A Falling Emotion : Simply Rain

 

A wet Northumberland National Park, viewed from our house in Harbottle.

I walked through the woods. Above, the high canopy drenched by September rain, below, little fell on me, though underfoot the soil quietly yielded to my step, a sensation I'd not experienced for many a month. These woods were redolent, an atomised perfume of emerald moss, of burnt sienna earth, of invisible mycelium. I wandered without purpose or direction until arrested in my reverie; there on the floor, glistening as if a shining beacon, a tree stump enveloped by coral fungus irradiating the most luxurious of orange in the half light.

That encounter was during an impromptu walk in East Harptree woods in the Mendip Hills in Somerset, having arranged to meet a friend for what was described as an amble with cake and a coffee. It has been so far well documented that 2026 has been the warmest, and possibly the driest, summer for decades. After over three months of dry weather here in the South West, the arrival of rain a few weeks ago was both unfamiliar and welcome. Soil remained iron-hard after those initial showers, but here, last weekend, high up on the Mendip ridge, after a few unsettled days, the soil was finally beginning to compress under my weight. Subtle, welcome and above all something to celebrate.

The change has been rapid. For months, I, along with most of the population of England and Wales, woke to strong sunlight, warm mornings, hot afternoons, nighttime too warm to sleep, with the prospect of the same tomorrow, the next day, and the next. And then, it rained. Referencing my diary, I noted 'It rained overnight. Don't get too excited as it was just enough to moisten a postage stamp.' It was the 18th of August. A few half-hearted showers arrived over the following days, but persistent rain only began on August 27th. 'It poured overnight. That is the second night running that we have had heavy rain, yet by morning you'd be fooled into thinking no rain had fallen, save a tell-tale dampness on the lawn'. Therefore, walking woods in the Mendip's during the steady rain of Sunday, September 13th, was a delicious novelty.

It was a meeting of literary minds which prompted me to mull over what rain actually means to me. I attended an Edward Thomas Fellowship walk two Sundays ago, bizarrely, in terms of my present thoughts, taking place on a gloriously warm and clear blue sky day. Thomas wrote a number of pieces about rain. One, simply titled Rain, poignantly contemplates mortality during WW1. However, in 1914 he wrote After Rain, recalling a sunrise illuminating a rain-drenched Hampshire hanger in winter; the poem begins,

The rain of a night and a day and a night

Stops at the light

Of this pale choked day. The peering sun

Sees what has been done.

I absolutely understand this sense of ending and beginning only too well. Love it or hate it, rain has that ability to reflect the mood, to enhance the scene. I've experienced that emotional uplift rain has given me since childhood. There is often a clarity created over a landscape when rain finally ends and, if lucky, the sun emerges, a sentiment Thomas brings to the end of the poem:

And on each twig of every tree in the dell

Uncountable

Crystals both dark and bright of the the rain

That begins again.

For me, with the all too logical background of a science graduate, rainfall is merely the rules of chemistry. I know it is simply two chemicals combining to produce water, add a little meteorology, the evapotranspiration and the water cycle of schooldays, but then therein lies the unfathomable kaleidoscope of emotional connection which has captivated me since childhood. It is the sound above all else which I enjoy, or is it the sight? Samuel Taylor Coleridge captured what I am trying to say in one of his notebooks. On October 21st 1803 he wrote:

    'Friday Morning. – A drisling Rain. Heavy masses of shapeless Vapour upon the mountains [O the perpetual Forms of Borrodale!] yet it is no unbroken Tale of dull Sadness...  a gleam of softest light, that brought out the rich hues of the late Autumn… the Birds are singing in the tender Rain as if it were the Rain of April, & the decaying Foliage were Flowers & Blossoms.'

A Romantic Poet view of rain indeed. Yet, how many times have I myself observed 'Heavy masses of shapeless Vapour upon the mountains'. Living for over three decades in Somerset, mountains are distant, but still, if I travel to an upland area, I am transfixed by those scudding clouds which caress the tops, often travelling quickly uphill through a gulley propelled by up-draught air. Technically, this is known as orographic lift, the clouds forming when moist air rises and the dew point is reached. But emotionally, these are fascinating connections to nature.

