July

Early this morning two figures in chemical protection suits, tanks on their backs, spray lances in hand, were giving the white horse its final grooming before the Olympics.

Perhaps one of the greatest mysteries ever considered on the Dorset coast is about to be solved – will anyone turn up?

Of course there will be the sailors themselves, support staff, family and friends but will anyone else bother? The organising committee has hijacked Weymouth council tax payers’ property to charge extortionate prices to those who want to watch the least entertaining spectator sport ever devised. Far more interesting and possibly better attended wil be the arrival of the Olympic torch, two weeks in advance of the actual games.

Weymouth Olympic Rings

While the question of how many will come remains to be resolved, what is certain is that the Olympics are a disaster for Weymouth. Two years of traffic chaos, gross mismanagement by both Dorset County Council and Weymouth and Portland Borough Council have achieved what exactly? Businesses throughout the town have been destroyed. Parking facilities have been virtually eliminated or consigned to out of town wastelands which drivers refuse to use. Unless you are a banker or a corrupt local government employee then you have no chance of affording town centre prices but why would you want to go there anyway?

Weymouth’s attractions as a seaside holiday resort have been destroyed – all for the ego trips and self-aggrandisement of local politicians. That is the only reason that this Olympic delusion has been pursued. Watch out for Richard Drax, local MP. Never seen him before? Believe me, he’ll be everywhere once the TV cameras arrive, gladhanding and ingratiating himself wherever he can gain kudos, always with that seat in the Lords in mind. How much longer will our very own aristocrat of ancient origin have to put up with the tedious public service of the Commons?

The other notable achievement has been the elimination of the progressive, intelligent form of traffic control known as the roundabout and its replacement with dysfunctional, expensive, so-called “intelligent” traffic lights. The only thing that is certain is that traffic lights are far more intelligent than the planners and policticians that decided on them. The pinnacle of their achievement has been the creation of the deathtrap road junction between Asda, the fire station and the marina. Truly this is an achievement of note. Originally conceived by a psychopathic, violence-addicted, computer game designer for “Death Race 2012 – the Olympic edition”, a mix up in the local highways computer department printed out the wrong plans. The mistake was noticed but it was decided to let it go as the inevitable reconstruction work will mean more jobs for the boys very soon.

Before I drown in a Weymouth bay full of cynicism, fair dues, great credit must go to the National Sailing Academy and its management which has achieved a remarkable coup in bringing this event to the town. It is the only institution that emerges from this episode with its integrity intact and deserving of congratulations. I hope for its sake and the competitors that we do not see the frequent July /August occurrence here of dense fog and no wind. That would be most unfortunate.

Whatever happens, in this summer of the worst weather in living memory, the true beauty of Dorset remains. Out on the water, along the Jurassic coast or in the hills behind and particularly in our most precious valley, we are gold medal winners every day.

Soon it will all be over but the valley never will be. There is inspiration, blood, sweat and tears, triumph and disaster here every day. Here it really isn’t the winning but the taking part that matters. Paradise Valley is its own winners podium and the national anthem plays every morning in the hearts of those who start and finish here.

February

In the last days of January I was confidently proclaiming to my fellow dog walkers “That’s it, winter is over!”

How wrong was I?

It is raw, freezing and bleak. The intrepid three, Carla, Capone and me, ventured out of the valley this week and scaled the White Nothe, highest point on the Jurassic coast and bleak goes nowhere near far enough. The sea was like a mill pond. Even the swell was sluggish as the water neared the point of ice. Thank God there was no wind, otherwise we would have perished in the bitter cold on that high and lonely bluff.

A day or so later and we were climbing the main path immediately behind Sutton Poyntz. What was an even green sward has turned into a sticky quagmire, trampled by the cattle meandering up and down and churned by the heavy tractor towing the water bowser to the top. When not frozen solid the mud is a foot deep in places and it clings and drags and makes walking much more difficult. It is as if the gradient has steepened and the top seems further away with every step.

Half way up and then ahead looms a slow stampede. Three abreast, the black Aberdeen Angus are coming down the hill. We need to get out of the way!

I clamber up the 45 degree slope to my right, calling the dogs to sit with me and we wait for the cattle to pass. They stop and look at us. We look back. It is a Mexican stand off in deepest Dorset. No one is going anywhere.

Only one thing for it. We climb upwards, clambering through the gorse, almost mountaineering, reaching upwards to pull on a gorse brush or a handful of coarse grass. At last, me puffing hard, the dogs not in the least bothered we reach the top and pause for me to regain my breath. The cattle pass by below. I’m not in the least cold anymore!

This morning we wake to the coldest day of the year. Two pairs of trousers, two shirts, fleece top, body warmer and three pairs of socks, hat, gloves and I’m ready to go. The dogs don’t even seem to notice it.

In the valley, the sun blazes though the distance is obscured by mist. In three or four points bright sunlight startles back off the new galvanised water troughs, like bonfires burning on a dark night.

Through the water meadow. Very heavy going as the water lies three inches deep with the top inch frozen. Every step is an effort as you break through the ice then sink in the wet ground. The sound is crisp through the frozen grass, crunch through the ice and squelch in the mud.

Up the hill at the eastern end of the valley. I’m warm now but as each breath rasps into my lungs I can feel its iciness sapping my strength. The ground is rock hard. Where the cattle have churned it up every step becomes a potential ankle breaker.

We gain the top and I need to rest again for few moments. Capone is content to snuffle and grunt and scent where other dogs have been. Carla gambols like some new born lamb on a warm spring day then throws herself on her back and wriggles vigorously to scratch her back on the rough ground.

So we turn for home, to the western end of the valley and down the hill by the path where we avoided the stampede a couple of days ago. As we near the bottom, we encounter the bull. He stands proud and majestic on the shoulder of the hill, the sun breaking through the mist and flaring out behind him.

We pass in peace in Paradise Valley.

December

For me the second half of 2011 disappeared in a blur of motorways and anonymous hotel rooms. Rising each morning, sometimes Paradise Valley was many hundreds of miles away but my constant companions, Carla and Capone, still needed their exercise. We had to find our own local paradise wherever we were. Fortunately, tap a postcode into Google Maps and satellite view soon shows the way. Even when surrounded by flyovers and underpasses we always managed to find somewhere to escape for an hour or so.

Returning home to real paradise is always rewarding. Cutting back through Whitcombe from the A35, as you climb to the crest of Plaisters Lane, the valley opens up before you. That warm feeling of reunion is not to be missed and the following morning the dogs and I would tackle the hill with new enthusiasm.

The conversion of the western end of the valley from arable to organic livestock is almost complete. The infrastructure has been overhauled with new fences, gates and water troughs. Black Aberdeen Angus cattle have already cropped the main field with its first short back and sides and spread a good layer of organic fertiliser. They seem more docile than the Friesians that have often chased us at the other end of the valley but a lot more vocal. They’re not shy of making one hell of a noise if disturbed.

Winter hasn’t hit properly yet. I haven’t seen any frost while I’ve been at home. What I have noticed is that it’s been an excellent season for fungi. One morning I found a couple in the field behind the waterworks filling carrier bags with mushrooms. All over the valley in all shapes, sizes and colours, I have been astonished at the variety. In what I think of as the wild flower field, right in the heart of the valley, I found a puffball one day but last week I found a crop of enormous, portabella-like mushrooms, each at least 12 inches across.

At least, I think they were mushrooms. I’m afraid that’s one experiment I don’t have the courage for. Even those little pointy ones that are supposed to act like a magic carpet for hopes and dreams, they’ve never passed my lips. Well before we had some socialist- inspired nanny state that dictates what you can or cannot put into your own body, I decided against that particular form of psychedelia.

Once out in the valley, the dreadful atmosphere of financial chaos and depression that seems to rule our world is just irrelevant. Provided you start with a full belly, and cheap porridge oats are just if not more effective than the finest back bacon, then the real world is your oyster. Saunter through the water meadow, alongside the stream, I have memories of it gushing with a torrent three foot deep and then of the wild lilies in the spring. A new gateway provides access back into the main field and there is no better route than directly to the base of the hill and up the long path that crosses its face, beneath the white horse and rising towards the eastern end of the valley. Then it is only a few short paces before the Dorset plain spreads 30 or 40 miles in front of you while behind is the dramatic Jurassic coast, the ocean and Portland.

Grab this while you can. Before age and infirmity prevents you, before the impending disaster in the harbour takes hold and swamps our small town with invaders. While government, both local and national, destroys our country, at least for a few years yet we can stride to the top of the hill, breathe in the free air and believe in beauty and liberty and paradise!