Jurassic Coast

This small squid-like creature once swam the seas by the millions and came in at a whopping 10,000 species. Most shells could fit in the palm of your hand and some of the larger ones could have grown as large as a human. That's quite a difference if you ask me. While the Ammonites are the most familiar in their round snail-like shell, the Belemnite's tails were long cone-shaped or as some would say a bullet shape of what one would characterize a squid or cuddle fish was called the Rostrum.  The cephalopods, now more stone than an animal, no longer boasted a soft exterior, smooth and slippery, to move through the ocean waters with ease. The rostrum was not a hard cone that could have fooled an onlooker as a cylindrical stick-like stone. While the Ammonites were highly regarded in the shops, the belemnites, I at least found, were far more prevalent on the beaches. We got our fill of the shops, far too eager to step on the sands. Yes, this entire trip to England was in the south, and therefore, having just finished summer, we were at the warmest water temps to walk barefoot. It wasn't likely that I was going to take off my shoes. 

The wind was crazy and we had the open ocean and the cliffs behind us. Never mind the endless signs warning us of falling rocks and landslides at any moment. I was not about to take my shoes off and be left barefoot running down the beach like a total wanker. I have a story about that later, but first, the fossils. We hadn't gotten 300 feet down the beach when we stumbled up our first ammonite. I could have cried with joy, I was so excited. Being an amateur archaeologist all my life, watching Indiana Jones and Jurassic Park, reading every single issue of National Geographic, and studying my family's encyclopedias for fun, I was doomed to love this stuff. If I had any brains, I would have told my anthropology teacher to stuff it and kept up with my studies, working extra to pay to go on that dig against my mom's wishes. 5 weeks in England on an archaeological dig. I told Nick I'm going to do that someday. I just wanted to observe the magic. If they let me join, I beamed with pure happiness. This came from a girl who had studied snake skins and stored bird skulls on tissue paper in my room. I thought that studying the bone structures of birds and biology in general was fun as a nine-year-old. Barbies were boring, I love nature and the study of our history. History, after all, is a road map to the future.

We walked the shores, feeling elated and less concerned for the feeling or lack thereof in our toes. Our spirits were warm. After a few hours though, we looked up from the beach and saw that the crowds had gone. More for us, I thought to myself. but then looked up at the beach in the other direction. It wasn't that the beaches had fewer people, the beaches had no people. What was worse, the tide was coming in and there was only one way to get to the top of the cliffs, the stairs, at the other end of the beach. The tide was not coming in slowly either. We had been so wrapped up in collecting our fossils that we had not noticed this happening at all. I pointed out the waves creeping up the shoreline and immediately thought, damn, I'm going to drown in England. Almost ironic, I too would have become a fossil in the end. I always said that when I, want my ashes scattered here, so I guess that makes sense. Instead, we decided to leave and made a mad dash for the stairs that ran up alongside the edge of the walkway for the pier. By the time we got there, the stair platform was under about four feet of water, and we knew we were screwed. We decided to climb. I'm not a climber whatsoever. I have a nerve disease in my right arm and cannot hold a bottle of water for very long, never mind my weight. But I used every last ounce of gal and mostly legs and climbed up the embankment grabbing onto the tall sea grass with deep roots and small pockets of dirt left by gulls nesting in the spring. We survived. But had you not known that I was writing this and not Lady Whistledown, it could be a harrowing tale of a traveler who traveled her last, in search of the past. Oh boy, this poem is ghastly. Blame it on my mother. 

Post survival, we headed 20 minutes East along the sea border to our hotel, the Bridport Arms, located in beautiful West Bay. A quaint fishing village, famously known for shooting one of my favorite British Series, Broadchurch. If you haven't seen it, do that, right now. Olivia Colman, Her Majesty, and David Tennant (Dr.Who and Harry Potter playing Barty Crouch Jr., cue the lizard tongue) were fantastic in this murder mystery story set in a fictitious town but brought to life by this beautiful city. The hotel was an old inn with a proper pub serving my favorite classic dishes. While we planned to eat there for dinner, we had to get ourselves an order of fish and chips with that gravy that I love so much. S&E Fish and Chips was the perfect spot. Their chips come with a golden curry gravy that is simply to die for. Just up the street from the hotel, we found a great little spot. Locals came here to eat every day. The waitress/co-owner, I suspect, said hi to the men who walked in. I desperately wanted to be one of them. There's something about old towns and seeing familiar faces every day that feels so simplistic and wonderful. I know of many who come from small towns and hate the gossip and constant chatter that can come from living with the same people day in and day out. For me though, it's wonderful. For the young adults ready to spread their wings, I'm sure it's flat-out torture.