I experienced this only a few days ago on the Quantock Hills. Walking steadily upwards from the lower slopes, the views towards Exmoor were far-reaching and spectacular. Before long, gossamer clouds began to chase my route. Long before reaching the trig-point at the summit, I'd entered thick cloud, visibility reduced to a mere metre or two, everything, including me, coated in a fine confetti of mist. Hundreds of cobweb hammocks, now visible, glistened amongst yellow gorse flowers, strange disconnected sounds reached me, a raven, a stonechat. Neither seen. A distant steam train whistle shrilled its passage. Everyday life below, yet, on this ridge, I felt alone, abandoned, but intimately connected to this mass of vapour swirling quickly around me. Low cloud is, of course, not rain, not the rain we think of, the energy of condensation overruled by the pull of gravity.

Rain seemed to dominate my childhood. My mother bought a static caravan near Rothbury in Northumberland in 1971. Our very first night sleeping there was the eve of my seventh birthday, and we woke to rain. It rained a lot there. To this day, if I hear the percussion of rain on a metal roof, I'm instantly transported back to sleeping in our tin box. I was a self-contained only-child and allowed to free-roam the surrounding countryside. I would walk the banks of the river Coquet in all weathers, but it was the wet weather which excited my senses. Raindrops on grass could be flicked into the air as I passed. Few people ventured out during the rain, I was alone in nature, I was happy.

Much later, when at their lowest population ebb, I spent a couple of years surveying otter activity along the Coquet for the then Nature Conservancy Council. And, while I never saw the animal here, only signs (I had to travel to Skye for views of otter), memorable days were spent watching wildlife, often at dawn and dusk, often in rain. Here, without realising, I absorbed the knowledge of the sound of rain. Heavy rain on a sycamore leaf has a sound altogether different to heavy rain on the water. Light rain dampens the soundscape. Rainfall, scurrying wind chased across the landscape, has a sound altogether different to incessant drisling, as Coleridge called it. Summer rain is different, often subtler and short-lived, to winter rain with its harsh symphony and darkening sky. 

Summer rain can be cruel.  At fifteen, I spent my six-week school summer holiday working on a hill farm near Glanton in Northumberland. I was due to move there as a student the following June. It was a wet year and, try as we might, the hay crop could not be brought in dry. I can still hear the sound of mini-waterfalls cascading from the broken gutters of the barns, down into pools of water below. Everywhere was wet, yet, in an odd way, I loved it, possibly as, at that age, this was simply one big adventurous step in my chosen career, and not the anguish of a farmer surveying a ruined hay crop. And still, nearly fifty years later, I enjoy rain. 

Only this week, unable to sleep, did I sit in the conservatory at night listening to the sound made by rain falling in the garden. Hopefully, the hedgehog discovered that same day asleep in our compost heap, woke to rain and a smorgasbord of slugs that night.

I enjoy walking in it too. A few years ago, I took myself for a Sunday walk along a lane during heavy rain, well protected by my favourite Barbour coat and hat. A Land Rover pulled up, one of the local farmers offering me a lift to 'get out of this horrendous rain'. I declined his offer, stating I was enjoying the experience. I well remember his quizzical look as he closed the door and drove off into the murk. Penny for his thoughts?

But what of rainstorms? These high-energy fleeting moments of deluge are fascinating to watch, to experience, to read about. I've long admired Thomas Hardy. His description of the Wessex hinterland resonated with me as a teenager, and it has never left me. Hardy provided the perfect metaphor of the destructive powers of a summer storm in the heart of his heroine in his book Far From the Madding Crowd. Firstly, as steadfast unrequited Gabriel Oak noticed, a storm approached unprotected ricks during Bathsheba's wedding night. 'He was disturbed in his meditation by a grating noise from the coach-house. It was the vane on the roof turning round, and this change in the wind was the signal for a disastrous rain.' Oak having thus saved the harvest causes Bathsheba to reflect on her choice of husband. Later, that same husband, Sargent Troy, having rejected Bathsheba, despairs over the destruction of his true-love, Fanny Robins' grave, by rainwater falling seventy feet from the church tower. 'The persistent torrent from the gurgoyle's jaws directed all its vengeance into the grave. The rich tawny mould was stirred into motion, and boiled like chocolate. The water accumulated and washed deeper down, and the roar of the pool thus formed spread into the night as the head and chief among other noises of the kind created by the deluging rain.'

