With our friendly, intrepid, adventurist couple (Will & Eri: soon to be married), hazukashiiiii, we set off into the wilds of Dorset. Our destination is Studland on the isle of Purbeck. A small peninsular jutting into the English Channel close to Poole Harbour. We have a cottage arranged through a friend of a colleague and look forward to the first Spring bank holiday and some Easter eggs..

The drive is sedate. The English countryside rears it’s heathered expanse as we enter over the top end of the New Forest and barrel down the A31 listening to a randomly compiled noughtie’s playlist. With Live and Pearl Jam in the background, the two Ed’s battle it out as New Forest ponies abound and memories of past excursions in England’s largest natural forest return providing a pleasant beginning to our country retreat. Straight through Ringwood known for it’s famous boar branded ales we breach the Dorset border, hang left at Wareham and are struck instantly by the impressive remains of Corfe Castle. Preparation for this sojourn revealed the interesting fact that this is partly Enid Blyton land. This fact pops instantly into reality as before us lies a castle which could very easily have come from The Secret Seven or the Famous Five.

Apparently not the Kirrin Castle of Famous Five literature it is still an impressive old ruin which may have partialy inspired Enid on one of her stays here from 1931 onwards. An interesting novelist, she wrote 600 books in the space of 40 years by the time of her death. Noddy’s town lies just down the road and the moors, rocky coasts and perfectly crescent bays contain traces of adventure, smugglers and packed lunches for Julian, Dick, Anne and George. Enid Blyton’s second husband owned The Isle of Purbeck Golf Course which we pass on the way to our cottage.

Unbung all of the gear and we head off for an afternoon walk along Purbeck Bay getting there and back along gorse bush lined horse paths. Dogs and children sniff at our feet as we amble down the pebble lined beach.

A quick skip down the road and we are hiking along the undulating cliffs of the Dorset coast. The hike goes from Lulworth village to Durdle Door. A perfectly formed cove which instantly begets nuances of Famous Five in my mind. One can easily imagine smugglers rowing boats in the dead of night carrying darkened lanterns. I kept a keen eye out for any likely looking hidden smuggler caves. You have to look for scuff marks and hidden smuggler scrawl. Willi went swimming in the Durdle Door Cove and I became buried treasure at one point when they buried me under the pebbles. We headed back the same way we had arrived.

John Keats travelled via Lulworth Cove to Rome and ultimately his death from respiratory infection. One hundred years later Thomas Hardy wrote the following poem:

At Lulworth Cove a Century Back

Had I but lived a hundred years ago
I might have gone, as I have gone this year,
By Warmwell Cross on to a Cove I know,
And Time have placed his finger on me there:

'You see that man?' -- I might have looked, and said,
'O yes: I see him. One that boat has brought
Which dropped down Channel round Saint Alban's Head.
So commonplace a youth calls not my thought.'

'You see that man?' -- 'Why yes; I told you; yes:
Of an idling town-sort; thin; hair brown in hue;
And as the evening light scants less and less
He looks up at a star, as many do.'

'You see that man?' -- 'Nay, leave me!' then I plead,
'I have fifteen miles to vamp across the lea,
And it grows dark, and I am weary-kneed:
I have said the third time; yes, that man I see!'

'Good. That man goes to Rome -- to death, despair;
And no one notes him now but you and I:
A hundred years, and the world will follow him there,
And bend with reverence where his ashes lie.'

A hastily constructed BQ and we are charring some chicken, steak and boerewors. Boerewors is Suth African braai sausage made by UK chef Heston Blumenthal. It is good. Very good. There is also beer which is good. Very good. An end to a perfect beginning.

Saturday. Late sleep in. Crepes and fruit prepared by Eri and willing helpers. Very tasty. I have brought some creamed sweet corn for the corn fritter english breakfast bonanza to occur on Sunday. This might kill our gluten intolerant friend. I am unaware of this.

After breakfast we headed off to the coastal town of Swanage and visit the local fishmonger. After much debate we choose mussels, mackerel & oysters. A short walk around the town which has some quaint little spots and we off back to the cottage to deposit fresh seafood in the fridge.

A brief nap and then a long walk through the heath. Many squirrels were spotted in the woodlands and Eri discovered the difference between a bull and a cow under the tutelage of Will. Best moment of the walk was discovering the Agglestone Rock. One of the top 25 things to do in Dorset before you die. This is a large sandstone rock which used to be in the shape of an anvil until erosion toppled it into the shape it is now. It was apparently thrown by the devil from the Isle of Wight. Aggle means to wobble in Old English. It reminded me of an oyster which made me hungry.  As we are technically adept climbers we ended up climbing it. An amazing view of the surrounds was accomplished.

That night was spent with good wine, friends, oysters and mussels popping on an open fire as well as some seared mackerel. We did the mackerel simply by stuffing it with lemon and parsley. I subsequently discovered that the old way of doing mackerel on an open flame was to wrap them individually in water-soaked newspaper and leave on top of the flames until the newspaper has basically burnt away. This allows for the fish to steam and retain all of its lovely juices. We use tin-foil these days to achieve the same result.

Sunday. Slept late. Fellow travellers cooked breakfast without me. No corn fritters and my plan to severely debilitate gluten-intolerant compadre no longer viable. It’s raining so we do some reading and play board games.

Square & Compass Pub is the late afternoon mission. Will loses at rock, paper, scissors (best out of three) and becomes designated driver. A perfect low-ceilinged ale-house with a central serving hatch delivering pies, pasties, lagers, ales and ciders. It is crammed with patrons and we have to scurry through the low-ceilinged corridors past ebullient, rickety rooms until we find ourselves in and amongst the fossil display which has been set up by the owner. Good bonhomie to be had everywhere. The pies are delicious however I have never been able to understand why these islanders require potato in their already carbo-loaded pies.

Back home for an almighty feast of roast leg of lamb, parsnips, yorkshire pudding and gravy and more wine. More board games follow.

Monday. We have to go. We are sad. We stop by Corfe Castle and meander through the surrounding village. Some more seafood at the Greyhound Inn and then we’re off with some take-away scones, jam and clotted cream.