Day 5 -- Into the heart of greenness
Departed Ramville betimes. Mrs. Longford disavowed all knowledge of a St. Peter's Church in Bournemouth, but I was still willing to take my chances and try, for Mary Wollstonecraft and her daughter Mary Shelley would be good feathers in my famous graves cap. And miracle of God, I found the churchyard right away! I considered going in to take eucharist -- but the service started 20 minutes ago, and I didn't want to be one of those silly tourists who waltz into a service late. Sound of the organ rattled the stained glass windows, making any nearby proceedings into something ecclestiastical.
Mary Shelley's grave was easy to find. Someone had placed a little sprig of greenery from nearby bushes on the stone. I wandered through the churchyard -- like a campground in the Sierras, with Victorian tombstones.
When I was ready to go on, Mrs. Longford averred that she needs a navigation DVD before she could direct me to the next stop, Kingston Lacy. I remonstrated with her. She was obdurate. Directions in the National Trust Handbook were happily straightforward, so I headed out full of optimism and arrived without incident.
(People watching me drive: "She's got a zippy new Audi -- why is she driving like a gran?" The Prius has ruined me for any other car. Since I don't feel like I can see anything behind me without the backup camera, I'm becoming the mistress of the 87-point turn. And the Audi's engine sounds like a lawnmower to me: "What is WRONG with this car... Oh, it's idling.")
The landscape was beautifully open -- hills lolling and rolling in smooth billiard green. (Can foresee running out of ways to describe green after several days in Dorset.)
Kingston Lacy, another 17th century house with bags of swags. Can't swing a cat without smacking it into a hedge of gouache acanthus. Paintings included many lovely, naughty ladies, as well as some smoky Olde Masters. The Spanish room had walls of gilded leather, of all things. Unusual master's bed -- places to put candles in the end pillars, and a gay little garland of carved bats around the top of the canopy.
The fernery was restful, after vast expanses of lawn. Roses and other plants are tied up and fenced in -- were they bad, or are they being saved from the depredations of the dreaded alien zombie muntjacs?
And where was the supposedly huge Egyptian collection? One friggin' obelisk and one sarcophagus ain't gonna cut it with this veteran of the Rosicrucian cat mummy collection...
Japanese tea garden somewhat ho-hum -- can't recall many hay meadows, per se, in Japan, and I have better Japanese maples in my own back yard...
Next destination: Clouds Hill, TE Lawrence's country hideaway -- accent on the "hide." Mrs. Longford refused to cooperate in any way, shape or form. I spent a very frustrating couple of hours trying to find Clouds Hill without success (National Trust Handbook described location in terms of where it isn't -- so if I got to the Bovington Tank Museum or to Wareham central, all I knew was that it should be nearby... And I kept having to go past Monkey World, which has high walls that fool me not... Any monkey worth its salt could get over that in a trice, leaving one to the unescapable conclusion that the wall is just to MAKE SURE THERE ARE NO WITNESSES.)
Remember the opening scene of "Lawrence of Arabia," with Peter O'Toole crouched over spluttering handlebars of motorbike with maniacal expression on face, tootling down narrow hedgerow lane -- then cut to scene of the funeral? Well, having travelled on those lanes today, I get it.
To make matters worse, I developed a desperate need for a loo. Somehow ended up at Corfe Castle, but all I could care about was getting to restroom in nick of time.
Continued to try for Clouds Hill -- almost speechless with rage at Mrs. Longford, who could tell me how to get there if she wanted to, but persisted in saying she needed a navigation DVD inserted before we could have any further conversation whatsoever... Eventually had to give up, and exactly one minute after Clouds Hill closing time, Mrs. Longford sweetly asked me where I wanted to go. I told Mrs. Longford where to go, with vigor and fluency.
Got to Winterbourne Abbas and my next stopping place, the Churchview Guest House, and installed myself in another small, but comfy room. Dinner was included, so I had a nice chicken in white wine and insanely fresh veg. Other guests, a couple from Hertfordshire breaking their journey to Cornwall, opened up conversation in the lounge over tea and coffee. We spent two hours discussing terrorism, mass transit, theatre, American electoral politics (I had unenviable task of explaining superdelegates to them) -- I horrified them by telling them about infomercials. They are charming and funny folks, and the evening passed quickly.