Dorset Magic – Dorset, England

Dorset Magic
Dorset, England

We were leaving in twenty minutes and I knew they wouldn’t be there, but I thought I would try anyway. I had thoughtlessly let them slip out of my jacket pocket while following one of Evershot’s inviting footpaths the day before and I knew my glasses were probably still lying hidden in a wild garlic patch or behind some cow parsley near one of the styles I had climbed over along the lane that led to Old Girt Farm. I had been back to look but had had no success. The chance of someone finding them and turning them into Evershot’s village store seemed very slim.

I felt foolish when I entered so I pretended to be shopping for something I couldn’t find. I almost left the store without asking but finally said to the pleasant woman behind the counter: “I don’t suppose anyone turned in the pair of glasses I lost yesterday on one of your lovely footpaths?” Her face brightened and she stepped a few feet back to a shelf behind the counter and returned with my leather glasses case.

“Could these be yours? A farm worker handed them in just a little while ago. Said he spotted them in the path of his tractor.” I quickly checked inside; they were safe and sound! I think the shop keeper was as pleased as I was.

I couldn’t wait to tell Stan. He was waiting for me at Rectory House. Unfortunately loosing things is something I do quite often. When I told him about the missing glasses he just rolled his eyes to the ceiling. I knew he was thinking, “Well, she’s done it again – what a nuisance it will be to replace them.”

Neither of us should have been so pessimistic. We should have counted on the special magic that I have always encountered on my visits to Dorset. At home in LA I would never have seen my glasses again, but in Dorset even though I make foolish mistakes – like misreading bus schedules, getting on trains going in the opposite direction from my destination and leaving things behind – everything always turned out all right. It was good to know the Dorset magic was still holding.

I had been a little worried with Stan along this time. I had always traveled on my own before and it was easy be flexible with only myself to consider. If I slipped up I had only myself to blame and no one to scold me. Today was Saturday and we were getting ready leave for our next stop in Sturminster Newton. When we arrived in Evershot four days earlier, I thought I had used up our share of magic. We were greeted with gloomy weather which made Fore Street seem a trifle drab. I took my fussy husband, who foolishly prefers Hawaii to England, on a tour around the village but found we were back where we started in fifteen minutes.

“Is that it?” he said.
“Well, yes” I replied. “That’s all of the village but the best part of staying here is that we are allowed to walk through the Melbury Estate. You remember how I’ve been going on about it’s lovely deer park and manor house?”

Lions on Melbury Gate

As I talked I was leading him along the lane that passes between the two 1690 lions that look more like benign pussy cats sitting on top of their piers. Obviously their creator had never seen any real lions. Suddenly Stan stopped and looked at the road ahead. “You didn’t tell me it was up hill!” He was already turning around. All I could do was follow. We hadn’t even reached the deer park – he was going to miss Melbury House and the lovely lave with horse chestnut trees. I knew it was useless to protest. A light mist began to fall and I was sure we had run out of Dorset magic.

I should have known better. Back at Rectory House our hostess, Chris Walford, greeted us with an offer of tea and scones with clotted cream. While serving us in her pretty dining room Chris said, “I think I have good news! Just this weekend I met a woman who has read your stories in Dorset Life. When I told her you were coming to Rectory House today she asked if she could meet you – and guess where she lives – in Melbury House!”

Chris explained that it’s not unusual in England for long time employees of the larger manor houses to stay on rent free in living quarters on the premises after they retire. An arrangement in lieu of a pension called ‘grace and favor’ that’s agreeable to all concerned. The woman Chris met had been housekeeper and cook and her husband had been butler at Melbury House. My story in Dorset Life about walking through Melbury Park had caught her attention and she told Chris, if we were agreeable, she and her husband would like to stop by the next day and take us on a picnic. Agreeable? I was delighted to accept their kind invitation. I realized that the Dorset Magic had returned in full measure.