This was now only 2 pm and we had only two days here to explore, so we set out on an adventure about the hotel, figuring that we would visit more beaches tomorrow and perhaps travel a bit along the border heading towards Bournemouth tomorrow. Adjacent to our hotel lay a steady incline up a hill to a plateau along the edge of a cliff. Once again, if you saw the show Broadchurch, would know this cliff, it's part of the murder after all, or was it? (Evil cackle) I judged the hill pretty fairly. Knowing that I had conquered Arthur's Seat in Edinburgh only four years previous and being in far better shape in 2022, I thought that this was the best chance I was ever going to have to make this steep incline ever again. After suffering in the opposite of silence, I finally summited the hill, or what I felt like, a mountain to reveal wide green fields abutting the cliffs combining farmlands and what else, golf courses. Not being a golfer myself, I chose to set my sights upon the ebbing/flowing waves as the sun slowly began to sink to the sea. Like a good tea, you steep it for a while before comes out of the water again. I love my Earl Grey, but still search for iced coffee everywhere I travel. Hell, I drank iced coffee in Alaska during the winter. frozen my window open, but I enjoyed it nonetheless. Aside from the view we also had what felt like hurricane winds knocking us down. Our hair was pulled back, and our jackets wrapped tightly around our appendages. We leaned forward a bit and found that the wind could hold us up. Don't worry, I'm terrified of heights and not a moron and did this leaning trick far away from the cliffside. Again, Broadchurch, watch it.

Instead, we lay down in the grass and the silence fell upon our ears. While we stood the window blasted through our canals, while laying even with the land the sky was simply blown and the rage of the seas had little effect over our peaceful moments on the fo the od fat eworld. I think even Nick would feel the same way about that trip. That by far, is one of my favorite parts. On the other hand, coming back down the 45-degree angle hill was my least favorite part. No doubt, like many members of my family, I am going to develop vertigo, and falling is in my nature.

After a glass of whiskey and a gin and tonic to continue my G&T tour around England, we ate a bit of dinner, still stuffed from our lunch, and went to our room to watch some tele before going to sleep. All that wind had surely knocked the, well you know, out of us.

The next morning we headed over to Charmouth Beach, only a ten-minute drive down the road from our hotel. The beach was spectacular in the morning. Far colder than the previous days' journey with the sun not given the proper chance to warm up the sand again. So we donned our sweatshirts and coats and made another journey along the Jurassic Coast. With an eye on the tide this time, we knew we had about three hours before we had to leave safely. This trip was a bit different though. While we did find quite a lot of ammonite in the cliffs(some while climbing the clay edges too well, there are no porta potties on the beach and a long walk back to the car,) I saw something else in the sand. An edge of a plate. I think I was honestly more excited about finding the piece of pottery on the beach than I was about the fossils. See this was not a plate from a local store. This was a piece of a china set. Even better, this piece was marked with the crown. I looked up ahead and saw the beach was littered with a ton of debris. Not knowing what it was, but needing desperately to know immediately, I trudged through the anchored and topped trees that had fallen over the edges at the cliff gave way and found that I had stumbled upon an antique collector treasure trove. What we had come to learn from a passerby, was that this was a Victorian dumping ground. Whenever they were done with their bricks, dishes, bottles, anything really, they would heave it over the side. For a while atop the cliffs, there were a lot of factories that would make new bottles, and through the melted ones that failed to make it to market over the edge. To say that I left with a ton of artifacts that day would be an understatement. I plan to show you these as well in one of my several videos yet to come over the next few months. What man's trash is another man's treasure indeed? The only trash I find on the beach is used tampons, Coca-Cola bottles, and Bandaids. yum. I immediately called the kids when we left and told them that we would be taking them to England someday to visit that place. My daughter has been collecting random crap her whole life, rocks especially, I know she would love it there. 

Having stowed our new collectibles in a backpack in the trunk of the car, we headed East to a small town we saw signs for online when researching nearby shops. First, we had to get a stamp and a package though so that we mail back our parking pass from St. Ives, realizing that we had forgotten to leave it on the table when we found it stuck between the seats of our rental. Oops. That store was interesting enough. They had exactly 1 of everything and the guy knew nothing about postage prices. Weird coming from a postage shop. The shop was sweltering, so after purchasing an envelope, postage, and tape, I quickly paid whatever he claimed the postage was. 

Our drive led us down a dozen or so winding roads with colonial houses, some with thatched rooves perched on the roadway. A sign of a bygone era that still existed as a sense of culture in Britain. Weymouth was a beautiful town. Known more over for his beaches, I rather enjoyed the rural parts. For their small wholesome appeal. A few miles before we ended up in a tiny town filled with swirling rows of mixed cottages, many with their walls squatly touching the adjacent houses of the 18th century, whose legacy went as far back as 60 AD. Although the town, Ilchester, Yeoval, presently what many would consider British typecasted, you can only imagine the former marketplaces that would once line the streets with hawkers holding their prize turkeys by their bound taloned claws while the muddied pigs remained stocked in the pens just down the alleyway. It's always amazed me, how much the landscape of a town can change, just through the slow transition of time. Whether through natural resources becoming less available or change in the hands of ownership, never mind the plague visiting as he loved to, the world was ever-shifting. All we need to do is take a slice of the Earth and like a five-layered dip we can marvel at history, even when all the buildings, animals, and people are gone. 

