Afoot in Thomas Hardy’s Dorset

From London’s Waterloo station, a train whisks us “down” to Gillingham. A taxi carries us to the first of three country lodgings. Inspired by Thomas Hardy’s compelling 19th century descriptions of southwest England, we’re on a seven-day walking holiday in rural Dorset.

“Welcome to The Fontmell,” grins host John. “Before long, you’ll discover the Blackmore Vale’s unspoiled. There’re small villages like Fontmell Magna, some towns… and zero cities! Chief occupation? Dairy farming, just like in Hardy’s day!”

The Museum Inn
Photo: Christ and Rick Millikan

Hearty English breakfasts launch each off-the-beaten-track foray. With boots laced, daypacks secured, walking poles readied, our first ramble begins. Confidence soars, until realizing we’d misinterpreted earlier instructions. Rather than backtrack, we struggle up a steep pasture rutted by cattle hooves. Cow parsley, mini orchids, foxgloves and Scottish thistle pepper the slope with white, yellow and purple. Up top, overviews of Fontmell Magna and surrounding farms reward our efforts.

Markers regularly confirm our direction across Fontmell Down Nature Reserve. Eventually, our easy footpath narrows and hugs a high grassy hillside. Below lie sweeping landscapes chronicled by Hardy as “a patchwork of greens, stitched together with dark green threads.”

Descending through woodlands filled with birdsong, we merge onto a quiet road to Compton Abbas Airfield. As vintage planes buzz blue skies, cold ciders on the shaded café patio revive us for the eight-kilometre return trek.

Above Fontmell Magna, we sight fellow walkers climbing the rickety stile behind us. Meeting up along the fence-lined path, we cross the hayfield together. Conversation reveals that 81-year-old Margaret had recently walked the 354-kilometre Hardy Way – 20 years after she’d mapped it!

“In 1995, friends and I way-marked the literary route connecting Hardy’s life to his novels,” says Margaret. “It starts at his Higher Bockhampton birthplace and ends at his gravesite in Stinsford’s churchyard.” Forking left, they wave. We go right, inspired. During the first of seven delicious pub dinners, we toast Margaret’s spunk… and our initial self-guided accomplishment.

An easier day follows. Driver Kevin shuttles us to Shaftesbury, Hardy’s Shaston. Following meandering lanes throughout a lower neighbourhood, we climb Gold Hill, short but steep.

Shaftesbury Gold Hill
Photo: Chris and Rick Millikan

In the historic centre, we share a wedge of Dorset Apple Cake outside the Salt Cellar Café. Before us, stone cottages lining Gold Hill’s cobbled street and muted green hills of Cranborne Chase beyond delight. “One o’ Dorset’s best scenes, that,” asserts a local at the next table. “It’s in movies, even commercials!”

Across the courtyard, two sandstone buildings house Gold Hill Museum. In the foyer hangs a striking mural. “For centuries, our hilltop market town lacked water. So my painting depicts an historic event,” explains volunteer and artist Janet. “Dressed in their finery, Shaftesbury’s citizens parade down to Enmore Green’s wells to exchange annual tributes for water. Cups of ale and dancing always followed.”

Nearby Park Walk presents cliff-side perspectives of resplendent St. James Cathedral and lower village. Along the walkway, we visit Shaftesbury Abbey Museum and Gardens. Audio-guides describe its prosperous life before destruction. The convent’s foundations now enclose walled gardens brimming with heirloom roses and herbs. A statue of founder King Alfred gazes sternly over the ruins of his once influential abbey. Behind, we come across ivy-covered Ox House. A wall plaque notes that Hardy called it Old Grove Place in Jude the Obscure.

Our next morning’s driver collects our luggage and us. Before delivering bags to our next inn, he leaves us in Ashmore, Dorset’s highest village. Past its dewpond, chalky footpaths steer us alongside ancient hedgerows defining vast estates on the Cranborne Chase. Cattle, sheep and show horses graze in immense pastures separated by fences draped in pink dog roses.

