March 29, 1999: Kimmeridge to Worth Matravers
From Clavel’s Tower to St. Alban’s Head
When it was light enough to see outside I could tell that the weather had taken a turn for the worse – and that a fine mist was descending. We had breakfast at 8:30 (interesting how even the greatest of cooks can’t do anything to transform the great English breakfast) and pulled on our raingear. We were out the door shortly before 10:00 but we only got as far as the post office-shop-cafe-pub a half a block away. (At that Tosh forgot her collection of reservation letters and had to go back to Mrs. Hole’s.) A chaffinch was hopping about on a table in front of the shop while Harold and I waited patiently. I think the girls even used the loos here – after all, we had come 100 yards.
I had decided that we would use the road back to the beach so that we could see some of the thatched buildings of this little hamlet. Eventually, however, we came to a new footpath directly to the beach and we used this, having already bypassed the worst sections of yesterday’s route. We used the loos at the bottom as well – Harold was now concerned that perhaps he hadn’t quite got the battered door shut properly as he left. It was a Monday and firing had begun again to the west – heavy artillery and even machine gun fire. It was an unpleasant and intrusive sound, one we could hear all day long, and one given a especially ominous cadence by the conflict in Yugoslavia, which had begun only a few days before.
Our view, as we circled around the back of Kimmeridge Bay, was dominated by the ruined folly of Clavel Tower and we needed our first black arrow to rise to its height. I had to put away my camera here and my UCLA cap and I tied the hood of my rain jacket beneath my chin. I even put away the guidebooks – for it continued to rain sporadically throughout the morning. The way forward was clear enough and, though there were occasional rises and dips, these were, for quite a while, in no way as onerous as yesterday’s challenges. But visibility was certainly restricted. We could, on the heights, clearly see the obstacles to come, Houns-tout Cliff and St. Alban’s Head, but I was often not certain how far we had come. Once we passed a waterfall that was blowing uphill – that is you could not see the stream plunging over the cliff, but you could see its spume rising on the fierce winds coming off the sea.
The descent to Egmont Bight
The troops seemed to be doing quite well and we had a rest, after several hours, just after passing the wooded valley of Egmont Bight. The others had a bite here too, although I think I managed only an apple. My real problem on this trip was liquid. I carried plenty but it was always easier to have a swig from Harold’s green felt-covered canteen or Tosh’s red plastic one. While the others were finishing up their snacks I started struggling up Houns-tout. This proved to be less daunting than I expected and I had a wonderful view of Chapmans’ Pool as a reward.
Chapman’s Pool from Houns-tout Cliff
Landslips at this spot had destroyed the old coast path, which had actually descended to the beach here; a route seemed possible on the ground and one could see clear signs of a path – descending from this side and ascending the other – but after we began our descent we discovered an acorn plinth requiring us to turn inland for the long diversion up the valley of Hill Bottom. I wasn’t too dismayed by the extra walking because I knew that we were likely to have a briefer bit of uphill on the other side. Still it did feel strange to turn our backs on the ocean and head inland in a dark patch of grass, crossing over to a road that contoured around a hill and headed up the valley. The moisture was not very intense here and the valley itself, with spring flowers along the roadway, was pleasant enough.
When we reached its cottages we dropped down to a bridge, crossed the stream and began a track down the other side – but almost immediately there was a plinth sending us up to the heights of West Hill. There was, of course, an escape route, a footpath directly from the top into our village, Worth Matravers. It would have meant a very early arrival here and, if one insisted on walking every step of the coast path, a very long day on the morrow, but I had argued that if weather conditions were really impossible then this is something we could consider. The decision was taken out of my hands, to some extent, however, because the Lees marched blithely past the turnoff and by the time I had caught up with them, at a Marines Memorial on Emmett’s Hill, the dye had been cast. We continued forward to St. Alban’s Head, therefore, and soon began a tortuous descent on steps into a little valley. Harold fell once and I slipped a bit. Then we had a double arrow ascent of the other side (Hall and Mason say there are 220 steps!) in the teeth of a gale, with rain peppering us at every step. Conditions were really impossible after all.
