The Rufus Stone. Not really a stone, is it?
A video:
The Walter Tyrrell Inn, just down the road.
Building next to the Tyrrell Inn.
I moved further south to the New Forest Wildlife Park, but when I arrived, ten minutes after opening time, the parking space was already being filled up with literally dozens of families with kids. That was too much for me to face, so I immediately fucked off outta there.
I then set course west, towards Dartmoor. On the way, I had planned to see Lulworth Cove and the famous drinking dragon stone formation of Dorset, but I found I couldn't be bothered. My plans to revisit the Cerne Abbas stone figure was also cancelled.
Here, I find it prudent to emphasize that this was no judgement upon these places as such; it was a combination of me being tired to the point of homicide over having to navigate fucking traffic circles every fucking mile, or so it seemed AND of course the fact that there were tons of British people out and about, having their summer holidays, which I suppose I shouldn’t begrudge them (but I still will… they're in my way!).
When I'd done much of this trip before, it was either in September/October or in May, before the season had started. The roads had been emptier, and I could keep up a much higher average speed and not be encumbered by other people, who are, indeed, hell.
As it were, I spent much more time driving around tiny, narrow, nerve-wrecking roads in Dartmoor, a place that is truly a tonic for the soul. There is something about that scenery; the twisted trees, the ferns and the fields, the horses, cattle and sheep who roam, often freely.
On my way down, I stopped to shoot this wonderful place in Dorset:
Leafy roads.
Sheep roam freely.
As do the horsies.
I had a little fun on their behalf, my very own Blair Witch Project attempt:
White foal snoring on the ground.
He eventually got up to eat.
Note the foal sleeping stretched out in the background.
Video:
More video of the horsies:
Lovely, if windswept, scenery:
The lovely Widecombe-in-the-moor.
Video:
This bridge is called a clapper bridge and it is ancient.
Video:
Video from the area where I was staying - Postbridge:
In the evening I went to eat at the pub just up the road from my lodgings and found that even though they had all the signs out by the road, promising good food, etc, they were, in fact, closed. I tried the door and looked through the windows - nothing.
As I retreated to my car, a guy and some kids came around the corner and he was apparently the proprietor. He told me with a resigned shrug that they were now closed on Mondays and Tuesdays as if that was the most natural thing in the world. He suggested I try in Princeton, just down the road.
I did, and stuffed face on both a huge plate of meat and apple & berry crumble at the Kings Arms, but it led me to think about all the times I'd been lured in by pubs, bars and restaurants who were advertising stuff even though they were closed, because nobody could be fucking bothered to take in the signs for the night. It's enough to make you want to go on a killing spree, it really is.
Mah dinner.
Mah dessert
Sunset on the way home.
No comments:
Post a Comment