Summer thunderstorms seem less present in Somerset than of late. I so enjoy that feeling of tempestuous wind, noticed by Gabriel Oak, which often chaotically precedes the deluge, which when it arrives can be deafening, and if falling on parched summer earth accompanied by a unique aroma I struggle to describe, earth mixed with the scent of new lain tarmacadam almost suffices. One of the people I met at the Edward Thomas walk was Roz Brady. I've been reading some of her exquisitely crafted nature writing on her website. She writes outdoors and beautifully describes in Pudsham Meadow through the Seasons – A Wild Writing year (1), a storm blowing over Widecombe... winnowing summer's growth and ushering in a landscape of winter. 

All of which reminds me that while I have been writing this, I can hear steady rain falling once again. Writing about rain is one thing, but while it lasts, like Thomas, like Hardy, like Coleridge, like Roz Brady, I need to get out there and experience... Rain!

Dorset, January 2026

(1) : Roz Brady website : www.rozbrady.com

Best Intentions

 

 

We have reached Autumn. It is raining. I'm standing next to a stone - Triscombe Stone high in the Quantock Hills. The date; Wednesday, September 2nd. It is the first time I have needed to wear waterproofs since mid May. What a summer!!

 

The incessant heat over recent months curtailed my project to visit all of Dorset Wildlife Trust's nature reserves in a twelvemonth. That, and an unbelievably busy summer. Thus, with the project amended to 'I shall visit all these reserves in all good time' I'm back to general blogging. 

 

What isn't obvious in that image above was the near zero visibility on the highest point of the Quantocks - Will's Neck. And wind. And rain. That weather came as quite a shock after months of dry, sun drenched days.

 

 

 

I'd come up here with Mrs Wessex Reiver to recce a walk due to take place the following Sunday. I wasn't leading it, that was being expertly managed by the Edward Thomas Fellowship. But, despite visiting this Natural Landscape regularly, this end of the Quantocks is lessser known to me. I'd heard the views were stunning. I'll take their word for it.

 

 

 

However, Sunday arrived, accompanied by warm sunshine. And views. They are quite something. Thirty or so people took part in this organised morning walk with readings from Edward Thomas's canon of prose and poetry. Followed by lunch at the Rising Sun in West Bagborough. Later, myself and another lady ascended nearby Cotherstone Hill, destination point of Thomas's 'Grave of Winter' from his book In Pursuit of Spring. For both of us this was a first, and for me I wondered why I'd never visited this hill before. On that clear day we could see for tens of miles in every direction, our arrival heralded by a pair of ravens playfully sky-writing their own poetry in the keen 'Islands of England' updraft.

 

 

 

 It was a perfect ending to a wonderful day. Summer has ended, yet the creative energy to write is returning accompanying the shorter day length. I do enjoy long summer days, less so the heat of 2026. 

Dorset Wildlife Trust Project: King's Lane Orchard

 "...turn around and walk along this lane, past the pub. Follow the lane down to the thatched cottage on your right, the orchard you are looking for is the one to the left of the cottage, not the orchard on the right of the cottage. You'll not miss it".

I'd arrived in Powerstock looking for King's Lane Orchard, a remnant of the many cider orchards which once surrounded the village a century ago. This isolated village clings tightly to a steep slope, a vertiginous crossroads by the church contains a many-directional signpost of ancient construction, but the lanes radiating off from here are less well documented. I'd walked in the opposite direction to my intended destination. However, meeting a local, unpacking his car, he put me back on the correct path. Maybe I should have brought a map? 

King's Lane, thatched cottage and the orchard

 I headed past the pub and began a short descent along King's Lane, a lane just wide enough for a car, and reaching the cottage (Hillside Cottage) I could see the small gate into the orchard. Best of all the sun was shining.

Bought by Dorset Wildlife Trust in 2008, this 1 hectare orchard was opened to the public in April 2009 when schoolchildren sang a song celebrating spring and apple blossom, written by Dorset based Tim Laycock, before they headed off on a mini-beasts & treasure hunt. It was a lot quieter today. Ahead of me were the remnant apple trees of an industry which once supported both the local economy, people and wildlife, a mix of interests which ensures cider orchards hold a place in nature conservation under Biodiversity Action Plans.

