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You can find the current article at its original source at https://www.theguardian.com/environment/2018/feb/19/country-diary-east-chaldon-dorset-sylvia-townsend-valentine-ackland
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| Version 0 | Version 1 |
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| Country diary: literary tourists follow Sylvia Townsend Warner's path | Country diary: literary tourists follow Sylvia Townsend Warner's path |
| (about 7 hours later) | |
| East Chaldon, Dorset: Her diary records a happy morning when she and her lover, the poet Valentine Ackland, lay on top of a barrow listening to the wind | East Chaldon, Dorset: Her diary records a happy morning when she and her lover, the poet Valentine Ackland, lay on top of a barrow listening to the wind |
| Vivien Cripps | Vivien Cripps |
| Mon 19 Feb 2018 05.30 GMT | Mon 19 Feb 2018 05.30 GMT |
| Last modified on Mon 19 Feb 2018 12.28 GMT | |
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| A row of round barrows stud a Dorset ridge – five of them, although tumbled gaps suggest there once were more. From the old chalk trackway, trails lead through shaggy grass to the top of each. To the north, charcoal and dun in the wintry light, stretches a broad swathe of heathland; to the south, gentle green hills enclose the village of East Chaldon. | A row of round barrows stud a Dorset ridge – five of them, although tumbled gaps suggest there once were more. From the old chalk trackway, trails lead through shaggy grass to the top of each. To the north, charcoal and dun in the wintry light, stretches a broad swathe of heathland; to the south, gentle green hills enclose the village of East Chaldon. |
| In the 1930s, the walk up to this bronze age site was a favourite with Sylvia Townsend Warner, her long career as a writer already launched. Her diary records a happy morning when she and her lover, the poet Valentine Ackland, lay on top of one of the barrows listening to the wind and discussing torpedoes. Today, there’s no hint of things military, only a fly-past by two ravens whose cries sound more conversational than martial. | In the 1930s, the walk up to this bronze age site was a favourite with Sylvia Townsend Warner, her long career as a writer already launched. Her diary records a happy morning when she and her lover, the poet Valentine Ackland, lay on top of one of the barrows listening to the wind and discussing torpedoes. Today, there’s no hint of things military, only a fly-past by two ravens whose cries sound more conversational than martial. |
| The light will soon fade, so we go south down the Drove road, passing the Sailor’s Return, the hub of a buzzing colony of writers and artists between the wars. Around the triangular village green, the cottages are quiet, closed in on themselves, perhaps fed up with literary tourists, perhaps just waiting for winter to end. One used to be the post office. There are no shops here now. | The light will soon fade, so we go south down the Drove road, passing the Sailor’s Return, the hub of a buzzing colony of writers and artists between the wars. Around the triangular village green, the cottages are quiet, closed in on themselves, perhaps fed up with literary tourists, perhaps just waiting for winter to end. One used to be the post office. There are no shops here now. |
| On a hillside, past banks starred with primroses, is the 14th-century church. A swarm of rooks, cawing crossly, takes off from a tree, circles and lands again as we reach a modest, grey stone building, formerly the school, now the village hall. Beside it, a path leads straight as an arrow through the churchyard to the church door. In the turf on either side are wavering lines of gravestones, some upright and unblemished – like the pub, this place, at least, retains its former use – others battered and angled, gloriously daubed with lichen, brown, ochre and cream. | On a hillside, past banks starred with primroses, is the 14th-century church. A swarm of rooks, cawing crossly, takes off from a tree, circles and lands again as we reach a modest, grey stone building, formerly the school, now the village hall. Beside it, a path leads straight as an arrow through the churchyard to the church door. In the turf on either side are wavering lines of gravestones, some upright and unblemished – like the pub, this place, at least, retains its former use – others battered and angled, gloriously daubed with lichen, brown, ochre and cream. |
| But the stone we’re searching for is behind the church. We find it by a ragged hedgerow in the south-west corner. It lies flat in the rough grass, facing the sky, just as the two women whose names it bears once lay at the Five Marys, that older burial ground up on the ridge. | But the stone we’re searching for is behind the church. We find it by a ragged hedgerow in the south-west corner. It lies flat in the rough grass, facing the sky, just as the two women whose names it bears once lay at the Five Marys, that older burial ground up on the ridge. |
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| Country diary | Country diary |
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| Dorset holidays | |
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