feral ones.  I had hoped we might witness a lynx perched moodily atop a rock on the cliffs, or perhaps leaping onto the fish and chips of unsuspecting holidaymakers.

No such luck.

As an aside, I just did a Google search for the Portland feral cat place, and found this news story in the Weymouth newspaper.  It's got nothing to do with my post, but I like this quote in it:

               Photographer Dave Haysom of Tollerdown Road said: “I didn’t see the car go up in flames but when I got there I saw the police photographing a pair of trousers which had been discarded in the road."

Never mind chasing the arsonists.  Photograph their trousers, dammit!

Anyhoo.  Portland Bill.

It was a breezy day, with big black clouds blowing across from France, so there were plenty of "Jeeeeez it's cold!" comments interspersed with basking in the sunshine.

Here's the lighthouse under moody and magnificent skies.

Here it is from a different angle, demonstrating the changeable-ness of the weather rather nicely.

There were plenty of people wandering about, a few brave souls canoeing in the sea off these cliffs.  Mental.

I liked this boat-lifting crane, and the tumbled blocks of stone.  It all looks half-finished somehow, as if someone will be back to put a last wall up or something.  Once they've had their tea break.

And of course Portland is where they bury demons, to prevent them taking over this dimension. It's hard to bestride the human realm like a mighty terrorising fiend, subjugating all mortals to your eternal will when you're up to your horn-tips in Portland stone.

They also do a nice line in signage here.

I was tempted to stand on the clifftop, pointing at the sun, just to see what happened.  Maybe they release the demon from his stone prison to fling you into the uttermost abyss of perpetual darkness.  You and your unsupervised children, puny Earthling. 

And there was this place.  Is it a beach hut?  A stable?  A dairy?  A hobbit holiday home?  It looks like it's made of corrugated iron that's been plastered over, but the front is all stone.  And it has a stable door.  And a chimney.

I was very taken with it, anyway.

Maybe it's where the demon-wrangler lives.

Other news: The carrot crop is starting to get freaky.

Brrrrrr.  It's the end of days, my friends. 

Mal de Dorset

This weekend I have done a lot of driving, most of it either in the dark, or in appalling low visibility due to heavy rain. It's been fun.

It took me over two hours yesterday morning to get to my lovely Mum's house. A combination of appalling rain, motorway spray and heavy traffic meant that I seldom managed to get much over 50mph, except for brief spurts on the motorway, in between the 40mph roadworks sections.

Ahhh travel in 21st Century Britain.

It was a shame that it was so dark and rainy, as otherwise it would have been a beautiful trip. What I did see of the trees in all their Autumn glory was lovely.

All that aside, once I got there, we had a relaxing comfortable day doing little more than chatting, doing the Saturday Telegraph crosswords, watching films* on TV, and eating a rather splendid Chinese takeaway.

It was excellent.

When I got home, Mr WithaY was collapsed full-length on the sofa, post-bath in his tracksuit bottoms and a huge sweatshirt, watching "Watchmen" on DVD. He was knackered, having got up early and spent the day tramping across the countryside, shooting. He brought some pheasants home, so I expect they will feature at a Dinner Party Near You** soon.

I watched the last 40 minutes or so of the film with him, and thoroughly enjoyed it, despite having seen it before, and missing the first two and a bit hours this time. If you haven't already seen it, you should. It's long (almost 3 hours) and there are some icky "look away" bits, but the story is great and I love the way it's filmed.

Today we went down to check on Father-in-Law WithaY's house (still standing, still full of all his stuff, still not for sale, gah) and then called in at Tesco in Shaftesbury on the way home. Unfortunately, I was overcome with what can only be described as sea-sickness on the way there, and spent much of the trip feeling myself getting paler, tremblier and cold-sweatier. As we drove through Shaftesbury I was having nighmarish visions of having to stick my head out of the window and vomit copiously all over the scenic streets and merry tourists.

I managed to not do that, but it was a close run thing.

Walking around the Tesco car park taking big breaths*** restored me to more or less normality, and we were able to get all the groceries AND another digital radio (£25! Bargain!) without any vomit being involved.

The radio I bought at Asda is now living in my study up here, as I can get Planet Rock on it. Hurrah. The one in the kitchen is currently tuned to BBC Asian music. Mr WithaY and I were dancing around to bhangra music as we put the shopping away.

