Sydling St Nicholas. A Big Sky Walk in Hardy’s Dorset.

Having battened down the hatches the previous day, ‘Storm Amy’ was still baring her teeth on an altogether brighter Saturday. On days like these, when the wind can be heard at the moment of waking, I am always drawn by the need to get outside and experience the elements in all their glory. To feel a greater sensory connection to the landscape. Indeed, with Autumn firmly announcing its arrival, it felt right to embrace this change of seasons by taking a wander that would offer an opportunity to become immersed in the countryside and let the weather be part of the experience.

The Dorset National Landscape is vast, encompassing a rich variety of opportunities for exploration and escape. Reflecting again on the need to make a decision and commit to it without getting tangled in a web of possibilities, I quickly chose Sydling St Nicholas as our destination for discovery. This village, surrounded by sweeping downland, is firmly situated within ‘Hardy Country’. Known as ‘Broad Sidlinch’ in literary history, it is a rural idyll that remains far from the madding crowd and would prove to be the perfect location for a bracing walk.

One of the things that attracted me here today was the curiosity sparked by examining the OS Map. When zooming in, it appears as a chaotic jumble of tightly packed contour lines that drunkenly weave in various directions. For a map enthusiast like myself, it conjures a mind’s eye view that isn’t easy to grasp. With so many ‘Bottoms’, ‘Tumuli’, ‘Field Systems’, and named hills in close vicinity, visiting is the only way to fully grasp the picture. So, with my dog excitedly secured in her seat, we set off for a windy adventure.

Sydling St Nicholas is nestled in its own little time capsule of land. As we drove through the predominantly linear village, it was hard not to slow down and gaze at the flint, brick and thatch cottages that act as a themed backdrop to the larger and more palatial properties that line the lane. The presence of ‘Sydling Water’ running alongside the road as it flows to join the nearby River Frome, also enhanced the feeling of being somewhat cut off. With a reservation made for lunch at the local pub later on, we donned boots, checked for poo bags ( every item of clothing that I own with pockets has poo bags to be found), cast our eyes to the sky and headed off.

Within the first few hundred yards, we began the climb, making our way between two hedges and up towards the ridgeway path that would hopefully provide us with the views and perspective that the map had alluded to. As we broke into more open ground, the wind made itself known as it scurried the clouds across the sky, casting fleeting shadows that chased the sheep in the distant fields. The stark contrast between the intense green of the land and the icy blue of the sky above created a striking backdrop, further enhanced by the grassland that moved in rhymical waves. The trees added to the scene, producing a song reminiscent of the swash on a rocky shore. As I would find throughout the walk, this was a day for stopping and staring. One where we were capable of losing ourselves in the ability to simply ‘be’.

A picture, of course, paints a thousand words. Nonetheless, despite the array of pleasing shots we captured today, it is impossible to truly convey the ferocity of the wind as the ridgeway left us completely exposed. The sunshine provided a welcoming layer of warmth, but the gale gnawed at our ears, leaving the dog looking questioningly at us, as if to ask why we had dragged her up here. This was brought to our attention dramatically when a squall, racing across the sky, unleashed its fury upon us. Shards of light pierced the clouds, illuminating the ground below, while needle-like rain jabbed horizontally at our faces. As the cows sheltered, we too took cover to wait out the worst of it. In reality, it was probably only three or four minutes that the storm truly showed its wrath, but it was enough to emphasise the notion that nature is always ready to show us who’s in charge.

The landscape around us rolled with a welcoming air. There was a reassuring comfort underfoot, with well-trodden paths and byways guiding our way. This agricultural heartland of Dorset nurtures its livestock in a way that is far less dramatic than the mountains of Wales or the Lake District. Yet, it remains equally nourishing and attractive to admire. The horizon melted into the far distance, offering no real hint of the valleys, hideaways, and sunken lanes that lie between here and the sea. The complex contour lines on the map created a far more fluid vista, one that the sky played a key role in shaping. Sitting quietly by a commemorative pile of stones, we were mesmerised by the clouds that hurried across the sky. Visible sheets of rain soaked others while we felt the sun warming our faces, offering a clear indication of why the pastures are so richly green. It was one of those moments that made it clear being here was well worth the effort.

As we made our way back down between two beautifully curved bowls of land, where soil creep had carved uniform natural terraces, we found ourselves channelled into a pathway lined with sloe bushes. Heavily laden with deep purple fruits, still some time away from being ripe enough to soak in gin, we were guided toward ‘Pond Bottom.’ This glade of tightly cropped turf initially felt insignificant until the dog was startled by some pheasants and grouse that emerged from the sidelines. A noisy commotion followed, but peace soon returned, as the realisation set in that a Frenchie poses very little threat to anything that can move.

Pond Bottom proved to be a wonderful contrast to the ridgeway. Gentle pillows of land enveloped us like a cloak, with sheep grazing nonchalantly, away from the biting wind above. It felt like a timeless place, used now just as it would have been many generations before. In fact, as with many of the walks I have done recently, there was a distinct sense of being a secret visitor. Permission having been granted to pass through silently.

The sweeping valley meandered its way smoothly until the view of Sydling St Nicholas signalled the finishing line to our circuit. Barely five miles in length, but as ever, this wander offered a worthy blend of things to appreciate and admire. Not being constrained by a ticking clock or sense of urgency all played its part in making this a memorable place to get swept away. Raising our heads once again to the ever-darkening sky, we made haste and felt pleased to find our feet taking the final paces toward the end before the latest deluge emptied its wares. By topping and tailing our walk in the village, we could maintain our curiosity and enjoyment of this lovely setting. It is always reassuring to find places that residents clearly care for and take pride in. In reality, Sydling St Nicholas isn’t really all that far off the beaten track, but still feels as if it’s in its own little world.

As has become customary with many of the wanders over the past year, finding a local pub to have a drink and reflect on the day has proved to be a perfect way to wrap things up. So, we were certainly not disappointed by ‘The Greyhound Inn’. Greeted by an atrium of low-hanging grape vines was a surprising but intriguing sight. Inside, a fire crackled warmly, which was matched by the welcome. Indeed, these discoveries always add to the desire to make a mental note to return or encourage others by spreading the word. It had proved to be an outing that delivered more than expected in one way or another. Today had been a triumph in enjoying the simple pleasures, escaping the norm, and letting the elements take centre stage. A content and snoring Frenchie further confirmed this sentiment. I couldn’t ask for more than that.

Please take a look at my Dorset album for some further inspiration…..