Surprisingly, it was my finicky husband who hadn’t even been sure he wanted to spend the day with strangers who was first recognize our good fortune. I didn’t know until I saw the twinkle in his eyes when he met Joyce. I saw an identical twinkle in hers. She gave us each a warm embrace and we started a lively conversation that was to continue throughout the day. Harold let Joyce do most of the talking but could be counted on to back her up or make his own spirited contribution when called upon. Stan thought he looked like Field Marshal Montgomery and Joyce reminded me of Joyce Greenwood. Within five minutes of climbing into their little red Austin that Stan soon christened ‘The Red Baron,’ this remarkable couple made us feel as comfortable as if we had known them all our lives. Their plan was to show us some of the intriguing places tourists seldom see.

Horses at Melbury House

The nicest part was that Stan, who had been so reluctant to come along, was having as much fun as I was. He rode in the front next to Harold and Joyce and I shared the back. It was good that Harold was an experienced driver, having spent years as a lorry driver before changing careers to become butler at Melbury House, because Stan was having a bit of trouble adjusting to zooming along on ‘the wrong side of the road’ along narrow, twisting country lanes between hedgerows to high to see over. He couldn’t understand how Harold always knew when a car was coming from the opposite direction. “No problem,” he said, “I can sense its approach.” Somehow that didn’t seem too comforting but Stan soon developed confidence in his obvious expertise.

Our first stop was at Moreton Church to see Laurence Whistler’s delicately engraved glass windows. Joyce explained how the church had been badly damaged during World War II when a German bomb fell in the churchyard close to the north wall. The restoration work was so skillfully done that it is hard to distinguish the old from the new. The style is a light hearted blend of Georgian and Gothic with some external parts dating from 1776.

Whistler did the four apse windows in 1955. The others were engraved by him between 1974 and 1984. They are all based on the theme of light and are perfect at any time but, because our Dorset Magic was in full swing, our visit coincided with the annual flower festival and the whole church was filled with exquisite fresh flowers arranged by the ladies of the parish. Joyce made sure we saw the memorial to the pilot shot down during the Battle of Britain.

We shared our picnic lunch with the ducks who lived beside the footbridge that leads over the Frome River from Moreton to T. E. Lawrence’s cottage, Clouds Hill, that stands through the woods on the other side. After lunch we walked to the burial ground south of the village to visit the grave of that mysterious man of many roles, Lawrence of Arabia. He consolidated the Arab people during the First World War and made possible Lord Allenby’s triumph in Palestine. Although his grave is simple, his coffin bears the inscription; “To T. E. L., who should sleep amongst kings.” Villagers say his ghost has been seen wildly riding a motorcycle through the Moreton lanes with his Arab robes flying out behind. I’m really surprised we didn’t catch a glimpse – to have seen him wouldn’t have been at all surprising considering the other types of Dorset magic we had encountered.

We climbed back into the Red Baron and continued on through leafy green lanes to one pretty village after another, stopping when we wished to explore. I had enjoyed seeing these enchanting villages on my previous visits. In each one I would play my favorite game of choosing the cottage I would most like to live in. I inspected each cottage in turn but always from the outside. This time, with Joyce and Harold along, the cozy interiors were on view as well. Our good companions knew the owners of many of the prettiest ones.

That evening as we enjoyed our goulash at the Acorn Inn, just down Fore Street from Rectory House, Stan kept asking, “Why is everyone being so nice, why are we so lucky?”

“It’s just part of the Dorset Magic,” I replied.

The next morning the magic continued as we once again climbed into the Red Baron. Our destination, determined by Joyce and Harold, was to be Stonehenge and Longleat House. “No, it wouldn’t be too far for Harold to drive. It would be no trouble at all.” Our intrepid couple managed to convince us that they would enjoy the journey as much as we would. The next day it was to be Glastonbury and Wells.

My dearest memory of Joyce is of her standing in a Glastonbury car park, legs firm planted in the asphalt, arms outstretched waving other cars away as she courageously saved a precious parking place for the Red Baron. We had been endlessly cruising up and down waiting for a space when Joyce spied a gentleman just sitting behind the wheel of his parked car. She had Harold wait while she got out and went up to his window and inquired: “Are you thinking of leaving?” He said he was contemplating. Joyce said: “Well, could you contemplate somewhere else?”

