So, today I headed off to Corfe Castle, confusing my sat nav in the process (or maybe I was the one who was confused) as the name of the ruin is also the name of the small town that lies in its shadows. Today was the day to commit myself to joining the National Trust (only wondering fleetingly if this was the nail in the coffin of my youth). An exceptionally friendly woman took my details and handed over my pack (together with my car sticker offering acres of free parking...the thrill I got from that prospect alone tells me that middle age can’t be far away) and I began my ascent. It being the school holidays there were several vaguely Medieval-looking tents dotted about the grass leading up to the castle, some containing fervent re-enactments, which I fervently avoided.
The castle itself was great to look around, blessedly free of health and safety notices whilst happily boasting hundreds of health and safety hazards. It was incredibly imposing and, although a ruin, still managed to provoke my imagination enough to get a thrill from what had happened within the walls. One or two of the rooms are still intact, which is the best bit, especially the one only accessible through an opening about a metre high. All very Enid Blyton!
The views are absolutely spectacular, particularly the church and graveyard...although I was pathetically pleased to spot my car in the car park, looking even more like a wind-up toy than it does close up.
Being a miserable old bag, the visit was slightly marred for me by the preponderance of shrieking families, although there was also a gentleman visitor in a green velvet smoking jacket, who lent the whole thing an air of dignity. Trying to conjure up the sounds of hooves hitting stone and arrows whishing through the air is made all the more difficult when all you can actually hear is “Emily, darling, look! There’s a horse! A horse!” and “Can you see the murder ‘ole?” from parents keen to provide some show and tell for their uninterested offspring when the new term begins. Mind you, it beat the mother whose answer to her 8 year old’s query about the shield-shaped information board designed for youngsters was ‘oh that, that’s just for the children”. I wonder what she thought her son was: a daffodil? It also proved difficult to get photos devoid of portly gentlemen in vivid leisurewear, but I persevered nonetheless.
After a very quick look around the town of Corfe Castle I decided to head to Studland, to have the lacklustre sandwich I had purchased in the grocery store. The drive there was almost sick-makingly gorgeous and distinctly perilous as I forwent keeping my eyes on the road for gazing at the countryside. However, I did make it to Studland in one piece, thus discovering a choice of beaches. I remembered having read something about Shell Beach in my newly-acquired National Trust Handbook, so headed there. Once safely – and freely – parked, I dug the handbook out to check which particular delight it had highlighted, only to realise that its only mention of Shell Beach was the low-water flushing loos. Undeterred, I sallied forth to the beach! How lovely to be able to take off my shoes and walk through fine sand, down a narrow path that reminded me vividly of Cuba (only Dorset is much, much nicer). Breaking out onto the beach I took in the white sands, gentle dunes and lapping waves. Bliss! A pleasant spot was found for the sandwich, now limper than ever but just edible and a fortuitous truck delivered ice cream and coffee. Once the ferry had gone past there wasn’t much to look at, but the sight of a small boy falling into a hole was very pleasing. Don’t judge, you know you’d have laughed as well (it wasn’t deep, he wasn’t hurt...I’m not a monster!)
The first drop of rain on my Sunday Times Style section told me it was time to go, and my lasting memory of the beach is of a mother calling – not to her romantically named dog as I had first assumed – but to her son: “Dante! Dante! Hurry up!” Clearly a better class of shrieking family at Studland Bay!
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