One of the permanent annual fixtures on my calendar is an “adventure” with Tom on the day after Boxing Day. You may remember Tom from Lyme Regis last year, Charmouth in 2017, Swanage in 2016 or from our trip to Edinburgh two years ago.
We generally go to the coast. We like a bit of beach or cliff, a few rocks, some sea and then Tom likes some wine. This year, being better acquainted with the area, I chose Lulworth Cove.
I’m always a bit nervous about picking a location, especially if it’s somewhere I’m already fond of in case Tom (or anyone; this doesn’t just apply to these adventures) doesn’t like it and I have to remind myself. That’s not what it’s about, not really. It’s just a backdrop for the day. That said, Tom did like Lulworth and said I’d excelled myself this year.
The geological bit is that Lulworth Cove is where the sea has got into a weak bit of the dramatic Jurassic Coast and carved out a perfectly round, relatively shallow and very sheltered bay. The seaward sides are made of twisted, upturned stratified layers of limestone, chalk and clay and the back of the bay is starting to eat its way into the foot of a perfectly rounded chalk hill. To the west is Stair Hole, where more strata and geological drama is laid open to the sky. This bit of coast is a geography textbook brought to life. Three quarters of a mile further west, along the most exhausting bit of South West Coast Path I’ve encountered so far, is Durdle Door and several examples of coastal erosion – cracks, caves, arches, stacks, stumps etc. We didn’t do the trek over there.
We enjoyed the rocks at their misty wintery moody dramatic best, we both collected a few pebbles to bring home, because Tom’s as bad as me. We dogspotted. We failed to get into the Lulworth Cove Inn for lunch because it was too busy and went for coffee and hot chocolate in the visitor centre. We walked right round Lulworth Cove Beach and drew in the pebbly sand (Tom drew in the pebbly sand) and went back to the village for a late lunch in the Lulworth Lodge. I never eat out. Going in a hotel or restaurant for food is an adventure for me. I’m not qualified to be a restaurant critic but if I can get garlic bread that’s neither burnt nor soggy, I’m happy. It’s a low bar but country pubs in particular find it very difficult to jump. The Lulworth Lodge did very well and Tom had no complaints about his seafood chowder, although I think it looks kind of wrong to have seashells floating in your food.
After that, Lulworth pretty much closed. It’s a tourist village and there aren’t many tourists after 3pm on a drizzly December day so everyone closes shop. So we went to Wool. Wool feels like a big place because it’s a crossing point of a couple of major local roads and the railway. Small places have stations but you don’t see them. Wool’s alleged population of 5,300 includes the nearby Bovington Camp barracks; its true population is half that. It’s a small place that provides basic services for tiny places like Lulworth.
I’ve never stopped in Wool before. No one’s ever stopped in Wool. But Tom wanted wine and the Black Bear was still open. If you’re in the area, they’re having a toga party for New Year’s Eve. That said, this isn’t published until the 2nd so by the time you read this, you’ll be too late.
Tom lives in Liverpool, although we went to school together down here in deepest darkest Wessex. You can hear owls from his parents’ house but on the other hand, there’s no mobile phone signal anywhere, drinks are expensive and you can’t get a fantastic cheap Italian meal anywhere. I’d never really considered it before but I did suddenly feel like I’d accidentally acquired the peaceful countryside retirement I’d never thought possible.
We must have been in the pub for a good few hours. We did eventually get food. We had more than usual to talk about. Simple things, non-philosophical things like what best to do with your life if you might only have ten years left. Write books, apparently. Tom’s got a book in him, although he’s not 100% sure what he wants it to say. I think it’ll turn out to be two books eventually, if he writes them. Which he will, because otherwise I’m not writing mine. Make good use of a hard-gained doctorate because booking tables as “Dr Tom” is only a delightful bonus. Make a giant bathroom with a big separate bath. Go and walk the Laugavegur trail properly. See more live comedy. Get a dog. Early retirement, possibly with a parrot.
There’s a reason for these discussions which doesn’t belong on this blog but we are probably at the age to be thinking about our lives anyway. We’re established adults, we’ve pretty much figured out who we are. Mid-thirties is a good time to wonder about who and what we’re going to be in the next ten or twenty years. What we’re going to do. What footprints we’re going to leave on the world. What’s important to us.
I mostly have this kind of conversation with my Rangers. I like to hear what teenagers think their lives are going to look like. Their plans look so much simpler and quicker than our realities. I had no plans at all when I was fifteen. Become a chemist – CV-speak for “mad scientist” – until I fell out with A Level chemistry. Now I think I’m going to take a few steps towards actual paid writer, even if realistically the next I’m going to manage is pocket money.
Normally I’m home by about 5pm after one of our adventures but we were still in the pub at ten. I know, we’re hard-drinking and crazy. We think Tom had four glasses of wine over the three to five hours we were there! I had a pint and a half of full-fat Coca-Cola! Within a few years the annual adventure will last so long it’ll have to include a wild camp on the cliffs somewhere. (It won’t, I assure you.) I dropped Tom off (minus umbrella and rocks) and drive home through thick fog across the wide open rural roads, no streetlight in sight for more than ten miles to my quiet countryside retirement room.