Kimmeridge
March arrived with a fanfare of hailstones and torrential rain, and on the drive down to Kimmeridge this morning the road was flooded in places where it has never been flooded before. In every dip in the road, a watersplash. Shallow streams running down every hill. Water bubbling up from roadside drains.
I parked the car in the disused quarry above Kimmeridge village, next to a small community of battered campervans and old vans converted to living quarters, whose occupants were a mystery. Not climbers. No-one would be climbing at the moment. We've just had the wettest February on record, and the fields have turned to soup, and the cliffs have turned to crumble. And not surfers either (deduced from the lack of surfboards on the roofs).
Set off downhill to the village, following the flow of water down the lane. A bitterly cold southwesterly blowing, but there are green shoots of cow parsley and hogweed and goosegrass pushing up on the roadside verges, and dunnocks are singing their spring songs atop the bramble bushes. It looks like spring, feels like winter. March can never make up its mind.
Past the Etches Collection, a fossil museum (which featured in the recent David Attenborough television programme).
The narrow lane through Kimmeridge, with wheelie bins and cars on the pavement. At least at this time of year there's not a constant stream of holiday traffic to contend with as well.
There are some lovely old thatched cottages in the village, but none of them have parking spaces.
Coastguard cottages (and an ice cream and snack kiosk which is determined to draw attention to itself, even though it is closed for the winter).
Past the little toll collectors hut, which was already manned (£6 to drive down the private road to Kimmeridge Bay, but free if you are on foot).
Clavell Tower in the distance. (You can rent it as a holiday cottage these days).
Past the WWII pillbox, and down to the slipway and boathouses. The cloud beginning to break, and in the distance Gad Cliff suddenly spotlit by the sun.
Crumbly shale cliffs and waterfall. This is normally a tiny trickle.
Some impressive waves sweeping in. Big enough to surf, almost, which is a rarity in this location.
Sat for a while by the slipway, drinking coffee from a flask.
The southwest wind driving the waves right against the foot of the cliffs. Not a day for the usual Kimmeridge pursuits: exploring rock pools, looking for fossils, sitting on the ledges with your legs dangling in the sea.
The sun came out on my journey back up the lane to the village, and suddenly there was light...
Still an old ladder on the wall of these cottages, from the days when a ladder and thatch hooks were kept handy in case of fire.
Lambs in the fields.
Quite a warm climb back up the hill to the disused quarry, in the sunshine, and sheltered from the icy wind by hedges and high banks. I shed hat and gloves, unzipped my coat.
Looking down over the tiny church at Kimmeridge (which I visited back in 2012).
Back at the disused quarry, the mystery of the parked vans was solved. Travellers, of the New Age variety. One of the converted vans had its side door slid open, and the sun was shining in on a home-built wooden kitchen, with a tiny sink, shelves with battens across to hold in place the neat rows of jars of food when the van was moving. Glimpses of a life on the road: a basket of fresh vegetables, a tiny bookcase of herbals, coats hanging on a hook. At the back of the van two women were chatting, sitting on folding chairs, weaving baskets with willow withies.