The world from my window

Head on over to the The Lady Shed today for my post about why I'm not at Glastonbury. That's about it. Love Maddie x

'It's true,' the old man in the pub said. 'If you look out across from here on the longest day, you'll see the sun setting between those two chimney pots.' 'It's true,' he said. 'I'll bet you a thousand pounds.' I'm not a betting woman but as the owner of one of those chimney pots, I was intrigued. 'Yes,' said the chap next to him. 'And when it happens, a shaft of light runs across the village square, like the Staff of Ra in Raiders of the Lost Ark , pierces through the pub window until its reflection hits the Palmer's 200 pump and then it hares off at a ninety degree angle to hit that stuffed deer head on the wall. 'And then the deer does a winky face, a cigar appears in its mouth and it starts to sing Summertime .' This was an unnecessary embellishment on an already curious tale, but I could sort of visualise it happening in a place as odd as Lush Places. 'Don't listen to 'ee,'

In through the gateway we go, along a path and down past the hurdle fence. We're out in a little terrace, a real sun trap, in front of a cottage. There are swathes of blue love in a mist flowers to the left of us. 'Follow the arrows,' our hostess says. 'There's tea and home made cake at the bottom of the garden.' We're in the heart of Beaminster. It's a little cottage tucked behind an ordinary terrace. But the grounds are a dream. They're full of wild flowers and informal planting, a real joy for a country child like me. There are wooden seats here and there, and a bit of statuary. There are also some few people ambling around, lured in by the red balloon on the gate. We make our way down through foxgloves, ox-eye daisies, spurge, lavender and valerian, along a springy grass and clover path the width of a lawnmower. 'You're going to love this bit,' my friend says. She's been here before and she also knows me very well.

There is a kind of smog above Lush Places this evening as we make our way through winding lanes towards the sea. The skies become bright blue the closer we get to it. On the left side of the road is undulating countryside rolling up towards Eggardon. On the right, the Marshwood Vale is laid out beside us like a patchwork blanket waiting for a picnic. We cruise into town, pass queues of people at the Electric Palace who've got here early to see The Proclaimers and then down past the marquees for the annual food and beer festivals and on to West Bay. It's way too choppy to go out on the boat, so we wander around the harbour and take in the sights, sounds and smells of a small Dorset seaside resort at leisure. Seagulls sidle up to children eating ice creams and mums and dad tucking into fish and chips from the roadside kiosks. Spaniels yank on their leads as overweight owners pant and wheeze and say 'stop pulling.' They might as well be telling the tide not to

We're walking along an ancient track towards the summit of what many local people consider the highest hill in Dorset. Pilsdon Pen. But in recent years, this flat-topped landmark has been usurped by its tree-clad neighbour, Lewesdon Hill. Ordnance Survey insists Pilsdon is 909ft, some six inches shorter than Lewesdon (below).   Despite the evidence to the contrary, people who have lived here all their lives will tell you Pilsdon is the taller of the two. The Cow to Lewesdon's Calf, as sailors used to call them. Whatever the truth, in the grand scheme of things, neither is very tall. But the two ancient hillforts stand like sentinels over the Marshwood Vale. From this side of Pilsdon, we look out across to Somerset.     On a clear day, we can see Glastonbury Tor and the Mendips. There are Bronze Age burial mounds at Pilsdon Pen. And on the trackway on its north west flank, something much more recent. That's about it. Love Maddie x