DH, RW, TO, PC, Sully, Bill, Scrumpy
It wasn’t a race – but it would have been extremely satisfying to beat Trevor to the rendezvous. Disappointingly his wagon turned into the final stretch just ahead of us and we both parked up in front of the Springhead at Sutton Poyntz just outside Weymouth. This beautiful area of Dorset has gained the promotional title of Jurassic Coast and there is indeed some magnificent scenery combined with traditional cottages and picturesque streams complete with ducks. Maybe there are warmer days available but we were not deterred by a bracing wind and the threat of rain.
The four of us with three dogs set off uphill past a recent housing development which last time Dave and I came this way was a range of derelict farm buildings. We started with a fairly challenging ascent but the dogs enjoyed ranging back and forth. Not a soul about suggested others had made better use of the met office briefing. We climbed away from the coast and soon we were able to look back to Portland and Weymouth – redundant cruise liners riding at anchor amongst the steel grey waves. Pete made use of his binoculars to check out the seascape. Noone was out on the sundeck.
The landscape is pretty barren up here – chalk hillsides with a few scruffy gorse hedges clinging on against the prevailing wind. So when the gale blew in a rain storm off the English Channel we had no shelter except a threadbare hedge and the four of us got pretty soaked as we crouched there. The dogs were happy enough.
The rain moved on and we climbed up to join a footpath which could have been used in a Hardy novel where 4 hapless wanderers search for happiness – tragic endings for all 4 of course. We had joined the South Dorset Ridgeway and made rapid progress to Osmington village. We were given a fine view of the Osmington White Horse – unusually this one carries a figure which is supposed to be George 3rd who apparently liked to visit Weymouth. Back to the cars and into town.
Did George like fish and chips? There is a large statue of him in Weymouth but no endorsements so we had a lengthy debate about the best fryer in the town – eventually settling on “Fish and Fritz” a traditional corner shop set up. The drizzle set in again as we crouched under some scaffolding in a backstreet but that just served to make the meal even more tasty. Excellent choice whoever it was. I wonder if George called in here for a bag of chips to console himself when he heard the Yanks were giving him the elbow.
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