Entering from the lane, the orchard gently slopes away from you, down to a small stream. The research notes I had brought with me mentioned the ground can be wet and boggy by the stream, which, even after a number of rain-free weeks, proved accurate later on in my visit. What these notes did not mention was that my arrival would be heralded by a kingfisher flying along this stream calling its thin, but penetrating, call. It was a good start.

There were possibly a dozen apple trees in the orchard, many surrounded by a fence to deter the grazing sheep who are occasionally brought here to help with the biodiversity management. As one of just two orchards owned by Dorset Wildlife Trust, the other being Broad Oak which I visited in March, these community reserves mix habitat management with general visitor use. The website suggests visitors can wander around, or pick a spot for a picnic. I did the former. 

The reserve is roughly the letter P in shape, having a larger section by the cottage, leading to a small linear area by a five-bar gate and a second entrance. Sadly the apple trees on this visit had finished their blossom, small fruitlets were forming already. Despite being on the edge of the village this is a very quiet spot. No vehicles moved along the lane while I was here, leaving the only noise to come from chiffchaff, chaffinch, robin, blackbird, long tailed tit, jackdaw, rook and greenfinch (and the kingfisher of course).

It doesn't take long to wander about the main orchard area, and soon I found myself exploring the stream. The stream isn't obvious from the entrance, but scramble under some low branches and a quite delightful hidden riparian feature is revealed. 

Looking up at the orchard from the stream

Here it is all mossy and dark, light is shaded from the ground by overhead sycamore and hazel, ferns and ivy cascading down the steep stream bank. I couldn't see any fish from the bank side, but its gravelly bed would be ideal for bullhead, stickleback or minnows. Neither were there any signs of otter, but they are present here.

As I walked along the stream edge it suddenly became boggy and climbing back into the orchard itself I found I was standing on quite spongy ground. It is quite possible that if I had noticed the presence of a large clump of yellow flag iris, I may have realised I was walking towards a wet flush trickling out at the bottom of the orchard slope. These iris were just coming into flower, and looked perfect. Just beyond these, recent habitat clearance had been completed, with the scars on the ground from the removal of brambles and nettles.

It is a lovely spot and had I brought a picnic (and rug as there are no benches) I could have stayed here longer with a flask and some sandwiches. Not having these with me, I slowly climbed back up to the lane while trying to avoid trampling the many cuckoo flower peeping through the grassland. I like the fact that Dorset Wildlife Trust have secured this orchard. All too easily it could have been left to decline or worse still, being on the edge of the village, have suffered from residential development.

Date of visit: 14th May 2026. 16:00 to 16:45 (leaving the church at 17:30)

Selective list of species: Kingfisher, long tailed tit, chaffinch, chiffchaff, robin, blackbird. Apple spp., cuckoo flower, meadow buttercup, harts tongue fern, ivy, moss spp. bramble, nettle, Sycamore, hazel, oak with blackthorn hedge, Fresh molehills.

Postscript: 1 of 2

After visiting King's Lane Orchard, and being in the village, I made a pilgrimage to see the grave of the naturalist and broadcaster Kenneth Allsop. A Yorkshireman by birth, in his later years he lived at the nearby hamlet of West Milton. Allsop fell in love with this part of West Dorset and championed protecting the area from development, including the threat of oil exploration. His grave lies apart from others of the same era in the churchyard of St Mary the Virgin, in the centre of the village. I sat on a nearby bench with a flask of tea I'd collected from the car. The sun was warm, there was birdsong everywhere, lichens colonising his headstone. Not a bad place to rest in peace, whether that is alive, or dead. 

Postscript: 2 of 2 

On May 19th 2026 I received a lovely email from a Richard Dolman. Now 88 years of age, as a farm student aged 16 in 1954 he worked at King's Farm, a mile or so along the lane so named.  Mr Dolman was actually commenting on a 2020 post of mine about Eggardon Hill. However its relevance to this post makes me want to include a link to his memories here, published in March 2013. Thank you Mr Dolman for your memories.

Mickeypops muck and cow whispering:

https://westdorsetconfidential.wordpress.com/2013/03/30/mickeypops-and-cow-whispering/

Dorset Wildlife Trust Project: Peascombe

 I arrived in bright strong sunshine, I left Dorset Wildlife Trust's Peascombe nature reserve in sunshine, but in between times after being caught in a thundery downpour, I resembled a wet badger.