A building that truly caught my eye was an abbey I saw peeking over the hedges a short distance down a road just off the town of Abbotsbury. The building was naturally part of an abbott. The land contained a large stone blueprint of what once had been the building of prayer and now without a roof nor windows was reduced to a graveyard of thoughts, memories, and longing for hope, health, and happiness in a time when most were less likely. The building at the posterior position of the lot was closed, but with some spying and tiptoed positioning I was able to see that they now used the space to store activities for local carnivals. Naturally, this was not part of the original building, but it was no doubt, still older than most buildings in New England. Crazy, right?

The Cherries at Abbey Farm was my next destination. While I loved a good piece of historical architecture, I also loved a great Iced Americano. And this place went all out when it came to impressing me. As you can tell from the pictures above, their attention to detail made me swoon. Nick, not allowed to have caffeine, due to an allergy, opted for their hot chocolate which was topped with whipped cream and an assorted selection of Lucky Charms marshmallows. The quaintness of the shop, the decor, and overall friendliness would be enough for me to return to that farm again someday. But we had to sip our drink back to get back on the road heading from Weymouth to West Bay where reservations at the Station Kitchen awaited us.

Just a short walk from our hotel we arrived at the most interesting restaurant I may have ever eaten at. You just listen to my description and then you can be the judge. The restaurant was situated on a small piece of railroad track with a platform hosting a small train station. We walked by a trailer that held the restroom. One that, of course, I had to test out. Not because I like to test bathrooms out or anything, but all the gin and tonics, coffee, and tea can get to a girl. They were clean and tasteful; all I'm saying on the matter. The platform to the left opened to a room that hosted a counter to greet the guests as well as lead the chef and his kitchen staff to the excellent-sized kitchen. To the right of the platform sat two train carts, one in front of the other. While no steam engine existed ahead of them, nor rails, the feeling was right and I applauded the creator of this imaginative restaurant for their inspiration and spot-on excellence in decor, food, and all the feels. While there were two train cars, they were not connected by design or menu. Each place was practically their restaurant. While they shared a kitchen, they shared nothing else. The back car was refined and served a high-end pricier menu with a flare for extravagance. We opted for the Gypsy train, as I called it. If you look at the pictures you will surely understand why. Small trinkets hugged from the ceilings, painted the walls, and surrounded us in what I can only describe as wonderous comfort. The menu was simple and contained only a few entries, indicating that they changed the menu frequently, keeping the ideas fresh and leaving its guests wanting more. the menu also had a few items that were a la carte and Nick seeing its list was immediately aware of what he wished to order, none other than scotch eggs. Nick put his order in and then watched as it was delivered in slow motion before him. Now Nick's scotch eggs are legendary. They are soft-boiled eggs wrapped in spicy Italian sausage coated and breadcrumbs and then fried. The English make their eggs scotched too. Let me just pause there a moment. Scotch eggs are not from Scotland. While Scotch is from Scotland, scotch eggs were invented as a preservation process for keeping food longer.  Unfortunately, when the breadcrumb was cut through the meat was still pink. While, with beef, the pink is completely safe and there's a good chance this pig came from down the road, it was not something he wished to risk with another four days to our trip. So the kind waitress took the enormous scotch egg back to the kitchen and they immediately made him another. The second came back out and looked great, but upon cutting into the egg, we discovered nothing had changed, the pork still had quite a rawness to it. Not wanting to be rude, he ate it. The best part is, that he was able to join me for the rest of the trip.

 I decided to look at the back of the menu, while I watched my husband swallow each slightly raw morsel. I find that in many small establishments, whether we are in England or small pubs in Newport, Rhode Island, the story behind their establishment is shared. Any restaurant that is comprised of a piece of railroad, a station house, and two train cars is going to have a story to tell. The car that we ate in, The Brunel, was built in 1911 and during WWI it was used as a makeshift ambulance. After the war, the car was returned to England where it was used for several purposes before being stored in Shropshire until being brought to Dorset for renovation and repurposing. The other car called The Beeching was built in 1958. The Restaurant opened in 2019 to great success. While the train station closed officially in 1962, it's great to see that they kept a piece of it to harness the memories of a time gone by but not forgotten.

We paid our bill, leaving a tip to reflect such service, and began toting our leftovers back to the hotel in a box that resembled more of a pet shop box with air holes to make sure that my dish could breathe, I ended up finishing the food realizing we did not have a refrigerator in our room. I think you can see that we loved this place and I hope that we have inspired you too to travel down to Dorset and grab a pint, eat some fish and chips, and even take in a murder mystery show at The Station Kitchen. Until next week when we cover the last two days of our trip to Southern England with the creme de la creme, the cherry on top, Newbury, Reading with the Lesters, and the ever-amazing Highclere Castle or as many of you know it, Downton Abbey.