Around Dewlish

[puddleshark]

Bright sunshine. An early morning drive to Dewlish, down narrow lanes lined with cow parsley and red campion, with the mist still lying on the fields, and blackbirds fluttering across the road.




The avenue to Dewlish House. Glorious sunlight and green shade (but too high a contrast for my poor camera to cope with).


Dewlish. It's a quiet village. The loudest sound is the squabbling churchyard jackdaws. You can sit for fifteen minutes on the bench by the war memorial, drinking coffee from a flask, and not a single car will pass.


Four roads meet at the crossroads in the centre of the village. But all four roads are narrow twisty lanes to neighbouring villages, and there are other quicker wider roads to reach those villages. Nobody comes by Dewlish.


Erigeron growing on garden walls. (If it will grow on a stone wall, why will it not self-seed itself in my garden, eh?)

Down the lane opposite the war memorial, past the church with its porch framed by a dark avenue of yews:




Old Parsonage Farm. Late 17th century.

At the bottom of the village, across the bridge over a shallow chalk stream (the sinister sounding Devil's Brook, though the name is only a corruption of the old name for Dewlish). Then onto a farm lane - tarmacked, but only just - obviously still used by the local dairy herd, judging from the baler twine strung across the driveways of all the cottages.



And onto the chalk track up onto the downs. Blackcaps singing endless songs from the hedgerow. Skylarks singing above the fields.






Stinging nettles shining silver with the dew.

Plan A had been to walk across the fields to West Bagber Copse. But I couldn't find the bridleway. There are no waymarkings on any of the gates, no well-trodden paths across any of the fields. So I decided on a Plan B - return to the village and take the footpath from the churchyard that runs through the parkland of Dewlish House.

Last time I was in Dewlish, I also got lost, but was lucky enough to bump into a local dogwalker who showed me a secret path that twists downhill through the willow and the water dropwort and the pendulous sedge, and crosses over several little wooden footbridges, before leading back to a field on the edge of the village.







But when I reached the churchyard again, I had to give up on Plan B as well. The footpath led through a field containing a very large herd of young bullocks. And it was far too warm a day for doing battle with thirty curious bullocks.

So it was Plan C instead. Wander round the churchyard for a bit, then head home and put the kettle on.







In one corner of the churchyard, the de Montmorency angels, looking slightly embarrassed at finding themselves in a rural Dorset churchyard.




Sunlight and shadow beneath the yews.

To the Memory of
JAMES PURCHASE
Who departed this life
January 18th 1864
Aged 27 Years

Youth is the time
To serve the Lord

1864 is quite late for this classical style of headstone with urn and hourglass and weeping figure. Nearby headstones from the 1870s are all Neo-Gothic.

Comments

[sartorias]

How gorgeous and green! The quiet sounds heavenly--but what do people do for a living?

[puddleshark]

It's a lovely peaceful village but you would definitely need a car to live there. I suspect most of the working age inhabitants commute to Dorchester, if they can't work at home, so the roads are probably a lot busier on weekdays.