 

Due to on going care for my ninety-four-year-old father, and somehow damaging my knee which made walking painful, and a large number of events and courses I'd chaotically booked myself on, my Dorset Wildlife Trust project had been placed on the back seat recently. However, with my knee almost back to normal, it was good to return to my self-imposed project. And today I aimed to visit the 3 hectare Peascombe reserve near Loders, not far from Bridport.

I know the out-of-the-way rural village of Loders (officially Lower Loders) fairly well as a day visitor, but not the reserve. However on arrival I soon realised I had actually driven past it for years and not realised it was here. Hidden away off a very narrow hollow way, or sunken track (named Smishops Lane) this hollow way meanders out of Loders but, due to a landslip, most of Smishops Lane is now closed to vehicular traffic.

Smishops Lane - now closed to traffic

I parked in the village and walked the short distance up the lane. Dappled sunlight filtered through a tunnel of trees, it was a beautiful day. At the crest of the hill, what looked like an ex-railway gate highlighted the entrance into the reserve. At the entrance coppiced hazel, a few oak and lime trees dominated, while a chiffchaff serenaded my arrival. 

Once through the large gate, it was a short walk to a kissing gate leading into the reserve proper which was predominantly made up of grassland with a small stream. I stood at the top of a steep slope looking down and across a rolling and quiet landscape, quiet, that is, apart from the sound of grass strimming in the distance. However what I did note was rain advancing rapidly towards me. Showers had been forecast today, though they had not materialised, until now. A clap of thunder alerted me to the fact that torrential rain would soon arrive, which as it turned out became a half an hour deluge with thunderous accompaniment. Foolishly, not being dressed for a British day, I took shelter in the adjacent allotments, under a tree - don't try this at home. 

Eventually the rain and thunder passed and I wandered back to the reserve to find myself walking amongst vegetation two feet high, mostly of extremely wet grass. Within minutes I was tremendously moist below the knee. To be honest I was a little disappointed at first. What I'd hoped would be a wildflower meadow bejewelled with flowers, resembled, at first glance, an intensive grassland with species like Yorkshire fog, Timothy and cocksfoot predominating. The site is, I had read, summer grazed to help with the nature conservation efforts, though, given the height of the grass, I doubt any cattle have been set on here this year. However closer inspection revealed more.

Germander speedwell was everywhere on the upper slopes, along with cuckoo flower and meadow buttercup, though all were partly obscured by the lush herbage. The reserve is roughly a triangle in shape formed on a steep slope surrounded by a mixed species tree and hedge boundary. It is an open access reserve, but I followed the indistinct paths created by other walkers.

At the lower part of the reserve, the path I followed progressed under a lovely spreading pedunculate oak, it felt as if I was entering a secret landscape. And I was in many ways. This area was, for me, the more interesting. There is a shallow stream, dried up on my visit, which from distant viewing contained varied flora including sweet rush and a huge patch of greater stitchwort. The stream is bordered by a path, raised up above the ground, bordered with old coppiced tree species. It had a hidden feel though sadly after the rain shower, bird and insect life was minimal, just a chaffinch, robin and jackdaw broke the silence (the strimming had stopped). As a result of now having sodden shoes as well as trousers I didn't linger here too long. Consequently, during my visit I saw no invertebrates on the wing.

Dried up stream bed.

The reserve has three entrances to it, and is seemingly a well used site by local people, which is a little surprising given how out of the way this is, though it does lie on the village edge. I was warming to its delights during my hour wandering about. Sadly no bullfinch, which had been my target species, though at the opposite end of the reserve long tailed tits flittered above my head. I exited the reserve via a different gate which led into another hollow way, Whetland's Lane, the verges of which were almost totally dominated by wild garlic.

The grassland sloping down to the stream and mature trees

Looking into the reserve from Whetland's Lane

The stream crossing Whetland's Lane

Whetland's Lane

And for me, on this visit, the importance of this site became apparent. It sits quietly in a varied landscape of hills, valleys and woodland. Its lower slopes are wet tussock grassland with a varied herbage, the upper slopes providing more dry meadow species, while surrounding the reserve are mature trees, hedgelines, hollow ways and farmed grassland. That juxtaposition of habitats is what makes this reserve special. As I squelched back up Whetland's Lane I ignored my waterlogged shoes and enjoyed the peace and quiet of this location, although the stimming had restarted, with the emerging sun.

