The Undercliff is a wonderful accident. Way back in the 1820’s a massive
landslip fanned out the vertical cliffs here like a pack of cards and produced a crazy
tumble-down world which man has left to its own devices. After nearly two hundred
years of freedom this little world has become a slice of jungle clinging to the edge of
ordinary England. A dense green world into which direct sunlight needs a visa to
visit. Unaccustomed to the shade, I found myself tripping over tree roots that writhed
over the path. I descended like Orpheus
into this underworld.
After relishing the cool subterranean track that weaved its way like a butterfly through the Undercliff I was disappointed when I found myself on a large cart track. No sooner had my eyes adapted to the shade of the Undercliff than I exploded back into the light at Lyme Regis and joined the madding crowd milling around the Cob. For the first time I felt that this walk was not long enough. The miles behind me now dwarfed those still left.
I had got used to people staring at me now and at first took no notice of the fact that everyone I passed seemed to be facing in my direction. Time passed and I reached the tourist beach of Charmouth and still everyone was staring my way. By early evening I was started to feel really self-conscious. On the brow of Golden Cap a party had assembled itself complete with picnic baskets and a cooler full of beers. The thunder of jet engines overhead let me know that I was not the main attraction. The Red Arrows were giving an aerial display over Lyme Bay. I watched with the crowd the jet fighters looped and twisted their way out over the sea.
It was high Summer now and I became aware in the early evening that the wheat in the fields was ripening around me. I was surprised. It was only a couple of months ago that I set out into country and walked across fields of delicate green shoots.
Next morning I stood high up on the ramparts of Abbotsbury Castle looking down along the Chesil Beach to Portland Bill. This strange three sided earthworks provided me with a spectacular view out over the massive shingle bar. It looked stupendous as the sun skipped off the water trapped behind it. A giant bow decked out in diamante.
I had decided to take this more distant view of the great shingle of Chesil Beach rather than the closer one next to the sea for the very practical reason that I found stomping along on shingle to be extremely hard work. Instead I enjoyed the airy upland of the Wessex Ridgeway which took me around the back of Portland and the town of Weymouth.
In the heat of Summer walking amongst sheep it was easy to move between
fact and fiction. I walked out of southern Dorset into the fictional world of
Thomas Hardy’s Wessex.
The rolling green hills with their Roman and Celtic pasts were just
as Hardy portrayed them in the scenery of his novels. An intoxicating world of sad
lovers and doomed heroes. No character in a Hardy novel seems to escape the hand of
fate. The countryside itself is the real star of the Wessex novels. Its giant features
dwarf his human characters. I also felt small looking across the hill tops, following
the dusty white track as it made its way to Maiden Castle. When the wind kicked up
the white dust I was forced to squint into the breeze. Just for a second I saw
Tess and
Jude the Obscure
walking hand in hand with the
Mayor of Casterbridge.
I laboured like they laboured, slowly, on foot.
After spending most of the morning climbing up to the high point of the Hardy Memorial it was a great afternoon heading down hill again. I had met my parents for lunch and after eating and drinking in an air conditioned pub I pottered on, stuffed with food. I followed the Ridgeway, passed the White Horse at Osmington and then I returned to the coastline.
It was extraordinarily still on the high cliffs that evening. As I lumbered on sweating into the early evening, the air cooled me with its light touch. I sat on the cliff top and looked down through the huge arch of Durdle Door. If I needed to justify to myself the enormous effort of my walk then this was the moment when I knew that it was worth it. For the last time the light played a symphony on the sea for me. The complicated music of themes and colour.
Next morning, around the back of Lulworth Cove, I came to the entrance of Lulworth Tank Range. I looked up at the flag pole for the warning red flag and found that this time I had been lucky, the flag pole was empty and the army had stopped firing for the Summer holidays. In front of me the dramatic line of the Purbeck Hills rose like a wave out of the heathlands before they finally crashed onto the beach like a giant chalk breaker. Staring at the distance I did not take much notice of the path at my feet until a flash of brightness caught my attention.
I thought for as second that the hill had been carpeted in cornflowers. But as I looked more closely I noticed a tiny shimmering, the irridescensies of wings being arranged and re-arranged. I had walked into the centre of an armada of blue butterflies, each no bigger than my thumb nail.
I tried to place my feet down tentatively. Each footstep was a ripple of wings, a perfect circle of twitchings which ran away from me over the hillside. I had to laugh. I was stranded in a sea of butterflies. After a few tentative experiments I decided that the blues could get out from underneath my boots if I put them down slowly. I adopted the lifted knee action of a hunting heron. The Ministry of Defence had become the Ministry of Silly Walks.
The path that I followed looked as if someone had turfed the moon. I noticed the impact craters of shells had grown fresh grass. In the valley below the path someone had put together the ruined remains of the target vehicles. Lined up like the start of a race these sad smashed up wrecks looked like the vehicles in the Mad Max movies. I was glad that the butterflies thrived in this harsh human environment.
Image produced from the Ordnance Survey Get-a-map service.
Image reproduced with kind permission of Ordnance Survey and Ordnance Survey of Northern Ireland
.
In front of me now was the very last section of the South West Coast Path. The High Cliffs around St Aldhelm’s Chapel and onto Swanage. I was getting closer to civilisation and the cliffs had become crowded. I had not bargained on the regatta going on in town.
From Peveril Point I could see across Swanage Bay. It bristled with rowing
boats which from a distance looked like pond skaters moving across a pool. The
beach itself was a black mass of humanity. Teams in coloured vests, trainers,
supporters and the rest of the holiday-makers crammed on the sand.
It took me ages to pick my way around the maze of oars and arguments that filled up the front. An opening in the throng would appear only to be gobbled up by another coxless four in tight shorts heading down to the sea with their boat under their arms. I decided to sit for awhile and enjoy the pantomime. Even that simple task proved to be too difficult as I found the dripping boats were now being passed over my head. I moved on. An important stage mark on the walk was about to be reached.
From the white chalk cliffs of Old Nick’s ground I enjoyed the view out to sea to the stacks of Old Harry’s Rocks. At Lulworth that morning I had taken one last look back at the view over Weymouth to Lyme Bay and Devon. Here I was looking east at the Isle of Wight. I was finally leaving the South-West behind.
The very last bit of the South-West Coast Path was not a path at all. From Studland onwards I was on the shore filling up my boots with the soft warm sand of the tide line. I gave up trying to march my way through the sand and strolled down Studland Beach with my boots tied around my neck and enjoyed the feeling of the waves lapping at my feet. The water of Shell Bay was warm and calm and I paddled up to my knees in the sea.
© Gavin Stewart 1996-2004
