Some way up

I asked Jack whether he had any idea of how he wanted to celebrate his birthday. It’s not until June but he’ll be 21 and these things have to be catered for. We were on the top of the world at the time. Flowers’ Barrow to be precise; looking down in one direction over Worbarrow Bay from whence the sometime inhabitants of nearby Tyneham had been relocated during WW2 in order that the MOD could practise for the D-Day landings on the beach; and in the other direction, to Arish Mell and other latter day smuggling points.

‘Is the 21st birthday significant then?’ asked the man-child experiencing day two of the New Year’s Eve hangover. I explained the concept of the key of the door but he didn’t really get it. Then I explained how this has been superseded by the 18th birthday. ‘Well’, says he, ‘I had a door key long before that’. ‘Obviously, because in between they invented latch-key children of whom you were necessarily one’ I replied. He didn’t get that bit either.

Meanwhile, the sun was showing off. ‘You thought yesterday was good’ it said; ‘how about this for a follow-up?’ ‘Superb’ we said; ‘thank-you so much’. We rounded a gorse-covered corner and startled Bambi who had, apparently, become separated from the rest of the herd. Bambi ran into the bushes but there was no escape and we could see him anxiously watching us through the winter-bare branches. Behind him was the fence that marked the way to the land of unexploded shells. It’s a shame: on one hand you have to keep to the path because, more than sixty years on, the villagers have not been allowed back and the MOD are still firing away up here; alternatively, as no-one can build anything that might spoil this epitome of England’ green and pleasant land it’s a haven for wild life.

Potential birthday arrangements proved too tricky as it coincides with the world cup. I had, prosaically, thought about Newtown Conservative Cub but Prague seems to be the current favourite. ‘I don’t need you to be there’ he said. Oh ye of the short-term memory: I can remember the fall-out when I failed to materialise last year being otherwise occupied on the banks of the River Jordan wearing my world’s worst mother outfit. We deferred and made off for our favourite eatery: the Courtyard Café at Corfe where we enjoyed a bowl of Dorset Blue Vinney and Broccoli soup before embarking on a fruitless search for venison sausages.

Another four and a half miles walked after yesterday’s three mile hike. Time for a cup of tea and a raid on the Quality Street tin which now only houses strawberry crèmes and those nasty purple ones.