Tyneham
Took advantage of the army's Christmas stand-down, when they stop firing practice on the artillery ranges in order to lob eat mince pies, and when the walks across the army ranges are open to the public.
Up on Whiteways Hill on Boxing Day, it's always colder than you think it will be. As I pulled on my hat and gloves, there was a sort of a sunrise going on over distant St Aldhelm's Head:
The track up to Flower's Barrow Iron Age Hillfort - my usual Boxing Day walk - was looking very muddy indeed, so I chose instead to take the downhill track to Tyneham.
The track a little washed away in places, but not too muddy. The sea in the distance.
Although Tyneham looks distant when you are at the top of Whiteways Hill, gravity does all the work, and you soon find yourself down in Tyneham village:
The inhabitants of the village were made to leave in 1943, so that the area could be used for military training. The villagers believed they would be allowed back after the war, but this never happened. Tyneham became a ghost village. Though these days the village is open to visitors on some weekends, and during the school holidays.
From Tyneham, down the puddled track towards Worbarrow Bay and the sea:
Regeneration. In the woods alongside the track, ash trees have been felled due to Ash Dieback. Some of them don't care - they're still putting up shoots.
A flock of Long-tailed Tits keeping me company along the way.
Worbarrow Bay. Not a soul in sight. I had arrived before the car park at Tyneham opened. There are advantages to travelling on foot.
Took the slippery track down to Pondfield Cove, to sit for a while on a piece of driftwood, drinking coffee from a flask, and watching the waves wash in.
I had the zoom lens on the camera today, which made it impossible to take any wide landscape shots, but here's a video:
I could almost hear Max pottering about on the shingle as I sipped my coffee, so strong are the memories associated with this place.
And then, as the first visitors were starting to arrive, it was time to head back. Along the puddled track, I got to say hello to a very beautiful Weimaraner. In the car park, the pop-up café in the converted horse-trailer was now open, but I've had the Salt Pig's coffee in the past and know it is ferociously strong. Did not want to give myself palpitations on the climb back.
Past the ghost village, now inhabited with children's voices, and then onto the chalk track back up to Whiteways, the way lined with winter-flowering gorse, wind-sculpted thorn trees:
A walker heading down as I was heading up.
Up and up. But actually it's not too bad. A steady climb rather than a steep climb. Still I was very grateful to reach the stone memorial bench at the top, for a rest and another cup of coffee. Hurrah for a Thermos flask that fits in a coat pocket!
From Whiteways hill, looking northwards across the heath:
Giant wind turbines. They really are giants. You might just be able to make out the church tower at East Stoke on the left of the picture to give a sense of scale. Last time I drove along the Puddletown Road, not that long ago, there were only two of these monsters. Now there are four, though the blades are not yet turning.