Whetland's Lane entrance

Date of Visit : 14th May 2026. 14.30 to 15.30hrs
 

Selective list of species  - Chiffchaff, robin, blackbird, jackdaw, woodpigeon, long tailed tit. Grass species including cocksfoot, Timothy, Yorkshire fog. Dock, cow parsley, wild garlic, sweet rush, nettle, meadow buttercup, germander speedwell, cuckoo flower, greater stitchwort. Quite a few molehills. Hazel, pedunculate oak, lime spp.

Dorset Wildlife Trust project: Powerstock Common

What are my thoughts about Powerstock Common? 

Well, it is in the middle of nowhere. Actually that is unfair, it is in the centre of the most unspoilt agricultural landscape in West Dorset. And, not that easy to find. Even the Dorset Wildlife Trust's [DWT] website describes it as 'hidden away in the West Dorset countryside'. Hidden it is down a labyrinth of narrow lanes, but once discovered I loved exploring just some of its 112 hectares (about 280 acres). This is a big reserve.

The village of Powerstock I know quite well, not least its lovely hostelry The Three Horseshoes. Dominating this small village is the church St Mary the Virgin, itself used in the television adaptation of Agatha Christie's 'A Murder is Announced' with the whole village represented as Chipping Cleghorn. Until the 1960s a railway branch line ran along the valley between Bridport and Maiden Newton. Long since disused, the bed of the railway now provides a northern boundary to the reserve, and a long flat walk.

Having explored only a small part of the nearby, albeit much hillier, Kingcombe Meadows NNR in the morning, a flat walk was most welcome to my wife and I in the afternoon. On arrival the sun had intensified and dare I say it it felt almost too warm. Brimstone and peacock butterflies were on the wing and what also looked like a single specimen of a small tortoiseshell - though it was the briefest of glimpses, certainly not the marsh fritillary which is also found here. In the warm sun many an aerial territorial battle by peacock butterflies was taking place.

 

As yet another DWT reserve I had not visited before the decision was made to follow the longer waymarked path, rather than explore more randomly. On the reserve map it showed we'd pass through Wytherston Wood, through steep-sided railway cuttings, past a bat shed, then return via the central track through the Common itself and finally skirt past Wicker Coppice. What I was also to discover was that this now hidden, wild and undisturbed reserve in West Dorset has in fact been heavily influenced by human activity. For centuries it was grazed common land where also wood and its products were collected. The railway arrived and with it removed the right of commons, opening the area up for improvement. Attempts were made to fell trees and plough up for farming; many of the ancient oaks were felled with commercial conifer strands planted. During the 1960's charcoal burning occurred. However in the least accessible areas the ancient habitat of oak and ash remained untouched, which since 1975 when the DWT took over this area, has allowed regeneration to occur, with a little help or course, such as the removal of pine species and the grazing of the woodland to remove the understory.

Once again, this, the sixth reserve I've visited, felt materially different to all the others. Well developed ant hills are an obvious sign that, the once busy railway cutting, is now a quiet area for wildlife to flourish. These cuttings especially indicated summer promise for seeing many butterfly species on the wing, steep sided grassy slopes facing due south. All around, the open wood-pasture and coppiced areas played host to birdsong, chiffchaff, blackbird, song thrush, chaffinch, blue, great and long tailed tit, robin, great spotted woodpecker, green woodpecker and wren. At one point a pair of jays were raucously vocal, though unseen. Before long a male tawny owl hooted its presumed annoyance at being mobbed by these fascinating corvids. Maybe they were trying to rob the nest? I'm not sure, but as we were the only other living things in the reserve it made for an emotional day-time encounter.

Part way through the walk we passed a bat hut where presumably the lesser horseshoe bat roosts, one a handful of other bat species found on the reserve. Further along, with primrose coming into flower everywhere, I encountered my first dark edge bee fly (Bombylius major) of the year, and then saw well over a dozen more as we walked along. The primrose also hosting various solitary and bumble bees. There was an audible hum soundscape in the air.