Eventually we reached the coastguard cottages at the top and I knew that the worst was over. Harold fell a second time and banged his head as we loped down on a truly greasy surface to the Winspit Quarry. A track now lead us uphill, as we abandoned the coast path for the day, heading in the direction of Worth Matravers. The surfaces were dryer than the path we had left behind and the gradients were not too steep until a stile put us out onto a green field – which he had to climb at an angle. Eventually we reached a road and here Tosh pulled out the directions she had retrieved at Mrs. Hole’s, including a map that would allow us to find the cottage called Belros, for Belinda and Ross – the children of Reg and Esme Prior.
Unfortunately Harold wandered up toward the town square before I could get us oriented – we should have turned left immediately – and the result was that we approached the cottage in a most circuitous manner. Once we asked a gent if we were on the right track; he didn’t recognize the name Prior but as soon as we said Esme he informed us we were on the right road and offered us some more directions. So, with the rain having slowed to a fine mist again, we arrived at 4:30.
We took our boots off before entering an establishment that was famous for its hospitality – though accommodation was stark: no en suite, the rooms unheated, the furnishings utilitarian in the extreme, and, as I sat on the edge of my bed to take off my rain pants, it collapsed beneath me! There was a loud twang as a metal strut gave way and everyone rushed in to see if I was all right. I was.
Esme gave me some newspapers for my boots. “That’ll be £15 quid,” she quipped. “It say’s 50 pence.” “Well I have to make my profit somehow.” She gave Reg the job of fixing the bed. I never discovered what his work was but she did report that there had been eight local break-ins recently, “And Reg had been in every house, so they fingerprinted him.”
I was in a pickle over how to get my wet everything dry. There was a tiny space heater (set at 1), one that I jacked up to 5 and suspended my sweatshirt and trousers over. The others took showers and baths but I couldn’t bear the notion of drying off in the still frigid confines of my room so I gave it a miss. The bathroom was well-appointed but Esme had hung on one wall innumerable pictures of bottoms, including some turn of the century smut, some bovine and some porcine bottoms, as well as illustrated homilies such as “If you sprinkle while you tinkle be a sweet and clean the seat.”
We had tea in the lounge, which was decorated with a surprising pirate murial in lurid orange on one wall, and fossils embedded in plaster on the other. Bottles and other collectibles were crowded into every square inch and plants were tucked into every corner. I was afraid to sit down anywhere for fear of ending up on the floor or being strangled by a leafy arm.
Esme didn’t do evening meals so we arranged to spend an hour up in the town pub (which doesn’t do them either) and then be picked up there by taxi to be taken at 7:00 to Corfe Castle. We were still wearing our rain jackets as we walked through the mist past the duck-filled village green to the very interesting Square and Compass. This quite ancient establishment, run by Mr. Ray Newton, was a real local – with three resident cats and at least one resident dog; by the time everyone else had brought their canines in as well there were five of the latter running around and getting hissed at. Ray himself had started a fire in the lounge (there was a fossil museum next door) in order to get the Shove Ha’penny board up to the right temperature for keen competition. We had some Grouse and then I suggested that – since this was the one great bastions of the real ale movement in Dorset – that we ought to sample some of the local ales. Tosh brought a half of Ringwood’s Best and a half of Tanglefoot and we shared these while eating nuts and petting cats. One cat was perched on top of a glass box containing a stuffed squirrel.
Shortly after 7:00 Owen picked us up and drove us through the fog to the town of Corfe Castle. (I must be the only person to have visited this town without catching sight of the castle.) We arranged to be picked up at 9:00 and entered The Fox pub where a bearded Graham – wearing sandals on such a damp day – and his staff made us very welcome near another fire. The chairs used by Harold and I actually sat on top of a glass that covered a very ancient well. Margie had a rib eye steak and the Lees had a very generous fish pie while I had my first and only scampi and chips of the trip. I had switched to Diet Coke by this time. There was a sign above the bar indicating that after 53 years of having no ice in this pub the Fox now actually had some. Unfortunately they had used their supply for the day so I got none. Harold’s favorite ice cream flavor is, not surprisingly, vanilla and tonight I joined him at dessert time. There is too much butter content in the Southwest’s version of ice cream to please me totally.
Well, we did have a jolly time (the bill came to £50 for the four of us) and promptly at 9:00 Owen returned to drive us all the way back to Esme’s; the fog was still very thick. The Priors had gone to bed upstairs but I prevailed on the others to leave the porch light on so that we could see our way to bathrooms in the hall. I read some of my stash of New Yorker clippings and soon went to bed.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: