Monday, August 22, 2016:
London-WeymouthDiscovering Dorset--In Search of Thomas Hardy's Wessex
Ever since I covered Cornwall extensively by public
double decker bus, a few years ago, Dorset and Devon have been added to my
Bucket List for Places To Go in the UK. Finally, in August of 2016, I made it
happen. Far less known than it’s more glamorous neighbors next door, Dorset is
different—but has just as many attractions for the intrepid traveler. Added to
typical ‘seaside’ towns is a rich literary history that I fully explored on my
own three day travels.
I spent
most of the morning getting ready for my departure. My coach was leaving
Victoria Coach Station at 10.00am. I intended to leave my place by 8.00 am—so I
took a quick shower, ate a muesli and yogurt breakfast, prepared sandwiches
with the odds and ends in my fridge and left on schedule. A Tube ride to Victoria,
the exchange of some US dollars to pounds at one of the No Commission kiosks, a
one stop ride from the Tube to the Coach station and I was right and ready at
my ‘Gate’ waiting for departure.
We left
right on the dot of 10.00 am in a coach with wifi with about 10 people on
board. National Express Coach Lines have improved enormously over the
years—thanks to competition. The coach had AC, reclining seats and a toilet on
board. It was like being on a plane with multiple wheels. I took a seat right
in front (free seating) behind the driver so that I had a 180 degree view of
the scene ahead of me. We made one stop at Ringwood and arrived at Bournemouth,
the Dorset seaside city, at 1. 00 pm as we fought traffic en route closer to
our destination. My connecting coach was in its bay with passengers waiting to
board when I got there. Ten minutes later, we were off and away. It was a 1.20
pm departure with arrival in Weymouth at 2. 45 pm. This time I was way behind
in the coach—so did not enjoy the scenery as much.
Finding
The George B and B in Weymouth:
The UK is
having an exceptional summer—so I am not complaining. But when I was let off at
‘The Esplanade’ in Weymouth which is the beachside promenade at almost 3.00 pm under the
blazing sun with no clue where to go from there and with a small backpack to
lug along, it was not a very pleasant arrival. I had a booking at a B and B
called The George; but when I had
called to find out how I could find my way from the coach station (as I had
assumed I would be dropped there), the female owner Carol had simply said, “Oh,
I don’t know”. That became her standard answer for any question I asked her
during the next three days. She followed it up with “You could take a taxi, I
suppose, but you would be nowhere near the taxi station and you cannot just
hail them on the street.” Oh great!
Long
story short, I walked for about 20 minutes from the drop-off point to my B and B. Carol had given me directions but everything took longer to find as she had
provided no landmarks once I crossed the tall church tower. It was only by
asking for help that I finally found my place. Carol met me at about 3. 15,
handed over keys, showed me my room on the first floor (one flight upstairs),
pointed out the bathroom just outside my door, gave me the wifi password, told
me breakfast was from 8.00 till 9.30 (did not tell me I could get an earlier
breakfast if I asked for it) and disappeared. Any questions I posed, met with
the “Oh, I don’t know” answer. At 3. 30, I told her I would manage, thank-you
and I raced out.
Visiting
Dorchester and Thomas Hardy’s Cottage:
Not
wanting to entirely waste my first day in Dorset, I intended to tick off two
items on my To Do List—a Visit to the town of Dorchester and a Visit to the
Cottage of Thomas Hardy (also known as Hardy’s Birthplace). A look at my rather
outdated (I now realize) guide book (Lonely
Planet Britain) had informed me that the cottage is open from Thursday to
Monday from 10.00 to 5.00 in August. Hence, if I were very lucky, I felt sure I
could enter before 5.00 pm. I was very much mistaken—on many different scores.
I
did find the bus to Dorchester—easily. The bus stop was right outside my
B and B; but to make matters horrid, there was a bus strike on in Dorset and
the drivers were following no schedule—there was no telling when the next one
would come. Terribly dejected, I stood at the stop, but then my heart leapt when I got into one in about 15
minutes and reached Dorchester about a half hour later. It was a very pleasant
drive that took me into the countryside that Hardy named ‘Wessex’ in his novels
and seated on the upper deck, surveying the farmland all around me, the rising
hills and dipping dales, I could imagine myself in one of his novels—not much
has changed in the countryside since he penned his works.
I knew
that there was no public transport to actually get to Thomas Hardy’s Cottage
from Dorchester. If you do not own a car, there is no alternative but to take a
taxi. I am quite accustomed to this: most properties owned and run by the
National Trust are in the middle of nowhere and no provision whatsoever is made
for visitors who come sans cars.
Still, I found a cab stand, hired a cab for 8 pounds, took a ten minute journey
out of the city of Dorchester into Upper Brockhampton, where Hardy was born,
and at exactly 4. 50 (with ten minutes to spare—Go Me!), the cabbie dropped me
off at the entrance to a lane and told me that he was unable to drive along the
private road. I would need to walk to the cottage doorstep. Because I realized then that I was in the middle of nowhere, with no transport
to get me back, I asked him to come back in half an hour to take me to
Dorchester and he agreed. You would agree that it was more important for me to
get back—being stuck in the midst of corn fields would make me exactly like one
of Hardy’s hapless heroines and I did not fancy that situation! So off he drove!
I was
aghast! The walk would take 10 minutes (no less), but I ran like an Olympics
sprinter and in five minutes, I was there. They simply would have to take me
in, I convinced myself. But when I reached the little gate to the house—at the
end of what seemed like a truly endless little lane—guess what? My guide book
was incorrect (did I mention that it is outdated?) and the house is only open
from Wednesday to Sunday! In other words, it was closed on Mondays!!!! I had
run a wild goose chase! Still, I refused to feel dejected because the same
guide book also said that there is nothing of any significance to be seen inside. I
was able to walk all around the house, to take in the beautiful gardens filled
with lush summer color, to encircle the back of the house, to see the Hardy
Monument in stone erected by admiring American readers. It is a picturesque
home—not as lovely as Anne Hathaway’s cottage in Shottery, but it is a thatch
and cob affair with stucco sides. This was the house in which Hardy was born
and in which he wrote two of my favorite novels of all time—Tess of the D’Urbervilles and Jude the Obscure. After he married and
because he fancied himself something of an architect, he designed another home
for himself—also in Dorchester—called Max
Gate. A far grander affair, it would be pointless to try to find it as it
was past 5.00pm anyway. I could return to Dorchester and try to see both houses
on Wednesday—or not. Frankly, given its remoteness and the expense involved in
trying to reach his cottage, I was perfectly content seeing the place from the
outside and looking at pictures of the interior on the internet—again, no great
shakes because nothing is exactly as it was in Hardy’s time nor are there any
original fitments or furniture within. Hence, I decided to get back and see a
bit of Dorchester instead.
But how to
get back? That was the multi-million pound question. My cabbie was not due till 5. 30 pm. It meant a half hour wait
in the middle of nowhere on a narrow road surrounded by fields. There was no
option: I simply had to stand on the road and try to hitch a passing car.
Again, I felt like Tess attempting to get a ride from a passing hay wagon to
Wessex! To my good luck, the ladies and kids who had been outside the cottage
on a late summer’s walk and with whom I had exchanged a few words earlier, were
leaving. I thumbed down their car, asked for a ride to Dorchester where they
were headed and climbed in. They were really lovely; and calling the cab
company to cancel my return ride, I made it into Dorchester about half past
five.
Exploring
Dorchester:
And
here’s another thing that any visitor to the UK needs to keep in mind:
everything shuts down at 5.00 pm. Life comes to a standstill as sales personnel
down their shutters and go home for their “tea”. Although the two ladies
dropped me off right at the pedestrian plaza that is the main shopping artery
in the town, there was only window-shopping to be done. Suffice it to say, that
I wandered around a bit, found really nothing to grab my attention and decided
to return to Weymouth instead. With the uncertainty of the bus strike, there
was no telling when the next bus would come and I did not want to be stranded
in Hardy’s Wessex. Then, to my good luck, after strolling around for an hour, I
found a bus stop and lo and behold, a bus (No. 10) was waiting to take me back.
I lost no time in hopping into it and half an hour later, I was back in
Weymouth—which was also winding down. The crazy crowds of the afternoon that
had mobbed the beach had retired for the evening. I walked about the side and
back streets in desultory fashion, then caught a bus that took me to my B and B
for two stops.
Once
there, I switched on the TV and realized how much I missed it for my house in
London does not have one. I decided to take a relaxing shower (loved the
updated modern bathroom—so different from my outdated one in London) and then
returned to my room to watch About Time
on TV (one of my favorite movies as I am a huge Richard Curtis fan) and fell
off to sleep. It had been a very full day and I was ready to hit the sack by
11.00 pm when the movie ended. I did some tourist research—which bus to take to
get up the coast, timings, etc—and fell asleep.
Until tomorrow, cheerio...
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