Thorncombe & Synderford River

[puddleshark]

On Monday, an expedition to Thorncombe, right over on the Somerset/Devon border. The village actually used to be in Devon, but was moved to Dorset in some boundary shuffle. But it's not a very Dorset-y village -the cottages, landscape and geology of Thorncombe all feel a little alien to Dorset.



Early morning, driving along empty roads, towards misty hills. Down the twisty road to Beaminster, where the purple wisteria is flowering on the orange stone cottages. Through narrow-laned and inaptly-named Broadwindsor, and onwards and upwards to Pilsdon Pen, where I stopped in the layby to take a picture.


Sinister pointy Colmer's Hill in the distance.


May lanes lined with bluebells and cow parsley.

At Birdsmoorgate, a farmer herding dairy cattle through a gate into a field of deep lush May grass, and the cattle breaking into a canter and kicking up their heels.

Parked in Thorncombe, squeezing the car against a wall and climbing out passenger side.


Thorncombe. Cottages of orange chert and brick. You only really see chert as a building material in the far west of Dorset, near the Devon/Somerset border. In the rest of Dorset, flint is more common.




Downhill to Saddle Street, and onto a footpath through the fields.


Wheeled shepherd's hut. (No sign of any former Prime Ministers writing their memoirs).

Beyond a gate, a field full of young beef cattle. I plucked a large stick from the hedge and ventured in, hoping to slip through without the cattle noticing... No chance. My presence caused a merry May stampede, the cattle cantering up to me and snorting, and me holding them at bay with my big stick.

Note to self: the May grass makes all creatures mad. Stay out of cattle fields in May, yes?


I gave them the slip at the ford. The farmer has put down concrete runners in the ford, which is fine if you're driving a tractor, but the slippery green weed grows on them, making them treacherous to cross on foot. I waded through alongside. Knowing I had a few fords to cross, I had worn wellies.

Thwarted!

Took the path that follows the narrow winding River Synderford down the valley, through woods and fields:


A stony, gurgling river, very unlike the fine-gravelled chalk streams I usually follow. It looks to run straight on the map, but on the ground wiggles infinitely.


Bluebells and wild garlic all the way.

Under trees and over trees, through flowers and through mud.










Wild Garlic.


Archangel.

I had originally planned to follow the Synderford River as far as Halcombe Bridge, and then detour along the road to try and catch a glimpse of Racedown, the house that William and Dorothy Wordsworth rented (or rather, lived in rent-free, thanks to the generosity of the owner) from 1795. But passing Racedown on the drive to Thorncombe, I found that nothing much is visible from the road - just electric gates, and a Georgian roofline. And I was finding the walk hard going in wellingtons. After consulting the map, decided on a shorter circuit instead, taking in Sadborow.




Left behind the river and the valley bottom...


Not much light for landscape photography.


Sadborow, built 1773-1775.


Gate to Sadborow.

Opposite the gates to Sadborow, that great rarity in England, a wooden house. Two of the three sides visible from the road looking semi-derelict, wood rotting. One side restored and painted with a shiny varnish that made the house look plastic.


Wellie weather.

Around Thorncombe, all the long distance trails meet: the Monarch's Way, the Liberty Trail, the Jubilee Trail, the Wessex Ridgeway. They are all well-marked on gates and stiles, fortunately; because they're a confusing spaghetti junction of paths on the map.

The narrow path back to Thorncombe runs alongside a steep, deep gully with a little stony stream at the bottom. Growing from the gully, huge ancient trees that lean across the path:








More bluebells...


And a path across a rushy, hummocky field leading towards the church tower at Thorncombe.

Back into the village:





I had thought that Thorncombe was one of those dead villages - full of houses called 'The Old Bakery', 'The Old Post Office', 'The Old Forge','The Old Crown' - but along Chard Street, opposite the church, I came across a little village shop, run by volunteers. And here I had a very welcome coffee and croissant, sitting at one of the tables outside on a little patio area. No sunshine, but it wasn't cold, and the village setting was lovely: the church clock chiming quarter to eleven, blackbirds singing, and starlings whirring, somewhere down the lane a woman calling a cat.

Caffeined up, started the drive home. Got a little lost on the way, and took a road I've never taken before, and which I cannot find on the map. But eventually it brought me out in familiar places. Back to the real world. And the horrible stop-start Bank Holiday traffic.