Some other world

We leave Havenpoole early in the evening, heading off into the darkness of South Wessex. Being all too familiar with what is now the A35, we have no need of light nor signage, although the passing beams allow the sad sight of the remains of one of many deer; the detritus of those speeding vehicles whose owners are unaware of woodlands close at hand. Here, buzzards will soar with their juveniles on daytime tracking sorties, but for now the night consumes all until we reach the glow of Casterbridge.


Onwards, passing the garrison, we turn onto the gloomy route to Ivell and search for the road to Chalk Newton. Down, down into the valley of the Frome, we could be anywhere at any time as all sense of direction and orientation is lost. Or abandoned. The ancient engraved stump of what was once the village cross marks both our arrival and the meeting point of past Christmas revellers. The scent of old wood smoke clings to the damp November air and little is visible as we make our way to be greeted by our friends and their old adopted black dog. It’s a strange and slightly disorientating sensation to be locked into the timeless warmth of an ageless house in deepest Dorset where we drink heady wine from Spain, eat the food of the Far East and listen to music from all corners of the world.

In the morning, our location is no more apparent than it had been the night before. The mist hangs heavily as I wander in pleasing isolation down the dew laden garden. The ground is littered with the fallen spills of autumn and a single pale pink rose towers defiantly. Later, as we walk along the moody river bank in borrowed footwear, searching for missing crayfish, I am told that the day is probably far brighter in other environs: the valley cloaks the reality of life in the wider world. And briefly, we discuss Hardy because we are so obviously entombed in a timeless place where news from elsewhere must be brought by travellers; or, on this day, via the Sunday newspapers. And I resolve to locate the missing story which, reader, does not have a happy ending.

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