Nose-Following

          If you like films with cartoon characters, lots of swordfights and a dull script, the Odyssey is for you. My Other Half and I spent three and a half hours (including ads and trailers) of our bi-annual date-day watching it at the local Imax, with only one positive comment at the end: neither of us had needed a loo break. Latterly, however, I have been speculating on whether the saying Never trust Greeks bearing gifts originated with the Trojan Horse. Perhaps, after all, there is some educational value to be had from the movie.

          Soon after, I began a mini odyssey of my own when I embarked upon a solo road trip in the campervan. Not that I expect to encounter monsters and gods during my progress along the south coast of England from Plymouth to Hastings and back. What I do anticipate is an epic tale of cider farms and places of historic interest. At the end of day two, I can report positively on both fronts.

          However, I do feel inclined to challenge the notion of romance that attaches to road trips. It’s all very well if you’re doing, say, Route 66 in a classic Chevrolet, but England’s highways have no such aura – especially when you’re driving in a heatwave, without air-con. Plain sailing is the best you can expect from long-distance driving here.

          On day one, out of curiosity, I diverted into the little Dorset town of Bridport, which appears to have plenty to offer in the way of regional character and history (though you would have to eat a lot of lotuses to be tempted to stay too long). A couple of hours mooching around revealed an Arts Centre (closed that day), an old cinema now serving as a theatre for am-dram and touring shows and a local history museum, where I astonished the staff by buying an entry ticket instead of just browsing the shop as an excuse for using the facilities.

          My lone perambulation through the galleries yielded what I was looking for: the town’s raison d’être. Because it is set in an area where flax and hemp flourish, Bridport had become prosperous by making ropes for the Royal Navy and nets for fishermen. Ropemaking disappeared when the RN took it in house, but the netting developed into a major international operation encompassing aero-space and sporting industries. Who knew that Wimbledon’s nets are freshly woven in Bridport each year?

          Leaving the Tudor-fronted museum building, I crossed the road to an independent wine shop, stocked and stashed with hundreds of interesting varieties – and a range of bottled ciders. I left the cider on the shelves, as it’s a keg I’m after, but I bought a nice bottle of Douro for suppertime.

          I pressed on steadfastly through Hampshire, teeth gritted, as though passing through the straits between Scylla and Charybdis (I have never warmed to the county), then, somewhere on the outskirts of Chichester and far beyond the reach of the siren call, I noticed a road sign pointing to the HQ of the Women’s Institute, a comforting signal of safe haven. I had reached East Sussex and the beginning of the end of the overpopulated South Coast.

          It was then, just past the town of Lewes, that I saw a sign from the gods: Middle Farm Cider Barn. With barely time to indicate, I swerved into the driveway, shuddered to a halt and alighted with eager anticipation. I was not disappointed. This place has a vast selection of proper ciders – in kegs, bottles and demi-johns. Excitedly, I selected a wide range and resolved to add more on my return journey.

          That evening, the Douro remained unopened, like the door to Penelope’s boudoir. Which reminds me: I must make it home before the next date-day, lest trouble should brew in my absence.