puddleshark

Powerstock Common is probably the closest thing to wild woods we have in Dorset. Once a royal hunting ground, then an area of common land, never enclosed (perhaps too boggy to be worth the expense), now a nature reserve of tangled woods, ponds, rough pastures.

Following green paths...

...past the 19th century brick kiln, now flooded.

In May, Powerstock is the realm of the bluebells.

The woods are mostly a mix of hazel coppice and twisty old oak. An occasional beech tree. Unlike most Dorset woods, there are few ash trees here, so the effects of Ash Dieback aren't as heartbreaking here.

View from the ridge of high ground.

A shower of apple blossom.

I usually have a strong sense of direction when walking in the woods, but the narrow twisty paths of Powerstock turn me around and lose me. I always have to rely on a compass here. And it always surprises me a little that the compass actually works, rather than the needle spinning aimlessly. Powerstock is one of the secret, spooky places of West Dorset. You wander in. You may not always wander out again.

Bark beetles have written cryptic messages on the fallen trees. Some days I think I can almost understand them.

Moo. Yes, there are cattle grazing the common. But they are placid older cattle, too busy chewing the cud in the sunshine to bother a passing walker.

With the aid of my compass, I find my way back to the gravel track that runs through the centre of the common, and, with the aid of my compass, make sure I am following it in the right direction to end up back at the car park.

Then it's a long drive along narrow twisty nameless lanes, lined with bluebells and shaded over with trees, before I finally come to a crossroads with a signpost, and can find my way home.