Before I felt as though I was going to die, I took a couple of pictures out of the car window of a fabulous poppy field in full bloom.

You can't see just how big that field is.  It's HUGE.  Take my word for it.

*"A Passage to India", which I had read but never seen before, and then "What About Bob" which contains Richard Dreyfuss chewing up the scenery in a splendid manner.

**But only if you live round here. If not, get used to disappointment.

***Yeth, and I'm only thixthteen.

Castles

Photos from the weekend. If you watched "Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves", you will recognise both the castle and the grotto. If you don't, watch it again, and pay more attention.

Sorry if you now have that godawful Bryan Adams song going round your head, by the way.


This is Old Wardour Castle, from the front. Hence the door.


This is the Eighteenth Century grotto, put there by Capability Brown on one of his "Call this scenic? I can improve on this shitty old countryside." jags.


And hey, he was right.


There was a wedding being held there later in the day. The flowers were lovely, we could smell them from the other side of the huge gridded iron door. Most atmospheric. "Yes, we got married in a dungeon."


This is a view of the lake, again a Capability "I laugh in your face, puny natural features" Brown addition I think.


This is the Eighteenth Century summer house thingy. Also fitted up for a wedding. Note the glorious Wiltshire countryside. There in the background. The green stuff.


A side view of the castle, demonstrating what they mean when they talk about a place being made "indefensible". Yes, there used to be more walls around the back.

And finally....



Gold Hill, in Shaftesbury, where we went for lunch. A bugger to cycle down. Or up.

Two go mad in Dorset

As it has been such splendid weather this weekend, Mr WithaY and I have been Out and About. In the open air. Doing stuff.

It's been lovely.

Yesterday was a Doing Stuff At Home day. I decided to wash my car, despite the dire consequences last time, and in direct opposition to Mr WithaY's views on car washing. I offered to do his as well, I was feeling so optimistic about the exercise.

He declined, on the grounds that he "doesn't want to be driving around in a big shiny Landrover." I suggested he get his car covered in green velvet for a really matte look, in that case.

He ignored me and went to clear out the garage instead. A brave man. Isn't it amazing what mice will eat?

Anyhoo. Washing my car. I spent bloody ages on it.

First, I washed it all over with the hose and a soft brush to "remove the loose dirt" as per the car wash soap stuff instructions.

Then I mixed the correct quantity of soap stuff with warm water and washed all over the car with a sponge.

Then (and by now I had been going at least an hour) I rinsed off all the soap with the hose pipe.

I stood back to admire the gleaming loveliness.

It looked fantastic. The whole time the car was wet, it looked really clean and shiny. The moment it dried, it was streaky, dull, and splattered with I know not what.

Frankly it looked worse than before I started.

I gave up in disgust and went to wash out the bird feeders instead. I love having a hosepipe with a trigger control on it.

But the Dorset thing. That was today. We got up early and scooted off to the coast. We went to Worth Matravers, a fantastic Dorset name for a village, and parked up. I was very taken with this sign:



Not here, you fool! There. There!

I also liked the giant dry stone beehive thingy.



We found the footpath, not too steep, not too muddy, and wended our way to the sea.
Please note Mr WithaY's funky stick. I borrowed it on the way back, and managed to not trip over it. Unlike him. Heh. Anyway, he went striding off in his huge boots and gaiters and I tripped along behind feeling as though I ought to have been carrying a small dog in a handbag, and wearing a pair of high-heeled, fluffy pink mules, so under-equipped was I in comparison.



We got to the sea. Windspit (another charming name) looks like it used to be a quarry, and there are loads of odd square caves cut into the rock.



A group of people were rock climbing up and down the cliffs. Brrrrr.



We watched for a bit but nobody fell off.

The sea is too far away, down scary cliff faces to get to, but we sat on the edge of the rocks and watched it for a while. Most relaxing.



After scaring ourselves silly on the edge of the cliffs for a bit, we trekked back up the hills (didn't notice them on the way down) to the car, and then to Swanage for splendid fish and chips.



...passing the village duckpond on the way. One of the ducks was on a mission. He kept diving under the water, trying to catch one of the goldfish in the pond. Nice symbiotic relationship there. I bet the fish are really relaxed.



And then home for tea and medals. Marvellous.