TYNHAM VILLAGE AND FLOWERS BARROW

Just over half an hours drive away from the town lies the ruined village of Tynham. Here we are using the word "ruined" but many others are used to describe this place: "ghost", "deserted", "stolen", "destroyed", "evacuated", being but a few. The place lies in a deep valley running down to the sea in the Isle of Purbeck. To reach it entails driving along A roads, B roads and then finally down a country lane which drops into the valley. This has to be one of the most uniquely beautiful places in Purbeck and within it sits a national disgrace.

In 1943 the army needed to borrow Tynham in order to use the valley as a training ground. Not wishing to put the villagers in danger from marauding tanks they evacuated them out "During the Present Emergency" - official speak for World War Two. The occupants left sadly but uncomplaingly: after all, they were doing their bit for the war effort and they had been promised that they could return once the war was won. This was sixtyfive years ago and the army are still there. The homes of the people of Tynham, once they were put into in Army hands, were allowed to fall into such a state of neglect that they began to crumble and fall down. Now there are just parts of the outer walls standing. Since 1978 limited public access has been allowed to the "ghost village" and it has become a tourist attraction. It is a fascinating place to wander around, a village caught in time, but it also has a sadness to it's history which overides this. It perhaps would have been better if the buildings had been completely removed as soon as the MOD decided to break their promise to the villagers. This would have spared them the added heartbreak of witnessing the result of the total neglect of their homes.

During the sixties and early seventies there were a few attempts by displaced inhabitants to regain their village. In this day and age there is no doubt that the word "compensation" would be screamed from the rooftops but, to these villagers, money was not an issue: It was simply the wish to return to their homes. The MOD stayed largely tight-lipped in their response to these endeavours - after all, the nations imminent danger of nuclear was with Russia far outweighed the wishes of a small handfull of civilians. When the army did decided to speak out in their own defence it was with the most ridiculous piece of PR guff imaginable: they claimed that their occupation of this land had been the conservationists dream-come-true!

The thinking behind this statement, converted into hard print by a publicity department somewhere, ran thus; that by keeping this land for their own use they had prevented it from becoming over developed. In turn this had created a haven for wildlife which had flourished in the valley, free from the danger of their natural habitats being destroyed by the encroachment of man. Noble sentiments indeed, but rather empty when you look around the rest of Purbeck. The whole area, and it is a large one, remains unspoilt and underdeveloped. Wildlife flourishes throughout the Isle in great abundance, not to any greater or lesser extent in parts of it in MOD hands.

But it has to be acknowledged that the villagers campaign to return to their homes is now a piece of history. Those who fought for promises to be kept have now passed away or have accepted that there is no longer any village to return to. There are many who would point out that if the village had not been allowed to crumble then, by now, it would not be in the possession of local folk anyway. The houses would now be in the ownership of moneyed people from various parts of the country, most of whom would be using them as weekend/holiday retreats. Whilst this is probably true, it is a seperate issue to the fact that the inhabitants were denied their wish to return and live out their lives in their own homes. After all, they left in good faith.

From Tynham we walked the short distance to Worbarrow Bay, one of those parts of the Countrys' coastline which has long attracted visitors from far and wide. Why? Who can say. There are many such places throughout the world that draw people simply because they want to see it. Mother Natures art and sculpture galleries, dotted around purely for asthetic purposes: we may be simple mudhoppers but we knows what we likes! But today we are here not only to enjoy the scenery, we have set ourselves a goal. Before we left our garret that morning we had promised ourselves that we would go and find a bloody big hill to climb up - one that we had not climbed before. There is such a hill which follows the sweep of Worbarrow Bay to the West, this was to be the remedy for our growing restlessness - the feeling that had been creeping up for a couple of weeks previously. It was reminding us that we had not climbed up any bloody big hills for a while. Other mudhoppers may possibly look at a map, or do a bit of research, before heading off up a path. In this way they would know what to expect to find, not only en-route but also at their destination. Sometimes we do this, but more often than not we make such decisions on a "lets-go-there-and-see-what-its-like" basis. So it was with the climb from Worbarrow to Flowers Barrow.

That the hill we set off to ascend fell into the catagory of bloody big was obvious as soon as we looked at it . Big and beautiful and exactly what we were looking for. The further we rose from sea level the more we would be rewarded with spectacular views. To our left this was the Purbeck coastline, where even on calm days the sea throws itself against rocky cliffs. In the distance the Isle of Portland sat wedged-shaped in the haze, while closer to seabirds squabbled over optimum perching places. To our right the hills falling into valleys, green farmland where calmly grazing livestock gave a peacefulness to their surroundings. Halfway up the climb, just as we were really starting to feel the effects of our lack of exercise for a fortnight or so, it became a steep hill.

Steep? If the incline was any sharper it would be classed as a cliff! I dont think that either of us had ever seen such a steep hill before in out lives. (actually, we have probably not only seen them but climbed them also. The previous sentence is just there to add a bit of emphasis to this particular hill. Indulge us ,dear readers.) It was hard work on our our bloody big hill climbing muscles, to the point that if one of us had insisted on abandoning the effort the other would have been secretly gratefull. We would then have congratulated ourselves on getting thus far and assurred each other that we had done well. As neither of us was prepared to wimp out, however, we carried on ever upwards- all the time avoiding the temptation to look behind us. The threat of vertigo was very real. Our objective was the artificial mound atop the hill which we had spotted from the start: this, we had assumed, was Flowers Barrow.