After about an hour of walking we came to the end of the reserve and turned south. Ahead of us lay Eggardon Hill, overseeing the landscape as it has for millennia. I found it emotional viewing this landmark from this angle. Eggardon is my joint favourite view in England (the other being at Bickerton, in the Coquet Valley area of Northumberland). For decades I've stood on that hill looking down into Powerstock Common. Today I looked back from below, and felt very small and insignificant.

Reaching a gate we turned back to the car along the gravel track which dissects the reserve. What we had not realised was that, given we were looking to avoid hills, we'd walked in the wrong direction. The outbound journey had been flat, yet for the next thirty or more minutes we walked uphill, not steep, just a steady rising slog, which in normal circumstances would have been fine, but after this morning we were feeling quite weary. It didn't spoil our visit here at all, in fact those frequent stops to recharge ourselves allowed for further immersion in this large reserve. We finally reached the car after about two hours walking. 

 The only other person we saw was a farmer on his quad bike as we made it back to the car-park. Whoever says southern England is overpopulated needs to one day visit West Dorset. But, maybe I should not mention this to anyone? 

 

 

Date of Visit : Wednesday 18th March 2026 - 13.45-15.45 hrs.

Selective species seen: Oak ash wood pasture with blackthorn, old mans beard and hazel understory. Peacock, Brimstone, small tortoiseshell? dark edge bee fly, red tailed bumblebee, solitary bee spp. Primrose, lesser celandine, rough grassland.  Carrion crow, jay, jackdaw, herring gull, raven, chiffchaff, blackbird, song thrush, chaffinch, blue tit, great tit, longtailed tit, robin, great spotted woodpecker, green woodpecker and wren.

Dorset Wildlife Trust project: Kingcombe Meadows and Centre

  

It must have been around the same time I first visited Toller Porcorum that the nearby Kingcombe Farm was coming up for sale.

The farm was part of the lands which made up the Lower Kingcombe estate, which had been granted to Lord Sandwich by Henry VIII. It had never been on the market until 1985, following the death of the then owner Arthur Walbridge. At this point the 640 acre (259 hectare) farm and buildings were semi derelict, the heavy clay land had never been improved. The landscape of wet meadows, sunken lanes, and billowing-hedges was known for its species-rich diversity, it provided a unique natural habitat which was, despite much of it being a Site of Special Scientific Interest (SSSI), at risk of agricultural improvement. 

Despite conservation bodies' best efforts to secure enough funding for the purchase the farm, it was bought privately and then re-marketed as fifteen smaller lots in 1987. The call went out once again and after what would today be known as crowdfunding several of the lots totalling 300 or so acres came into the ownership of Dorset Wildlife Trust [DWT]. Likeminded individuals additionally secured other lots and in the intervening years further land has come into the DWT remit. Today the Kingcombe Meadows National Nature Reserve covers almost 450 acres (180 hectares).

That is the potted history of the site, somewhere I've passed by many times but never properly visited. Until now, making this the fifth reserve I've visited this year.

I had not planned to visit this part of west Dorset this early in the year, however on reading the latest DWT members' magazine an article mentioned the lesser known areas of Kingcombe which were especially worth a visit in early spring. The sun shone brightly, the forecast heralded the warmest day of the year, my wife and I headed down the M5 where after a cup of tea we headed off to the first of those areas mentioned in the magazine, Neal's Hill. It is a steep climb.

Exiting the Centre we first had to cross over the River Hooke. In reality no more than a wide stream, this wonderfully atmospheric river provides a soundscape to the valley. I did not see any fish under the bridge but in a calm area away from the eddying water a large number of pond skater (Gerris spp.) were indulging in river skating. From here it is a short walk up the public lane before turning into Butt's lane which begins its ascent up the valley.

I simply love holloways, or sunken lanes if you prefer. There is something magical about them. Many are the feet who have passed this way over the centuries, each footfall leaving an impression. Butt's Lane was also doing a fair impersonation of a running river. Run-off from the adjacent fields cascaded across the chalk and flint rubble we now found ourselves stumbling over. At various points 'mini-valleys', no more than a dozen or two feet long, luxuriant in ferns and mosses disgorged their tinkling water into the lane, as they had no doubt done for years. It made for a spectacular walk, which as the sun rose higher, also made for a warm walk. The first bluebells were coming into flower, and primroses were everywhere. Brimstone butterflies too floated back and forth disturbed by our travels. 

