One Young Fool in Dorset Read Online Free Page B

lolling, tail swishing hard and fast. She
gave a low woof and waited for Mrs Cox to speak.
    “Does Jeannie know where Timmy is?” I asked.
    “I think so,” said Mrs Cox. “Jeannie, go find
it!”
    Jeannie gave another deep woof and
disappeared behind the compost heap. We waited, but not for long.
Within moments, Jeannie backed out, feathery tail waving like a
triumphant flag. In her soft mouth was Timmy.
    “She found him!” I squealed.
    Jeannie walked over to Mrs Cox and sat down in front
of her. She was so gentle, and her mouth was so soft, that Timmy
hadn’t even withdrawn into his shell. His legs were still waving
indignantly, pedalling the air.
    “Good girl, Jeannie!” said Mrs Cox. “Drop it. Leave.
Good girl.”
    Obediently, Jeannie set Timmy down. Timmy, relieved
to have solid ground under his feet, set off again.
    “Oh, no you don’t,” I said, and grabbed my athletic
pet.
    Jeannie was the heroine of the day and was rewarded
with hugs, praise, and a bowl of cold water. An unrepentant Timmy
was replaced in his run to plot his next break for freedom.
    My brother,
Jeannie and me
    * * *
    To a child, summer lasts for ever. Days were long
and my brother and I were often sent to bed before the stars popped
out, and before the glow worms lit their lamps in the grass. In the
morning, I could run barefoot across the lawn, leaving a trail of
zig-zag footprints in the dew. Soon, the sun rose high in the sky
and dried the dew, leaving no sign of my crazy dance.
    I checked the little fairy houses I had made with
sticks and leaves in secret parts of the garden. Of course I didn’t
believe in fairies, I told myself, but just in case they
existed, I’d give them nice houses to live in.
    Summer also meant visits to the beautiful beaches of
Dorset. In that part of the world, one is spoilt for choice. Lesser
known beaches, like Dancing Ledge and Chapman’s Pool could only be
reached after a walk of many miles across heathland and down farm
tracks.
    But it was worth it. These wonderfully wild beaches
are unique. At Dancing Ledge there is a natural pool cut out of the
rock, much like an infinity pool with a sea view. At the turn of
the tide, the pool becomes a jacuzzi as the water churns. It was
far too dangerous for us children to be allowed to swim, but there
were still plenty of rock pools to explore. Sometimes we took big
pieces of seaweed home and hung them from trees. Apparently they
made good weather forecasters: slimy seaweed meant wet weather
ahead, while crisp, dry seaweed meant sunny spells to come.
    Another favourite was Worbarrow Bay with its ghost
village which sent shivers down my spine and my imagination into
overdrive. I stared past the ropes at the empty cottages where
people used to live. In those days, the beach was only open to the
public on rare occasions, and you couldn’t enter the village of
Tyneham at all. The reason for this was that the Army used the
surrounding land for driving tanks and armoured vehicles, and the
whole area was a firing range.
    In 1943, the War Office commandeered the entire
acreage, including the little village of Tyneham. The War Office
declared that it needed the land, beach and village to carry out
military manoeuvres. The residents of Tyneham had no choice. Every
family was forced to pack up and leave, abandoning their homes,
school, and church. It must have been a devastating time but they
were promised they could return after the war was over.
    But it wasn’t to be. World War II ended, but in 1947
the Army placed a compulsory purchase order on the land, and the
villagers were never allowed to return.
    The ghost village of Tyneham still stands, though it
has fallen into disrepair and is damaged by practice shell fire.
The church and schoolhouse, however, are intact and are now
museums, I am told. And something very good came out of the Army
owning the land. Because it is largely left alone by humans, and
not cultivated in any way, the land now supports rare plants,