Sweeping Dorset Vista
Photo: Chris and Rick Millikan

Edging numerous grain fields, our rugged path leads into Tollard Royal. Nestled amid 2,800-hectare Rushmore Estate, this tiny hamlet boasts two grand landmarks: Church of St. Peter ad Vincula and King John’s favourite hunting lodge.

Arriving shortly in Farnham, signage explains the Museum Inn replaced General Pitt-Rivers’ 19th century museum. This “Father of Archaeology” exhibited over 20,000 artifacts. He’d included pottery shards and bone fragments often ignored by earlier collectors.

After breakfast, we hoof cross-country and check out Chettle’s 13th century St. Mary’s. Its unique stone arch entryway and tidy graveyard make it one of Dorset’s prettiest churches. In contrast, a wartime Quonset hut houses a bustling General Store. From a roadside picnic table, we watch residents pick up mail, fresh produce and legendary Dorset cream teas.

Chettle St. Mary’s Church
Photo: Chris and Rick Millikan

Our return track takes us into ripening grain fields punctuated with red poppies. Unexpectedly morphing into an overgrown bridleway, we bash our way through hip-high grasses, tumultuous hogweed, tangled daisies and stinging nettles. Emerging onto wide pathways, farmers cut through wheat, barley and lentil fields, we’re soon among Farnham’s thatched 17th century cottages. Relaxing in our room, tea and biscuits hit the spot.

A ride to Sixpenny Handley kicks off a favourite tramp. Our route retraces Hardy’s thirsty farm workers’ way to Cranborne’s pubs in Return of the Native. We even spot patches of spiny, yellow-blossomed furze they’d harvested for animal fodder and fuel.

Knowlton Circles
Photo: Chris and Rick Millikan

Skirting farmyards and bearded barley fields, we gradually ascend Pentridge Hill. Formed during the ice age, its topmost ridge provides spectacular 360-degree northern Chase vistas. At the apex, a pine grove becomes an idyllic snack spot. Refreshed, we are guided down a little footpath to a row of cottages forming Pentridge. Hardy named this cul-de-sac village Tantridge in Tess of the D’Urbervilles.

At its sleepy crossroads, an elderly fella tells us about the current Earl of Shaftesbury and his nearby manor. He volunteers to show us “something special” across the common in St. Rumbold’s Church. Inside, he points out a round stone at the foot of an Earl’s tomb. “Behold!” he beams. “That sculpted cabbage salutes its introduction into early English veggie patches.” Bidding adieu, we press on to our final accommodations in Cranborne, Hardy’s Chaseborough in Tess of the D’Urbervilles.

The pub wall at the Inn at Cranborne’s sports a Hardy quote, so we chat with the proprietor, Jane, to get the scoop. “Yes. He stayed here while penning Tess, possibly his best work. The novel’s pub, Flower de Luce, was based on this one,” she chuckles. Jane also tells us her establishment was listed as Fleur de Lys in the 1066 Doomsday Book. Then, a village garrison protected royal huntsmen such as William the Conqueror, King John and Henry VIII.

Overgrown Bridleway
Photo: Chris and Rick Millikan

On our last day, a new driver wanders along a series of winding roads. At last, he exclaims, “Ahhh! This one’s right! And straight! It’s Roman-built!” He drops us at Knowlton Circles, where three earthen henges encircle a ruined 12th century church.

We prowl Dorset’s largest Celtic barrow formation. Thin clouds streak pale skies above the Neolithic ceremonial site. Random breezes tease our ankles and necks, possibly the playful effects of primitive spirits still lurking inside the pagan circle.

Marching back across enormous estates, we stop in at Cranborne, entering 13th century Saint Mary and Bartholomew Church. Sunlight streams through stained glass windows tinting the notable marble tombs. Perhaps Hardy himself heard rousing sermons from the carved 14th century oak pulpit. Or like us, reflected on the pastel fresco of Jesus and Disciples above.

Explorations in Thomas Hardy’s beloved countryside total more than 80 kilometres. Our experiences develop a better understanding – and new appreciation of his enduring classics.

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