March 30, 1999: Worth Matravers to Swanage
Seacombe Quarry
It was still raining, we discovered, when it was time for breakfast on the fourth day of our walk. Esme was a great believe in the generous breakfast; when Marge and Tosh responded to her suggestion that she could make them omelettes, she wanted to put six eggs in each. Harold and I remained with the fry-up, but there was too much to eat here as well; mind you, I am not a devotee of the fried tomato, and mushrooms should definitely be reserved for later in the day.
My clothes had at last dried and I took them down from their perch above the space heater. My boots were fine as well. We had to struggle into full raingear on the porch of Belros, though this time I decided to tighten the belt on my rain pants (I had also gotten the cuff zippers unstuck at last) and to wear my cap beneath my rain hood – my glasses were less likely to become rain dappled or steamed up from the inside. The irrepressible Esme squeezed our hands as we departed at 9:50, after a brief lecture from our hostess on how to use a gate at the end of her lane to gain immediate access to the grassy field we had used to reach the village the previous afternoon.
Mind you, it was necessary to take baby steps to descend this damp surface – but before long we had reached our trackway through the Winspit Valley and were making our way back to the sea. Visibility was not too bad, in spite of the lowering weather, and we did have a brief period in which no detectable moisture fell. A steep but short sprint out of Winspit put us on a cliff top path and allowed us to move forward toward the next quarry valley, Seacombe, a dramatic place where Tosh paused to get her magnifying glass out so that she could show Margie what lichen really looks like. I posed Tosh against the rocky cleft (“This Dorset landscape would have pleased Cezanne”) for she had just reached her 1700th mile.
Tosh at Seacombe
There was a steep climb out of the Seacombe Valley and we resumed our eastward trod. I must say that the state of the path left something to be desired. The moisture had softened the clay of the surface so that it began to cling to the boots in a most bothersome manner. It was like walking on saucers of mud – with every few steps attracting more of the annoying goo to the sides and the soles of our footware. Occasionally you had to stop just to wipe off enough of the guck to get any traction. The Lees were having a fastidious attack and paused every few feet to scrape at their boots with pieces of stick; I ploughed on at least as far as the next fence, where I could peel off the slime against some wire. Consequently I found myself in the lead most of the time this morning.
We passed Dancing Ledge and a gorse bush that was wearing one red mitten. The path climbed up and over rough pastures, often disappearing, and often rivaled by other routes more or less heading in the same direction. Waymarking seemed to have come to an end. We paused once for liquid refreshment (I finished a small carton of apple juice) while I peered ahead into a thickening mist trying to figure out which of the three breaks in the rock wall on the skyline represented the coast path. Matters did not improve when we reached the boundary of the Durlston Country Park, where there were many more rival routes, many crossing tracks, and the complete absence of any comforting acorns on stiles or posts.
Visibility was really bad. We reached the lighthouse (whose flashing beacon was really needed today) but to Tosh’s most frequently asked question, “When do we get to the pub?” I could give no definitive answer – since I could see nothing ahead of me (beyond the next clump of trees) to give me any sense of distance. Still I figured we had to arrive at the major park building if only we persevered in our easterly quest and sure enough, after joining the lighthouse road, we reached a parking lot where a gent confirmed that we had only a short distance to go to reach George Burt’s Durlston Castle. At 1:00 we were standing in front of this Victorian folly transformed into pub, restaurant and gift shop – and we were very happy to be here.
Tosh asked the barman if he minded boots – probably a mistake since he hadn’t even thought about the matter before receiving the question, but the mud had fallen from ours some time ago and we now left no more than a few damp footprints on the flagstones. We sat down at a table near the door and Harold and I got drinks while Tosh and Margie rushed to the loos and started to examine the fossils in glass cases beneath the skylight. I enjoyed my pint of Fosters but it was a bit chilly sitting near the open door. No one could get the fire going.
Harold went down the steep stone staircase to the gents and returned with a new worry; had the button on the hand dryer stuck half way and would the overheating of the apparatus soon lead to the destruction of Durlston Castle by fire? So I went to the loo and had a look. The button had been slow but the dryer was off by the time I arrived and we were safe. When it was my turn to use it I relied on the longevity of its cycle to direct the warmish air at the chest of my damp blue sweatshirt. When this wasn’t enough I got my black one out of the pack and put it on during lunch.
We ordered our food at a service hatch. There was an extensive fish menu but they had no fish – so I ended up with the chili. When it arrived I could discover a few beans floating in a cheesy soup, but I had no spoon so it was hard to make much progress here. Margie and Harold ordered the roast pork and veg – “Last week’s veg,” Harold said when it arrived, looking rather limp. “It was fresh this morning before they boiled it for an hour,” I responded. Tosh just had a bowl of soup but then she asked for the spotted dick, with lashings of custard. I joined her in this extravaganza and it was yummy. Our waitress, a beak-nosed redhead in glasses was wearing black stretch pants and a tight pink top. The Lees were scandalized by the fact that she was wearing no bra; I hadn’t noticed.
After a very relaxing sojourn we changed back into wet gear and rejoined the mist at 2:45. Our first stop was the famous 40-ton great globe, another fancy of Burt, the Victorian entrepreneur. We circled this and indeed the Castle itself, arriving right back where we started from – which meant that after ten minutes of walking the women could rush back in to use the loos. Then we began a nice woodland walk as we circled around Durlston Bay (no sight of this in the fog) and, after reaching the fringes of suburbia, we continued forward on grass out to the end of the next headland, Peveril Point. There were loos here too but Harold banged his head in the tight quarters of the gents.
The Purbeck House Hotel, Swanage
I warned the others not to expect any more coast path signs, for these are usually hard to find in cities and towns and we were already within the boundaries of Swanage – though you could only barely make out its presence across the bay through the mist. We were soon on the High Street, and Tosh was about to enter the Purbeck Hotel at number 19 when I reminded her that our hotel was meant to be a bit fancier than this and that I was sure there were three words in its title and so we persevered a few more blocks uphill to reach the castellated battlements of the Purbeck House Hotel at number 91.
This was a truly grand hostelry, full of more treasure that Mr. Burt, its founder, had brought back from London as ballast in his ships. Indeed, I could see a portion of the Elgin Marbles from my bedroom window. Everywhere else there were plinths, busts, friezes and carvings in a very large establishment – with a chapel and two dining rooms and extensive gardens as well. The receptionist, a very pale-faced redhead from Worth Matravers, knew of Esme also. She tirelessly explained the not very intricate billing arrangements to Tosh before the latter would yield up her credit card. The Lees then insisted on exchanging a double for a twin – actually they ended up in a large room with three beds, where we had afternoon tea. My own room was quite small but there was a terrific bathtub in which I could have a good soak and a shave. My clothes were far less wet than yesterday; I did stuff a little newspaper (Tosh had to go back to the newsagent to get these) into my boots.
We gathered in the bar at 6:15 and I had a double Bells and a Diet Coke (they had lots of ice here). Dinner was quite special. The French had taken over the kitchen and the food was first rate. I had a fresh mushroom soup and chicken in tarragon, with wild rice on the side. The vegetables were even slightly al dente. Tosh’s dessert came with a little candle atop, for this was her birthday. Back in the bar coffee was served by an elegant Frenchie in black tie and we had a pleasant time – retiring to our bedrooms shortly after 9:00.
To continue with the next stage of our walk you need: