A Gypsy Caravan Weekend

 

A red 1930's gypsy caravan, a donkey, a horse, glorious sunshine and rolling green Dorset hills.
Sounds like the setting for a few magical days away.
Long, long, long have I wanted to stay in a gypsy caravan as anyone who knows me would be bored to death hearing about.
For obvious reasons (Australia is in no way attached to Europe) there is a sad lack of these colourful little homes on wheels in Australia.
In fact the only time I have ever seen one, was on my birthday one year. A friend had taken me out fort a pamper and as we walked back to my car,  we saw a green gypsy caravan was parked in front of it. On a suburban street. Like it happens all the time. Of course I threw my arms around my friend and said "Oh my God! Thank you!"
 I was so excited by the sight of this old world vardo sitting in the middle of the burbs, I thought nothing of asking the owner, a travelling missionary of all things, to let me sit up front for a photo and I....but sorry, I digress.
So, having never been properly inside one (for fear of conversion) and living now in the UK- a place littered with the things- it was only a matter of time before me, and my idea of a Barbie dream house, should meet.

 

A wonderful hodge-podge of things English and vintage, the Old Forge is a B & B near Shaftesbury, Dorset. The place offers various types of retro accommodation- a cottage conversion of the actual Old Forge (cook your toast in the forge pit and butter in on the anvil perhaps), a few Vintage gem rooms in the main house, and both a genuine gypsy caravan AND a shepherds hut. This was my kind of playground! Add chickens, labradoodles and a sweet young horse called Lily and her donkey mate, the incorrigible  Scrumpy Jack, and you have a recipe for really lovely little holiday.




My husband Fil with Pie, Willow and Pudding

I won't say the Glamping word, but lets just say if a holiday somewhere a bit yesteryear and very cozy with a top notch brekky thrown in, is your idea of fun- then saddle your Morris Minor and head to The Old Forge.

Rosie's lovely original interior

The inside of Rosie the gypsy van is all original paintwork and fitted cupboards which is amazing when you consider she is about 80 years old. I am told she would have been pulled by a steam engine, which is a bit less romantic than a gypsy cob unless you are a Puff Buff or a Steampunk fan, but resting in retirement in a field as she currently is, is makes her no less dreamy in appearance, inside and out.

Fil and Scrumpy Jack

Now, I will say there was a certain amount of amusement in having a 6 foot 2 man sleep in a six foot bed, but the whole darn box bed was so cozy and comfortable that sleeping diagonally was a novelty that was certainly bearable for two nights.

Our view looking over toward Sam the Shepherd's Hut

The Old Forge is next door to a village called Fontmell Magna (which I think sound like a sort of melted cheese toastie-yum!) whose sign boasts like a discreet cough  as you enter the place,  that it is the best-kept village in Dorset. Stone thatch cottages, lovely gardens and a mill stream, it is indeed, not too shabby a place.

The Fontmell

 To be honest, however we are only really interested in the rumoured good pub, The Fontmell. Perched literally over a stream, this pub has a lovely renovation inside, all light and babbling brook, creating a sylvan sort of peace in the restaurant area .The meal we enjoy is both delicious and very reasonable priced. The outdoor beer garden is quite a nice spot too for a lazy afternoon cider.

Of course being so close to Shaftesbury, we have a great day exploring the town, which has a stunning view over surrounding countryside.

 

Shaftesbury Abbey ruins

 Shaftesbury Abbey ruins are very worth your parting with a few gold coins to see. Set in a picturesque garden, the ruins are laid out over the ground in a manner that you can feel, as you listen to your audio guide, what it might have been once to stand in the place. Of course your heart breaks a little for those distant nuns as Henry the 8th's followers tore it down for capital to pay his debts and fund his wars. Bastard!

Gold Hill, Shaftesbury

You can't visit Shaftesbury without viewing famous Goldhill. In fact we walked down it,  pleased as punch we were not there to contest in the cheese wheel run that happens every year,  up the steep cobbled hill. While the view is terribly picturesque in that spot, I have to say walking along the promenade near the abbey is also glorious. We also headed down for a wander round the pretty lower streets and alleys.

 

 

Shaftesbury is an interesting town of everyday and gourmet. We found a great little vegetarian café down a back street, who epitomised 'slow food' in time taken and great tasting.
After two relaxing evenings beside Rosie, playing Scrabble with a few glasses of wine until dark, it is time to leave Dorset.

 

 Before we do, we pop over to Wiltshire to check out Stourhead, a National Trust property I have drooled over pictures of, but never seen. Owned and built by London's only family owned bank, Stourhead house is  Regency property quite gob-smacking if you like glitz and pomp.

The house at Stourhead

The house has  enough portraits to suggest there was nothing more fun to do in that time ("lets see, cross stitch or another portrait today...a portrait it is!"), but it is the gardens that I came to see, with it's magnificent lake playing mirror to follies of classic temples and mystical grottoes. All this is fringed with exotic trees and lawns and meandering paths that of course changes magically with the seasons.

We spent half a day there, enjoying the views from every side of the lake. It's the  kind of place you sigh with happiness at visiting and look expansively at the people you dragged there, as though showing off a national treasure you yourself were privileged enough to own a key to.

 But perhaps that's just me...
Ahh, what a lovely couple of days we had. Villages, country views, gypsy caravans, woods, fine homes, gorgeous gardens and great local cuisine.
I went home feeling like a woman who had just enjoyed a very fine platter of British culture....and was already piggishly wanting more.

 

Isle of Man Weekend

The cry of gulls on a grass-scented breeze...

 This was my first and last impression of the Isle of Man when we recently visited the island for a weekend summer break.

 

Tantalising view of Port Erin as seen by cows

 

It’s a really simplistic description I realise, but I have to say for a place that has had more tenants than you can poke a three-pronged stick at, the whole island maintains this beautiful sense of tranquillity and space.

It’s just so uncrowded that you wonder where all the people are hiding. Everywhere we went (outside of the mildly busier towns) people greeted us with an open smile like they were very pleased to be living there.  We returned their enthusiasm happily!

 

All modern amentities

 

In fact the island has a LOT to offer, especially for the outdoorsy types, but also for those interested in history, wildlife and also the arts- I saw a lot of very beautiful local art and crafts during our stay.

And of course the whole island is one gorgeous scale model of a much bigger place- it has mountains and valleys and woods and rivers and beaches and cairns and castles and gorgeous cottages and bays full of colourful fishing boats. Is it noticeable that I would clearly move there? Absolutely!

 

Fenella appreciating the arrival of summer

 

For years I have wanted to visit the Isle of Man. I am already a keen Anglophile, so how could I not be intrigued by a place that sits in the sea, surrounded by England, Ireland Scotland and Wales, and yet be a place confidently and completely its own self?

My husband Fil has family history there too, 400 years of it; reason enough in itself to visit the place while we are living for a time so close by in Hampshire.

Left to book our accommodation, I pick Port Erin on the island’s south-west coast. The pictures of it’s pretty little bay win me over easily against the bigger towns. I reason that the island’s transport system is supposed to be good, so where we stay doesn’t matter too much.

At a fragile hour, my husband Fil, one of our sons Flynn and I, fly over from Southampton to Ronaldsway airport, Ballasalla. It's on the east coast and just 11km south of Douglas, the Islands capital ( may I say again how much I love small airports over large!).

 As always, as we head toward our accommodation, I am glued to the window, taking in all the new sights around me. It is a summer’s day, cloudy but promising to clear and the villages and towns we pass look like we are in for some treats over the weekend. I try and think if the countryside reminds me of anywhere else and funnily over the next few days I will find areas that remind me of all the countries that surround the island.

Our hotel The Falcon’s Nest looks like a rather faded beauty, but sits in a perfect spot overlooking the beautiful bay and so we instantly forgive her. Inside the hotel is a touch old and faded but in a way that my husband Fil and I actually quite like (old glory days deco). I always wish I could afford to patch these old seaside beauties. It's sad to see them crumble away.

 

A Room With a bloody nice View

 

13 year old Flynn is pleased to have a large room all to himself in the family suite. I take a happy picture of the sea-view from our window as the clouds begin to disappear.

 Ooh, it’s looking mighty nice outside! I rush everyone to explore as soon as possible. Our precious time on the Isle of Man is ticking away!

On dropping us off at the hotel our Scottish taxi driver had apologised to us for the slightly higher fare, explaining that it was a public holiday.

 Somehow, we have arrived on the most important Island public holiday- Tynwald day. Tynwald is old Norse for ‘meeting place for the assembly’. (Wiki):Tynwald meets annually at an open air ceremony at Tynwald Hill at St John's, the Lieutenant Governor of the Isle of Man presides, unless The Queen as Lord of Man or a member of the Royal Family, is present. Here, all laws are promulgated and special petitions are received. Boring politics done in an interesting way!

 

Church of EpiPen

 

Needless to say because of this, Port Erin was very quiet and most things in town were closed.

 Fine by us as there is so much to do anyway. We decide to visit nearby Cregneash which is a gorgeous working village owned by the Manx National Heritage (we are delighted to discover our National Trust Membership is valid here).

 

Better weeds than I have flowers

 

Everyone working in the village is dressed in traditional clothes. I’m not certain what year it’s all set in but lets say, pre-electricity and pre-motor anything. All the little whitewashed stone cottages burn peat fires and are fitted out just as they would have once been. People give demonstrations and are happy to chat. I wring information from an obliging blacksmith- not something I normally get to do!

 We watch a fascinating short film on Manx Heritage and the village itself.

 

Cregneash, enough to make you want to unplug your phone and wear hemp

 

The Manx brown four-horned sheep called Loaghtan  are kept in the village  and we meet our first, Born-on-the-island Manx cat.

Manx  lamb- blissfully unaware four horns will soon sprout out of it's head

 

There are wildflowers everywhere, especially growing out of the side of the dry stone walls, with enormous bumblebees threading their way among the blooms. The area is very scenic and you can easily believe you have gone back in time.

 

Dragging the boy 'round Man

 

We decide to walk back to Port Erin from the village, where we climb a hill to see an ancient Cairn (I prefer 'fairy ring'!) and have the most amazing view over the hills and can see the ocean on either side of the island.

Man and fairy ring

 

There are public footpaths dotting the whole island (although some are not tended well- VERY tall grass- not good for the height challenged!) and we have a great walk back with a hilarious run-in with calves who were very curious about us, then decide they are a bit nervous after all and form a very neat row of bovine curiosity behind us.

 

We like to watch

 

On our return into Port Erin, Fil bravely takes a brief dip in the Irish Sea (joined only by the brave- children!)and we finish our day with fish and chips sitting a little hill overlooking the beach- magic!

 

Fil,( the dot furthest out from the shore), not avoiding hypothermia and basking sharks

 

One of the best things about the Isle of Man is getting to take a steam train as your mode of transport (think Sodor and Thomas the Tank Engine).

 

Port Erin, future home?

 

On day two,after a splendid early walk along Port Erin beach, we took the earliest steam train up the east coast to Castletown.

Modern transport a must

 

 I love the sound of steam trains- the sharp whistle always sounds like an expression of exuberance by the trains (I know, I’m putting faces on those trains!) and the summer air blowing in our little timber windows smelt like cut hay-mmm J

 

Walking into Castletown

 

Castletown is a beautiful town on a river that goes into the sea. There are hanging baskets of bright flowers everywhere and swans swimming in the river between the colourful fishing boats.

 

Men being manly amid blooms

 

Overlooking it all is Rushen Castle which was built for a Norse king in the 1200’s. The town has lots of Georgian building and has a walled feel to it, but is very pretty.

 

Castletown begging to be painted

 

Back on the train, our next stop is the isle of man’s capital, Douglas with it’s long crescent of Victorian buildings along the seafront esplanade.

 

Douglas

 

 Behind that is a small city- modern buildings mixed with old. After the countryside and villages I don’t warm to it, but the Manx Museum we visit was excellent and I wished we could have stayed longer.

 Back down to the waterfront for an ice cream as we walk the long esplanade north to catch the electric cable car to our next stop.

 

Turkish delight, coconut lime, banoffee

 

As we walk, horse-drawn trams trot past us- not surprising as the city has a very long seafront.  

 

Cor, does this pleasantness have an end?

 

From Douglas we wind our way up the cliffs (with great views back to Douglas) in our little open-sided carriage. It’s fun but has nothing on the steam trains for both comfort and nostalgia.

 Laxey is our destination and it is here that Fil’s ancestors lived for many years, working on the lead mines. But firstly we jump from the electric tram to the vintage electric cable car and get a ride all the way to the highest point on the Isle, Snaefell.

 

Old Mill café ,Laxey

 

 I am thrilled we have such a lovely summers day to do it. On a clear day you can apparently see the surrounding countries beyond the sea, but our day is a little hazy.

We don’t mind at all as you can still see for miles over the island and it’s incredibly beautiful.

 

Smiling because we didn't have to walk up here. beautiful Snaefell view

 

Back in Laxey we now have time to explore the town a little. Our day is really a world-wind tour as we have a lunchtime flight the next day (our choices were 12:30pm or 8:30pm!).

 Laxey looks like a nice village but the whole place is overshadowed by the huge and impressive water wheel, the Lady Isabella. The wheel is enormous, a wonderful piece of engineering used to pump water from the mines.

 

The Lady Isabella, a buxom old lass

 

Once again our National Trust card gets us in for nothing (though we always donate a few gold coins). We climb all the way to the top of the wheel which I do NOT enjoy! The pretty setting is no salve to my nerves against the movement of the wheel mixed and the height of the whole thing with it's very low railings! People have gotten taller you know! (actually we did notice a lot of short people on the island- maybe I DO belong there!)

 

My worried face atop the Laxey Wheel

 

As we leave we stare at an enlarged old photo of miners on a board, wondering if any of them are Fil’s ancestors. Probably not as 400 men at least worked there. The family were Dickinson's and also Bridson's. In several places on the Island we see buildings and street signs with these names which we think is pretty exciting.

 

Fil excited to see his name, Flynn not so much

 

From Laxey we catch the last leg of the cable car to Ramsey in the north. Everywhere we go the towns are quiet as though mostly empty. I keep wishing we were staying until the Monday so I could see what the island might be like on a work-day! Surely nowhere is really this quiet?

 

Ramsey

 

Ramsey is another coastal town on a river with a fleet of fishing boats. This town has more of an estuary feel to it. The background of hills beyond the town is lovely as is the town centre. I see a few alternatively dressed people about and wonder if Ramsey might be an artists sort of town.

 

Cable car into Ramsey

 

 

For the first time we notice groups of youths about, some obviously up to no good.

A group of four of them get on our bus. Though they are only probably between 12 and 14, a couple of them have very filthy mouths and we are sitting only seats away. When we object to them about their language (we are pretty open minded so trust me it was bad!), we opened a right can of worms that almost spoilt our journey to Peel on the West coast.
After two complaints to the driver, the kids are made to sit down the front and have their travel cards removed. It’s all very unpleasant (especially when we realise they too will get off in Peel!) but in the end I just feel sad for the two in the four who are the main culprits. One smelt like he had been drinking and I kept thinking: what kind of lack of support or guidance have these kids had experience with? I mean you can see that anywhere but it's just not a great way to start out in life.

Peel, nice town

Luckily Peel itself is a beautiful town and we are mostly able to forget the youths on the bus.

 

Peel beach. Not too shabby

 

 The town boasts  the islands other fortress castle on a rocky outcrop called St Patricks Isle (where the saint is said to have visited and brought Christianity to the isle of man ) right on the river mouth of a bay. The stone structure is HUGE and was where the Vikings held power until it was moved over to Rushen in Castletown.

Peel castle, one heck of a lot of bucket-fulls of sand

 

By now it’s getting late and we've been on the go for twelve hours. Thank goodness for UK long summer days! We need to get back to Port Erin and want to do so before dark so we have only a brief look at Peel before we reluctantly move on.

Back in Port Erin there is a gorgeous golden sunset over the bay and Fil and I sitting enjoying a wine and ale.  Watching it we are feeling very restored in all things good (of course I’m planning in my head how I can live here!)

Something that goes very nicely with Pinot Grigio

 

On our last day it’s Sunday and the Isle of Man is one of those yesteryear places where most things except chain supermarkets and pubs are closed- which I think is nice.

Consequently once again it is quiet around town and we decide that the best way to spend the last of our time before we head to the airport is to walk up to the nearby Bradda Glen, just up the road.

 

We didn’t get to visit any of the renowned glens on the island so this is an attempt to see one before we go.

As we walk along the cliff-tops, we are suddenly confronted with the sight of an enormous old concrete sea-bath, long in ruin.

We guess that in the islands tourist hey-day these baths served the tourists, who possibly got in the way of fishing craft in the bay. ("No, put 'im back in the water, it's just another Englishman)

It’s such a sad and wrecked monstrosity that I’m saddened it could not be fixed. (something to do when I return!) We assume it was wrecked in stormy seas at some time after the boom and left to rot in it’s tiny bay on the shore.

Port Erin...again...hey I liked it!

 

Bradda Glen turns out to be a modest sum of trees along the coastal path, with nice picnic areas and seats to enjoy the views south across the bay. Apparently basking sharks are a common sight around the isle and seals too, though none spring conveniently from the water for us then and there.

 

No matter how many ales I have had I will always land on my feet.

 

The morning is humid and overcast and in a way fitting for our leaving as I am sad to go. It’s been a lovely weekend, though in no real way just to all the island offers, but we have enjoyed it very much all the same,

When we finally board our plane and take off, the sun finally breaks through the clouds and we are treated to one last glorious view of green patchwork, golden mountains and salmon pink cliffs, and then it’s gone -back to being it’s own little secret in the middle of the sea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

An English Spring

After a winter that even I, the enthused tourist was finally sick of, the first green flush of lurid green came over the hills and through the garden gates of Hampshire.

I had been watching the hard little buds on tree and bush alike, waiting for them to loosen, and as each little tuft of viridian was teased from it's envelope, I greeted it with a smile.

Like all changing of seasons, there is a little confusion in the handing over of the baton; mild days are followed with cold, which are followed again by warm. 

 

Evening sun on the Itchen River

Each return to cold I feel concern for the birds with their eggs that need the leaves to hide their little nests, naked as they are to the sky. We insiders instead fiddle with the on/off of heaters and bed eiderdowns.

Daffodils were the guard of honour, saluting the very first certain change. The avenues of trees near our home were bare of leaf, but the ground around there roots had erupted in a sea of green spears. When finally the trees wore a three day fuzz of faintest green, the grass at their feet was gold with daffodils and a tiny freckling of crocus. You cannot look at a mass of daffodils in the sunshine without smiling. Everywhere we went, a little splash of yellow called out: “look here, look there, we are everywhere!”

 

In the woods, wild garlic sprang up, green and juicy and carpets of innocent white wood anemones. Thousand of polka dotted green spades also arrive which I find out later are the elegant white and bronze lilies called ‘Lords and Ladies’.

In fields and churchyards and along lanes, buttery yellow primroses are the pretty buttonhole on every green collar. These are followed in turn by their cousins the cowslips which I did not know at all,  except for my memory of the wonderful novel Watership Down where it is the floral name of a rabbit character. All these new discoveries I make of things I have ‘known of’ and yet until now, never known at all.

 

 

The same flowers adorn gardens and countryside alike and I can't tell which might have been where first- are they clambering out of yards or climbing in?

 The grass, under the influence of warmth and sunlight, becomes the most vivid emerald green. I had thought England would be green in winter with all the rain but really it is a surprisingly brown thing, reminding me that rain is not enough, it is sunlight that brings out that glorious colour.

 Our back lawn begins to grow like crazy and daisies spring up it like a night full of stars. And the dandelions, one of my dearest favourites, come into their glory. In lawns and ditches and meadows and out of every crack in buildings and cobble, their happy faces smile.

 If spring has a colour here, it is certainly yellow.

 

 

And the blossom trees, easily outshining the prettiest new green leaf, send showers of pale pink and white confetti into the waiting cups of tulips and picnickers alike.

The first butterflies appear too and I looked up each ones name with as much excitement as if I had seen a fairy. Comma’s, Peacocks, Brimstones- I ooh and ahh them all.

 

Peacock butterfly
 

 

 Lumbering bumblebees trawl every bed and tree, clearly muttering about the sheer volume of work before them.

We buy a little barbeque to mark the change of season. Though we near freeze to use it, we felt we hve seen in the season by eating food cooked outdoors, looking eagerly through the glass at that near day we can dine outside too.

 

 

As spring ripens I begin to anticipate the much talked of bluebells.

 My English mother, long living in Australia waxes lyrical and misty-eyed about this flower every Australian spring. They grew in the woods where she had played as a child and have clearly taken seed there.

 

On the first sunny day I think they might actually be out, I dragg the family off to the nearby Micheldever Wood.
 Families and photographers alike are enjoying the wood, and I like them, am thrilled to see the seasons first glimpse of these famous wild lilies.

This first day, they are still new, only a few bells open, so a week later I try again in the closer Crab Wood. They are mostly open this time and it is another magical sunny day.
 I have to say, the sight of bluebells in the dappled shade of a spring wood is enough to make a forty-two year old girl fairly skip with excitement- and I do!

 

Fil, happy but not skipping.

One further week later, we have our richest viewing, quite unexpectedly on another walk not far from home. I had been out enjoying butterflies and flowers in general in meadow and farmland, when we came across some small copses of trees underneath which were the most wonderful lavender swathes of bluebells. They are at their very peak and I have to thank my very patient husband because I dawdled  for hours, raving on and exclaiming, taking picture after picture.

 

We saw the bluebells again one last time, in their dotage when we took city-living family to see them a few weeks later. Though the bells are still lovely, I feel very sad for my family as though they have  missed something very vital. My sister in law, a brilliant florist, tells me that summer is her favourite time and that I should ‘wait’ until I saw it.

 I am already beside myself with wonder and happiness and worry that I might actually suffer a happiness breakdown if things get any more wonderful.

 

Pastures of golden canola field come into flower and I swear that you cannot pass them without gaining a tan; the yellow is so bright it makes you squint and reach for sunglasses.
 

We visit thatched villages, with old brick walls covered in clematis and early buds of wisteria, and sit for the first time in six months in sunny beer gardens, sipping local cider and ale.

Mottisfont Abbey, one of our favourite haunts

It islso time to visit beautiful estates and gardens again, walking across perfect cricket lawns and along the riverside, marvelling at the fat trout amongst the swaying waterweeds.

My  brave boys swimming at Twyford

 

Spring in England is a beautiful song, sung with passion and each day out in it is a terrible happiness for me. I say terrible because I cannot in anyway see how I can bare to leave it.

 

How stupid of us to choose the summer in which to leave, like leaving an achingly handsome lover as they are about to kiss you for the first time.

 Each new thing I see, each delight I witness is a little punch to my chest, a real and physical pain.

I see new piglets and lambs in the fields as I walk and new spears of wheat and corn. I love the countryside and realised that this is where I really wantto be. I who grew up my whole life in the sunny suburbs of southern Sydney, long for an English country life.

 

By the river one day, I see the swans have darling blue-grey signets with them and I realise with a jolt, it is nearly a year since we came here- that this same swan family had slightly older signets when we first arrived. The circle is starting to close and I feel sad that I won't get to see these babies grow like I did the others.

Some of my outings with Fil end bitterly, simply because I cannot comprehend how he wants to leave this place that I love so much. I get frustrated and angry and blame anyone who I see as standing between me and my future happiness.

And yet I guess that Fil had saw this time coming. He knew there was a danger that coming to a place I had long-lusted over, and found to be even better in reality, was a place he may not get me to leave from.

His own difficulties in settling, combined with his fear of my wanting to stay, make spring for us both a bittersweet time.

 One evening I go for a walk alone. The days are so long, much longer than Australia and the dusk that seems mere minutes back in Sydney, lasts an hour. I am admiring the beauty of the afternoon when i feel that familiar pang in my chest. I stop for a moment, feeling the pain. Then I realise of course it is not the incredible ambience that causes pain but my fear of separation from it.

 I looked at it all anew. Instead of trying to hold onto it, I look at it, allowing the enjoyment to flow through me like an endless circulation of love and happiness. The pain goes and I know I have found the salve I sorely need.

 

I accept that this is just a moment in time and that it is a time of great beauty for me to enjoy and remember and I make a vow to return some other time but for now my family need to go back to Australia.
I accept that this is where my near future lies but I also know that all things change. Like spring itself I am moving toward the coming summer, knowing that in time it too will move on as shall I, but I make a wish on a dandelion puff, just to be sure I will return here one day.