He obligingly agreed and backed his car out of the coveted space. Joyce moved in and signaled for Harold to pull in. Stan and I were amazed to see the contemplating gentleman wave as he drove away. He wasn’t at all offended. Joyce has that effect on people. When we were having our ploughman’s lunch in Glastonbury’s oldest medieval inn she asked the pretty waitress serving us if her American friends could view the special upstairs bedroom, the one with the elegant four-poster that overlooks the Abbey. We didn’t know about the special bedroom and wouldn’t have presumed to ask if we had, but Joyce’s charming manner secured us an intimate tour of the lovely room as well as other parts of the fascinating old inn with its lovely stained glass windows.

Countless times throughout our time together Joyce was responsible for the little extra touches that make all the difference. Little things like stopping the car on the A35 to look back at the spectacular sight of Chesil Beach and the Fleet just above the Abbotsbury Swannery, or driving a few extra miles so that we could see a quaint little church with an intriguing lych-gate or an unusual stained glass window. All these things we would have missed if left to our own devices. It was Joyce who noticed the sign in a village shop window that invited us to try “ass ice-cream”. We couldn’t stop giggling as we wondered what that flavor would taste like. Of course, the shopkeeper had meant “assorted” but hadn’t put a period after the second ’s’.

Melbury House

Of all these treasured memories the most valued is of the afternoon we had tea at Melbury House. Ever since discovering Melbury Park during a visit to Evershot in 1984 I have returned each year to spend at least a day ambling along the public footpath that crosses the Melbury Estate between Evershot and Melbury Osmond. It passes through what is surely the most beautiful deer park in all of England then continues on to Melbury House itself and the stud with its magnificent looking animals standing by the fences in their paddocks hoping for a carrot treat. Often newborn colts were at their sides.

I had the opportunity one year of visiting the garden and grounds of the house with friends from Corfe Mullen. On that occasion we must have passed right beneath the flat of our new friends when the gardens were open to view and never dreamed that one day we would all be invited to tea. Joyce and Harold, with typical hospitality, included our friends from Corfe Mullen when they invited Stan and I.

It was an Anglophile’s dream come true: tea served in fine bone china cups, homemade biscuits and scones, cucumber sandwiches and homemade elderberry wine. Polished brass and copper gleamed from every nook and cranny of the charming flat and through the mullioned window we could see the central tower built during the reign of Henry VIII. The dining room contained a marvelous table, large enough to seat twenty people with room to spare.

After tea we were treated to a guided tour of the grounds, but only those sections where Joyce knew we would be welcome. We got to see the small lake among the chestnut and lime trees in the deer park that sometimes freezes over in winter to allow ice-skating and we caught a glimpse several stags who were keeping a watchful eye on their harems. Joyce told us that their ‘roar’ in the rutting season is a marvelous sound but it’s not safe to walk in the park until the season is over because stags might chase intruders thinking they were trying to separate them from their hinds.

Red Valerian

We saw the centuries old oak tree named “Billy Barnes” with rhododendrons miraculously growing in its upper most branches. We peeked at the beautifully kept kitchen garden and saw the narrow plot alongside a mellow stone wall that Joyce and Harold devotedly tend themselves. To my delight I saw a long stretch of brick wall nearly covered with Red Valerian. No one in Dorset seems to pay much attention to this tenacious plant that loves to grow out of brick and stone. I think it’s amazing!

Altogether the afternoon at Melbury House was very agreeable. Joyce and Hugh, our friends from Corfe Mullen enjoyed it as much I did. Even Stan was beginning to believe in Dorset Magic. Four days before he hadn’t been energetic enough to walk much past the benign pussy cats sitting on their piers. Now, without spending any undue energy he had seen it all – and had a lovely English cream tea to boot!

Now as I hurried back to Rectory House with my retrieved glasses packed safely away in my zipped up jacket pocket, I could hardly keep from skipping (yes, skipping, as foolish as it may look). I had to hurry, Joyce and Harold would be by to pick us up in twenty minutes. They wouldn’t hear of us hiring a taxi to take us to our next stop, the Stourcastle Lodge in Sturminster Newton. They were determined to deliver us safe and sound right on the doorstep. I had to hurry and help Stan carry our suitcases downstairs so they would be ready to load in the Red Baron. If we weren’t fast enough they would do that too.

The Dorset Magic continues!

——–