Before too long the gate we looked for appeared and we entered Neal's Hill field, to be greeted by a peacock butterfly. Unfortunately, I don't know who Neal was, but this, the largest of five fields (the others being Five Acres North, Five Acres South, Neal's Ground and Wally Ground) which make up a rectangular outlier of the main reserve, provide absolutely breathtaking views. At our feet there was a rich wildflower grassland, from which cattle had only recently been removed, evidenced by the heavily pockmarked surface waiting to trip the unwary visitor.

Images can never replicate the views we see while standing a-top a hill, below us in the valley the whole of the Kingcombe reserve was visible in a wide arc. Around to the left of my vision the monumental hillfort of Eggardon dominated the south, and to the right the estates of Hooke and Mapperton completed the landscape. Behind,  stood an impressive beech tree clump. For southern England this felt an empty quiet landscape, and the arrival of a cronking raven to perch on one of the beech trees confirmed this feeling. Interestingly there were few other birds about. I'd set my mind on seeing, or more likely hearing, a yellowhammer, but to no avail. A chaffinch, blackbird and a number of great tits provided the only song during our climb up. It was mid morning after all, maybe at dawn or dusk the bustle of territorial calls increases. Buff-tail and 'red' tailed bumblebees zoomed about and on the gorse, its flowers now dazzling in the sun, attracting a myriad of solitary bees to forage. 

We could have stayed here for a long time, a great place for a picnic and to relax, but there was a lot more to see, so we made our way back to the Centre and after a quick lunch in the lovely café, headed off to explore another of these aforementioned least visited areas, Mary's Well Lane.

Walking here a very confiding goldcrest hopped through coppiced hazel, stopping regularly to sing. It made a welcome distraction for a moment. Who Mary was I'm not sure (later research failed to uncover any facts) but this was yet another fabulous holloway. The lower half, like Butt's Lane, was a sparkling rivulet burbling over flint rubble, only higher up did it narrow into a muddy thoroughfare. Surprisingly above us sat a grey wagtail, some twenty or so feet above the path. It wasn't fazed by our passing underneath, presumably intent on foraging in and around the water running down the lane; there were a lot of insects on the wing on this warm afternoon.

The higher we climbed the more hazel dominated each side of the holloway. Some had been coppiced, some had been lain. In the bright sun during this visit the cross-over shadows in the intense light made for an atmospheric veil in which to look beyond into the wider landscape. In summer however, in full leaf, this would be a dark and mysterious tunnel to venture along, watched over no doubt by the dormice which this area is a stronghold of. For now though, primrose and bluebell dominated our attention.

Kingcombe Meadows is a large reserve, and materially different to the smaller reserves I have so far visited. Reaching the top of Mary's Well Lane it was around 1.30pm. We'd been walking up and down the valley for a couple of hours and really had only scratched the surface. Would we have enough time to make our way, in the opposite direction, to the Pound Plots and Redholm Coppice, the two other areas mentioned in that article of least visited areas? Possibly, though on reflection they could wait for another visit. I'd like to come back and stay here in one of their cottages, when a dawn or dusk walk would be simply wonderful.  

Thus, as we returned to the centre a decision was made (not least as we fancied a flat walk). DWT's Powerstock Common was just a couple of miles away, as we were in the area, why not make that the sixth reserve to visit? After all we had the whole afternoon ahead of us. 

We headed off. But that said, I absolutely loved being at Kingcombe, a place I've known of for decades, yet never visited until now. This is a lovely part of Dorset.

Date of Visit: Wednesday March 18th - approx. 10.30-13.30 (including lunch)

Species noted: Lesser celandine, primrose, bluebell, various ferns, lords and ladies (arum), dogs mercury, mosses, ivy, hazel in catkin, robin, chaffinch, blue and great tit, great spotted woodpecker, raven, buzzard, kestrel, grey wagtail, goldcrest, blackbird, chaffinch, beech, gorse, blackthorn, peacock and brimstone butterfly, buff tail bumble bee and 'red' tailed bumblebee, pond skater, solitary bees. Sadly no yellowhammer.