We’ve had the quietest weekend. Nothing happened at all. Bliss. Today, it’s rained all day – great swathes of rain washing over the valley, the skies dark and wintry. I’ve been doing a bit of drawing and Charlie has caught up on his blogs, articles and the beginnings of his new saleroom (if you are a tiny bit interested head over to have a look here).
But yesterday was a beautiful day. We had an early start to Bridport, glad to see the hedgerows are filling up with snowdrops, which is always such a thrilling sight in the dark days of late January. Spring beckons.
We had breakfast at Soulshine as usual, cleared out the £1 china lady of good bits and pieces as usual, and bumped into a lot of friends, as usual. Oh god, what could be the new activity this weekend? Someone had said to me a week or two ago “Oh haven’t you ever visited the Unitarian Chapel?” The answer, thankfully, was no.
The chapel is a tiny white painted building at the end of a long Yorkstone path leading through a tiny garden, complete with dovecot,
And complete with white doves.
Beautiful lettering is cut into the string course either side of the fine Ionic porch.
The walls on the approach are lined with tall gravestones.
The chapel is calm and straightforward, its original pitch pine box pews beautifully intact.
The joinery is restrained and handsome, our own equivalent of the Shaker architecture of America.
Several of the upper pews are painted in original flaking grey paint.
The upper pews largely serve as second hand bookshop, for which there are no prices, just a donation requested.
Some of the titles may have raised the eyebrow of previous congregations, I wondered.
Tucked in the corner this beautiful faded sign of the Sunday School Anniversary.
The plaster ceiling rose below a ceiling of false asbestos panels. I longed to know what the original ceiling might look like.
Needless to say there was a Henry Hoover. Well, in fact Green ones are called George, as I am sure you know.
Incredible gloss paint walls, and the beaded board wainscot in ancient Oak graining:
And Bridie’s and mine favourite plastic chairs outside the door, of course.
We pottered around the quiet streets of North Bridport, for a change. All very plain, and straightforward. Nothing particularly celebrated about these little houses and streets, but they hit the mark, 100%.
Yesterday afternoon we went for a walk, to make another new discovery. In light of our visit to the Kingston Russell Stone Circle last weekend, our friend Caddy had told us about ‘Grey Mare and her colts’, one of the other neolithic stone groupings on the high hills above the valley.
After getting a bit lost we found the Grey Mare. The views were extraordinary – you could see for miles. We headed in to the next valley and had plenty of time to admire moss and fern covered trees…
Waiting for the Saturday shooting party to finish their whatever it is called (drive?). We survived without getting shot.
I love the moment when this path opens out on to the coast, hills dropping down to Chesil beach far below… The sea was shining white.
And we made our way home through The Valley of the Stones, filled with the remains of glacial stones, and which thousands of years ago were dragged up to the burial sites of Grey Mare and the Kingston Russell Stone Circle.
The sun cast great long shadows across the hills and fields as we made our familiar journey home at the end of this long walk.
We came home for lunch, and I had a long afternoon sleep, the best kind of sleep, and in the evening we played scrabble for an hour or so in the pub, and came home and watched Mrs Doubtfire.
The best kind of weekend. I hope yours has been equally peaceful.