Having learned about their courage and ordeals in history at Bryanston, I felt we should stop off at the museum dedicated to the Tolpuddle Martyrs, but we found it closed for repairs, following flooding. Not sure what to make of the sculpture of George Loveless outside, but it was striking from some angles.
Cider Museum
Having enjoyed cider so much – or so much cider – at Bryanston, and having enjoyed Dabinett cider in recent years, and having met Sue Clifford and Angela King of Common Ground at Romy’s last night, two people who have done more than pretty much anyone else to preserve and rebuild this country’s apple varieties and orchards, it seemed a good idea to drop in on the Cider Museum in Owermoigne. So we did.
Green wheel on cider equipment Elaine and Mr. Cider Clock faces
Hambledon Hill
I’d be happy for my ashes to find their way up here
Arrived late afternoon at another Sawday find, Manor Barn in Child Okeford, which Elaine had chosen in large part because it looks out onto Hambledon Hill, the extraordinary hill fort where I spent many charmed days during my time at Bryanston, just down the road. A sloping window allowed a star to peep in as I went to sleep – but that was after we had walked to the top of kestrel-accented Hambledon, in the gathering twilight, taking in the breath-taking views, that are almost 360 degrees,and has supper at the nearby Talbot.
Frampton House
A while back, I bumped into Alastair Sawday when I spoke at an event organised by Tomorrow’s Company, and tahnked him for his extraordinary guides – which Elaine has used for years. Yesterday, we arrived at Frampton House, which was another Sawday treasure, landscaped by no less than Capability Brown. Wonderfully sunny when we arrived yesterday afternoon, en route to Musbury, but pouring down at times as we got ready to leave this morning – after a wonderful breakfast.
Maiden Castle
Finally realised a childhood dream of making my way up Maiden Castle. We walked around the ramparts in a haze, but the experience was spellbinding. Several times we bumped into a delightful couple, once by the pit that held a series of much-the-worse-for-wear skeletons that Sir Mortimer Wheeler dubbed long-ago war victims. Whatever the truth, there was a sense of generations of lives lived out here, through thick and thin, and the spearpoint found in one spine was graphic evidence of the distress caused by the Romans turning up in the neighbourhood. In the distance, Poundbury shimmered through the haze, like something out of that old TV series, The Prisoner.