Partying in rural Dorset

Last weekend we packed a party frock and penguin suit in the back of the car and braved the Friday afternoon exodus from London, heading south in dense traffic ...

past this collection of funny rocks ...

(This photo illustrates, incidentally, how shooting through the car window in grindingly slow traffic can actually give you the same experience you’d have had by driving to the site, paying a fee and trudging around, dodging sheepshit. 

I recommend the former method for visiting Stonehenge).

Our destination, on this last weekend of fine weather for the year?
The rolling hills of Dorset ...

(the view from our friends' farm house)

This is the old Kingdom of Wessex, home of Saxon kings from 519 to 1066, and later Thomas Hardy country.

First a pit-stop in Shaftesbury ...

... for cream-tea at the uber-trendy Grosvenor Hotel
(what would King Alfred have made of this?)

Then on to find the tiny village of Semley where we would overnight in a room above the pub, the Benett Arms ...

Across the green, the village church ...

a couple of quaintly English cottages ...

and a handy signpost …

And you thought the English could spell! Are you ‘avin’ a larf wif me?...

Care of a friendly local taxi driver with a rolling Dorset burr, we headed to our friends’ farm where eighty people were gathering from near and far for a 21st birthday celebration.

White tents and lanterns ...

 in the magical setting of a lake at sunset ...

A crazy funfair ride ...

... and the party's on!

A rather odd family

Ours is a somewhat odd family – we enjoy visiting cemeteries. Paris has given us two grand opportunities to indulge our pastime this year: Pere Lachaise in the January chill ...

and Montparnasse in July sunshine ...

See the purposeful and contented expressions as we spend a happy day tracking down our collective list of must-sees ...

And tracking down the dead takes commitment, endurance and stamina: these Parisian cemeteries are sprawling, labyrinthine and come with only the vaguest of guide-plans. (At Montparnasse, in fact, our request for a cemetery plan was met with a magnificent Gallic shrug of indifference and ‘Le plan?... Bof! … il n’y en a plus”).

So bravely we sally forth into this ...

each armed with our own agenda:

musicians and composers (Nich, obviously) …  Saint Saens, Fred Chopin...

literary types (elder daughter) ... Baudelaire, Oscar Wilde's kiss-studded tomb ...

and ...

cool dudes (moi) ... Jim Morrison 

 Serge Gainsbourg

and quirky miscellany (younger daughter) ... Man Ray, Charles Pigeon (inventor of the gas lamp) – who lies reading peacefully with his wife in my personal top favourite tombstone of all time -

 Surely the only way to spend eternity - cosied up in bed with a good book to read by the light of a gas lamp ...

 

But sometimes the unknown (to us) provide the most interesting (and surprising) experiences. Besides the moments of dark humour  (the Graves Family, the Bra soeurs or La Famille Adams  - yes, really), there are the bittersweet epitaphs ...

the unfinished epitaphs...

the guardians fierce-looking ...

bored-looking ...

frankly a little creepy-looking ...

and those who simply can't bear to look at all ...

(photo credit: Isabella Bicket)

There are the memorials grandiose ...

and those sadly neglected 

(photo credit: Isabella Bicket)

But mostly what you notice is everywhere the small touches of remembrance

Afternoon tea

In early July, after a quaint little ceremony at the Judges’ Lodgings in Aylesbury in which we pledged our allegiance to Her Maj

we did the appropriately English thing ...

... tea and scones

in the Chiltern town of Amersham

The butcher, the baker, the willow-basket maker ... a farmers' market in England

Once a month the farmers’ market comes to our town in Buckinghamshire, bringing local produce from the Thames Valley Farmers’ Market Cooperative to the green in front of St Mary’s Church, which has a history going back to 1210 …

Sadly the culture of prepared, ready-meals in supermarkets seems to have such a stronghold in Britain that this is the closest we get here to the fresh food markets of Europe – nowhere near as frequent or as extensive in range of produce –

but still with its own charm and a uniquely English twist …

... farm-picked redcurrants

Pork pies and scotch eggs!

Hand-made willow baskets

The Celtic Bakers ply their wares

Chard

Potted herbs

And our favourite stall - scrumptious home-made cakes

This handsome little piggy went to market, but never made it home ...

but this little chap waiting patiently for his master the butcher had a happier fate

Time for morning tea ...