Walk on the wild side

I’m delighted with my plans for a weekend walking trip on Dorset’s South West Coast Path. However, Seán, my partner-in-crime, looks aghast at the idea of exercise when I suggest it. He finally agrees, as long as we set off early for a stop-off at the Turfcutter’s Arms in the New Forest’s East Boldre, our friend Martin’s recommendation.

I forgive him for the fact it’s not in Dorset and nowhere near our destination, as it offers up unexpected delights: from donkeys queuing up outside the post office to Hatchet Pond on its outskirts – with its lapwings, and rare multicoloured stonewort. Of the pond’s hundreds of species, my favourite is the four-jawed, hundred-toothed leech.

The coastal path at Dorset’s Highcliffe provides the perfect picnic spot, with views of the iconic Isle of Wight Needles. Afterwards, we wander along Highcliffe’s cliffside path, among bees and butterflies as they feast on purple teasel heads. The sand below arcs to Christchurch Harbour.

The Isle of Purbeck is all rolling hills, tree-lined lanes and luscious hedgerows. Hilltop Corfe Castle, once William the Conqueror’s palace, has 360-degree views to the sea and across the heathland.

The castle is built of Purbeck stone, locally known as ‘burr’, an adaptation of the French word beurre, due to the buttery look of the freshly mined limestone. Seán’s disappointment is palpable as he misses taking a snap of the steam train tooting along the single track from Swanage to Corfe Castle, informing me glumly that the next train is a mere diesel.

Corfe Castle village nestles under the castle. The villagers, quite sensibly, reused the stones from the ruins to build stout houses. The square-towered church and huddle of limestone houses are postcard-pretty, the perfect site for a Midsomer Murders mystery.

Tom’s Field campsite is a green wonder, sitting on the edge of bucolic Langton Matravers, with rabbits, badgers and foxes sharing the site. On my wielding of a walking map from its shop, Seán suggests a fortifying visit to the Kings Arms pub just down the road.

The one-mile trail to Dancing Ledge is edged with dry stone walls. Seán is mesmerised by their herringbone structure. I’m entranced by how they mimic the waves of the sea. The track takes us over heathland, past a suckling herd. When wind whips Seán’s Panama hat off, it lands in their