There’s a lot to be said for walking at home, especially if you’re a fan of Ordnance Survey maps. They show one so much of not only the topography of place, but also the history, particularly if the countryside is sufficiently fortuitous  to have suffered little in the way of change. England has lost much of its ancient chalk grassland due to the vagaries of the plough but Fontmell Down has been saved owing to its inaccessibility by machine. No Luddites, or their agrarian forerunners needed to step this way. I once read that the Ordnance Survey, in all its visual glory, provides great interest and happiness to those physically unable to explore outside. Well, it may sound patronising, but I think not.

I’ve passed by Fontmell Down many times on my way to deepest Wiltshire. In fact, more than once, I’ve temporarily abandoned the car to look over the wonderful view of the Blackmore Vale. And, having studied both the map and the weather forecast, today I decide to stretch my legs a little further. After all, the morning is glorious although I detect a slight breeze in the trees along the way.

During a particularly violent Mistral in Provence, a friend once asked me to open the car door carefully in case it blew away. Ridiculous, I thought, but that warning comes to mind as I try to leave my vehicle today. I was going to do the circular walk but this seems a little adventurous. Instead, I head off down the hill at quite the pace with the wind blowing me along. Along the way, I meet those struggling back up and they are, indeed, a sorry sight. Children, particularly, are crying with the cold. I note that fully formed icicles hang from their little noses as I accost the parents to ask about access to Melbury Hill.

Melbury Hill was to be a part of my walk. I don’t think it’s going to happen. It’s 863 feet high and, in 1588, was one of the Armada beacons that stretched from London to Plymouth. No-one I ask has any idea how to get up it nor any interest. I think we’ve all set out with the intention of doing the round trip and in the face of the biting wind have discovered there are better things indoors.

The ubiquitous National Trust ‘bought’ Fontmell Down and Melbury Hill in 1977 in memory of Thomas Hardy. I’m afraid one of the few people who stuck with me at university was Rousseau. If you’re not familiar, listen to Billy Bragg. How can someone own such vast swathes of land. Anyway, at least the NT don’t charge you for being here even if the Hardy link is tenuous. Hardy called the Blackmore Vale the ‘vale of little dairies’ and novels such as Tess of the d’Urbervilles were set hereabouts. Roughly.

The Dorset Wildlife Trust suggests that the best time to visit is Spring or Summer to see the huge variety of wild flowers, including nine types of orchid as well as the pictured, and apparently rare, early Gentian. Actually, I didn’t read that until I got home. Let’s be clear, there’s stuff all to see this morning; and even if there was, one’s view would be blinded by the spiteful tears streaming from wind-sore eyes.

This is the cross-dyke as shown on the map. At least I’ve seen something. A cross-dyke is a linear earthwork believed to be a prehistoric boundary. I expect it looks really nice in the Summer, covered in butterflies and orchids.

I meet a man with a tortured dog coming through a gate and ask whether there’s any possibility of a circular path. Well, there is if I head towards those trees. But the wind has made him short-tempered and the dog sits in front of him, looking up and howling hopelessly. I am no longer the dog-whisperer of Dorset. I am an irritation. I press on towards the trees – and to a herd of ginormous cows. Behind me is a family replete with crying children. ‘Are you going up there?’ I ask, thinking I’ll latch on to them. ‘We were’, man of the house replies, ‘but my wife is scared of cows so now we’re not’.  ‘I’ didn’t say scared’, she butts in crossly. ‘I’m a bit anxious too’, I try to console her, but now they’re having a row and I can’t take any more. I head back to the car and let me tell you, I have no idea how I get back up that hill with the arctic wind in my face. I’ve only been walking an hour and I’m exhausted. How much better it might’ve been to stay indoors with a hot chocolate and a map.

I’ve only been indoors five minutes when my son phones. ‘Do you fancy a walk’, he asks? ‘We haven’t been outside yet’. Well, of course I do. What could be better? And here we are in the cold but calm of Upton Country Park prior to a comforting cup of mint tea. Lovely.