The beginning of September and the promise of an Indian summer. It’s a gloriously warm and sunny morning over at Eye Bridge in the hidden world of Cowgrove. The lack of depth to the water in the River Stour attests to the wonderful weather of the last few months and on this, the last day of the holidays for small people, the selected few are making the most of it all before the classroom entraps them once more.

 

 The hedgerows, however, warn of another impending season. For the last two years, it’s been difficult to find a potential harvest of sloes. Conversely, blackberries have been early and plentiful and have already been harvested for the Christmas brandy and gin which is filling my cupboards. Folk keep quiet as to the whereabouts of sloes. Some even forage now in the belief that freezing them will replicate the first frost. I don’t think it works like that: they’re promising but not yet ripe.

And yet more signs of autumn as I progress along the river path. Those flowers are the offspring of water mint. Perhaps I should’ve mentioned that this is the first walk since my birthday for which, amongst many other thoughtful gifts, I was thrilled to receive an i-spy wild flowers book. This bloom doesn’t quite equate with the picture in the book but the leaves were clearly scented with mint. Plus, I get fifteen points for spotting it.

It’s odd – I’ve had many subsequent conversations about i-spy books with friends, some of whom know what I’m talking about but many regarding me as if senility has set in. Way back in time, there used to be a newspaper called The News Chronicle in which one could locate Big Chief I-Spy (with, in those days, a capital I). He lived in a wigwam amongst the printed pages and would send you a certificate proclaiming you a redskin if you managed to complete one of his books. Can’t imagine why it died out.

Anyway, along with the i-spy book, someone else gave me a book of walks in Dorset, and this is the first I’m undertaking. Whilst I’m not in the least ungrateful, my walk seems to involve a lot of multi-tasking. I’ve left the binoculars behind but I’m still juggling with the camera, notebook and pen, i-spy book and the  book of walks and maps. All of this means I can’t take my new birthday handbag for an outing as it’s insufficiently spacious to contain the usual contents, plus all this new paraphernalia. For that, I would need the type of bag that Ernest was left in at Victoria Station. And speaking of the so-called ‘new walks’, well, sadly, the book’s already a bit out of date. I’m supposed to pass through the allotments at the point illustrated in this photo. I stop to demand information from Richard and Helen who would’ve been quite content with a passing ‘hello’. Apparently, the allotments were purchased two years ago with a view to constructing 210 new homes and a restaurant on this des res. You can see how far they’ve got. A new plot of allotments has been provided ‘over there’ they say vaguely. They don’t care about the affordable homes but they’re cross about the waste of land.

 

 

 

 

The next thing I know, I’ve hit blooming Wimborne. The town won the national prize six years ago. They must have some pretty stiff competition because it’s looking absolutely lovely. I venture into a local hostelry and demand a tuna mayo sandwich (without butter) to take away and carry along the given route for about ten yards. The problem is that my book of walks insists I visit the Minster. Well, I don’t want to as I inform the woman in the Tourist Information joint who, viewing me as some eccentric and confused old person,  sets me back on track.

I wander through this lovely town and catch a glimpse of the river before walking up this street and down another only to arrive at the main bridge. I don’t do bridges so I hover around for a while in the hope that someone will come along who I can attach myself to. No-one arrives and eventually, seeing someone crossing in the opposite direction, I bravely cross, all the while clinging to the handrail and talking to myself.

After this, according to the book, I have to look for a cut that’s named Lake Gates. There’s no sign but I find my way and stroll through an estate of bungalows; all of which are immaculately kept and totally soulless to the point of dispiriting. Nonetheless, despite the missing way markers that the book promised, I eventually find myself above the Stour which is full of autumnal berries, grown-up lambs and a view of the habitude of the rich and famous.

I stop here to wander down the hill and look at the fish and the solitary water lily. You might have to click on the pictures to get a better view. By now, it’s even hotter and all is well with the world with a tuna mayo sandwich (no butter) as I sit on the river bank enjoying a solitary picnic. Chloe, one of those indiscriminate black floppy dogs, arrives to investigate, Then Chloe’s mum follows and we pass some time congratulating ourselves on the weather, general well-being and the unspoken smugness of living in Dorset. I could sit here forever quite happily but I don’t seem to be near anywhere so, with some sense of irritation, I press on.

 

Down this lane.

 

 

 

 

Through this underpass

 

 

And eventually I arrive on the road to Merley where, unexpectedly, and totally without context, I come across this beautiful effigy of St Christopher. Well, he’s the patron saint of travellers and I must continue this increasingly tiresome path to the spirituality of the A31, according to the book.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I’d like to say that I completed the walk as given in the book. Truth be told, I didn’t. I couldn’t locate the final way marker. However, on my alternative route back to the car, I spotted hops growing up a telegraph pole, a little egret sunning itself in the Stour and the replacement allotments. Wonderful. This is England.