Only it wasn't. Eventualy reaching the end of the climb, expecting to find a barrow, we discovered ourselves instead walking into a neolithic hill fort. This was the perfect reward for our exertions: not only for the chance it gave us to sit down knowing that the path would be downwards from here on, but also because we did not know that this hill-fort existed. And it is a fine example of these ancient defences so common in this part of the country, mainly due to its builders having to fully utilise the landscape in which it sits. There is little of the uniformity to be found at, say, Maiden Castle nor is there any sense that this would be an ideal place for such a structure. The thought and energy expended by the people (whom our history teachers at school would have us believe were dull-witted) is incredible to comprehend. That the "hows and whys" of these hill-forts are still not fully understood by those who study them only adds to the appeal for Durogante Mudhoppers: it is almost, but not quite, as if we are walking amongst a neolithic joke- one that keeps people guessing.

STONEY LITTLETON LONG BARROW

We had been planning to go to Stoney Littleton for some time, but always seemed to end up somewhere else. Finally a day off was looming upon which we determined we would definatly go. Except that due to an excess of cider the night before- proper cider that is, Scrumpy: it comes out of barrels in a farmhouse, flat and cloudy. A totally different drink to the piss-water that comes fizzed up in plastic bottles, Scrumpy is a gift from Mother Nature.Where were we ? Oh yes, due to an excess of cider the night before we had overslept. Not only that, a forecasted dry day had made an error and started raining. We spent all morning trying to wake up while outside the rain increased. Another attempt to go and see this long barrow doomed to failure. Lunchtime came and we wondered what we could do with the day instead or, at least, the rest of the day. By now it was one o'clock and on a dull afternoon like this darkness would come early. Eventualy we decided that, sod it, we would go to Stoney Littleton anyway.

The drive up into Somerset was good despite the weather and an hour and a half after we set off we were within a mile or so of our destination. Then the fun began. It seemed that, for this last short distance, we were suddenly in an area of Somerset where the locals have a bitter hatred of road signs. The turning we had to take ended up being a matter of guesswork backed up with the knowledge that "it must be around here somewhere". We drove down a country lane and within a half mile started wondering if it was some kind of trick: it certainly looked like a country lane when we turned into it but, very quickly, it was only the hedgerows each side that defined it as such. It was not so much a case of "mud on the road" as "is there a road under this mud?". The unwary travellers would be forgiven for thinking that they had made a wrong turning and were actually driving across a field. Eventually though we came to a sign which read, rather reassuringly, "Stoney Littleton". We had arrived. We started looking for a sign to point us in the direction for the long barrow.

Silly us ! of course there were no signs, but it did not matter because there were equestrians. Having driven right through the village and out the other side we stopped by one of these horsey types and were pointed back to the direction from which we had just come- with the added information of where we had to turn right. Having done this we stopped alongside two more riders who gave us more exact information. Within a couple of minutes we there there- there being a small parking area for the car. From here on we would be mudhopping.

The walk up the hill to the long barrow is worth the drive in itself. With a wooden footbridge across a river, a stream to jump across, stiles and fences, it is the rural and rustic English countryside that many believe is lost in time. The blast of fresh damp air that hit us as soon as we escaped the cocoon of our vehicle lifted our spirits immediately. The hill we had to climb could not be seen as a challenge: ascending it would open up more of this countryside to us. The rain retreated back into the clouds and for the rest of the afternoon we exchanged suspicious looks with them. It was an uneasy truce.

Such is the route that the footpath up to the long barrow leads us we get no glimpse of it until we are practically there. Even then it's full potency is not apparant until you have walked around the mound and found the entrance to the passage leading into it. Then you find yourself fighting any fear of claustrophobia as it's long, low, narrow chambers pull you in. Unlike West Kennet, here you cannot stand upright. It has to be at least a crouch and in places a crawl to negotiate the passage. There are six chambers off this passage, three on each side, and one at the end. It is dark, damp and dramatic.

We spent an hour or so here. Exploring the stones by torchlight was our first priority, the neolithic builders of this tomb having used many stones that contained fossils. The largest of these is an ammonite at the entrance, clearly visible, but the rest have to be searched for in the dark. When not fossil hunting we sat in the chambers and had brief encounters with other folk who like to crawl around in burial chambers on a Sunday afternoon. It is, it has to be said, a somewhat unusual way to encounter strangers. Though they were few (it not being a well known site) the cramped space did make greetings both inevitable and easy. And although we ranged in age and dress we had two things already in common: the first has already been noted, the second is that we were all prepared to get splatted by mud in order to be here. It was our common uniform.

When we did venture outside of the barrow it was to go and stand atop the mound and look over the surrounding countryside. Even through the soggy haze the encircling hills stand out clear and proud. Grassed or wooded by turns they seem to create a barrier around this site: protective in a gentle way, like the warmth of a parents arms around a small child. A short time later, and back inside the barrow, this was echoed by a passing stranger. As we crawled into side chambers to allow him to pass he remarked, simply;

"This is the safest place on earth."

We stayed until the light started fading, by which time rain had started falling. This made the descent hazardous but fun: not even a torrential downpour would dampen our spirits in such a place. A hidden jewel, we shall return here one morning to watch the sunrise.