Not So Far From The Madding Crowd

Summer is the season for cricket and tennis and, although I don’t follow either sport, I am curious as to why one is played on an oval pitch and the other on a rectangular one. In my (admittedly minimal) experience as a spectator, a curved arena affords a more panoramic perspective of sporting action than does one with distant corners (a principle established long ago in Roman amphitheatres). I cannot imagine that tennis players would find any disadvantages to playing within an oval – though I am open to expert opinion – and I suggest, therefore, that the format be changed so that spectators have a less neck-wrenching experience. Whatever: summer, for me, is not about sport but about campervanning around the country, enjoying the diverse curiosities of social life, history and geography that abound in this relatively small island.

The weather this year is unusually warm and sunny, which means that the beaches are busy. They have always been popular with children but nowadays they are playgrounds also for adults with their own toys – kayaks, kite-surfing gear, ski-jets and the like. I don’t care to spend much time on beaches – especially those that are the territory of families and enthusiasts – though a slogan pinned to the wall in a seaside cafe did strike a chord – “a little sand between your toes always takes away your woes”. Generally, I prefer to experience beaches as an adjunct to coastal hiking. I have recently enjoyed walking along the flat, broad sands that stretch for miles along the coast of Lancashire; admired the curiously regular shingle bar of Chesil Beach from the viewpoint high up on Portland; and, better still, explored the  multitude of pretty little coves on the north east edge of Anglesey, inaccessible to motorists and, therefore, unsullied. Naturally, there are exceptions to this selfish tendency: for example, I was charmed by the pop-up bar in the form of a tipi at Lligwy beach, where, to the accompaniment of a band playing familiar songs, a small but appreciative crowd of us drank, danced or tapped our feet as the sun sank silently into the sea.

Meanwhile, as the hot weather draws the crowds to the coast, the lanes, footpaths, hamlets and pubs of the countryside are left for the exclusive enjoyment of the few who remain inland. In deepest Dorset, where the silent, leafy greenery is almost overwhelming, the texture of history is palpable. Winding byways pass through settlements with mediaeval-sounding, double-barrelled names – Compton Valence, Linton Cheney and Buckland Ripley – while die-straight, Roman roads lead to places with Latin-sounding, double-barrelled names – Toller Porcorum, Toller Fratrum, Blandford Forum and Cerne Abbas. It all feels remote from mainstream, urban life, yet the major centres of population are never more than twenty miles away. Perhaps the inhabitants of the hamlets and farmsteads tucked into the folds of the countryside feel proud to maintain their heritage. Certainly, many of them are aware of it and the power it has to intrigue outsiders. For example, Enford Bottom Farm has a ramshackle collection of buildings containing, among other enterprises, a produce shop that sells “Iron Age Pork,” which is the meat of Gloucester Old Spot, cross-bred with wild boar. We bought some to barbecue that evening in their small, secluded field, where we set up camp: it was delicious. The only other person on site was the young owner of a 19^th century, mobile tea-hut for agricultural workers, which he proudly showed us. He had discovered it in an old barn, restored it and intended to enter it in the forthcoming Dorset Steam Fair. Yes, these things really do happen in the countryside.

The summer – and the campervanning – will continue but, for now, I am back in Manchester, where I have just watched England lose their World Cup semi-final to Croatia. I was engaged with the game, of course, but at the same time somewhat preoccupied with an idea I had about the shape of the pitch...