Little Bredy by Ron Trill

A long, long time ago I set out from Ringwood one fine summer morning with the idea of cycling down the Bride Valley to Burton Bradstock, returning through Abbotsbury and Upwey. I had no special reason for going to Burton Bradstock other than it would take me deep into what was then, for me, unknown and unexplored territory, and Burton Bradstock would make a suitable turning point.

There is a long gradual climb westwards from Dorchester, followed by a short, sharp dip, at the bottom of which the main road turns left to Winterbourne Abbas. From the brow of the hill before the dip, one sees only the Roman road to Eggardon, soaring up and up the opposite hillside until it merges with the sky. I saw this as a challenge. This day I would stay with my original plan, but soon I would have a go at this very "high" road. When I did, not long afterwards, I found it to be an unmetalled road and that after the road from Litton Cheney came in it crossed a field as two deep cartwheel tracks. The descent to Askerswell was a perilous one on thick loose gravel.

Back to the Bride Valley. I kept to the main road through Winterbourne Abbas, past the Nine Stones to the Little Bredy turning. The signpost here pointed upwards, at almost 30 degrees, and this was right as it thus correctly indicated the climb from the main road. The ensuing decent to the village was announced by an AA sign which stated simply "White Hill. 1 in 6". Would my hub brakes manage this? There were one or two bends, but I negotiated these without disaster, as well as the right turn at the bottom. Having descended the hill I was confronted by a gate at which I pulled up with an inch to spare.

After the gate, I paused before remounting. There was always time to stand and stare in those days. This was without doubt, one of the prettiest places I had then seen. On my right was the steep hillside, the same hillside down which I had previously scrambled on the bike, but here thickly clad with tall, leafy trees, giving a welcome noonday shade on this warm day of high summer. On my left, on a wall near a lynch gate, a large ginger cat was dozing in the sun, dreaming no doubt of all the good hunting in the fields and woods around. Further from the road, against a background of steep wooded hillside was the village, and from each cottage chimney arose a thin column of smoke from the kitchen fire. Even on a warm summer's day, the Sunday lunch had to be cooked, and how else, in those days, but on a kitchen fire.

There were five gates altogether in the mile or so to Long Bredy, and it is possible , just, to see where some of these were. Another mile and I was passing the building in Little Cheney which would soon become a Youth Hostel. It was not then far down a road which was, perhaps, a bit hilly for a valley road, to Burton Bradstock, the furthest point from home. A sharp left turn and I was soon introduced to the delights of Abbotsbury hill. I have since found that this hill can easily be avoided by turning right in Swyre to Bexington-on-Sea, then turning right again to the sea and finally turning left along the track which runs behind Chesil Bank to Abbotsbury.

I continued on my intended route, through Portesham, and after Upwey I was back on familiar roads, and arrived back home about mid-evening, having found and enjoyed some wonderful new scenery which would draw me back time and time again. Little Bredy would always be remembered.

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