We see birds of all kinds, from frantically darting tits and sparrows to soaring kestrels floating on the air currents overhead; we see scurrying squirrels and oceans of listless, sunbathing cows, and on one confusing occasion a small herd of llama. We see horses and sheep and signs that warn us of crossing deer and migrating toads.
We see so many different wild flowers, twined in the hedges, twisting around the tree trunks, swaying in meadows – some I recognise, some I don’t. We see farmhouses and small shops and just one garage that seems to sell nothing but petrol and spare tractor parts.
And eventually, as we flow downhill with the road, trickling towards the coast like a man-made stream, we see the sea.
Nate is captivated and screams with excitement. ‘First person to see the sea’ was always a travel game we played – when they were too little to know any better, we even used to play it when we were staying inland, which was cruel but had them glued to the windows in silence for hours at a time.
At first, this time, it doesn’t even look like the sea. It looks like a shimmering, shining turquoise blanket that’s fallen down from the hills, rippling in the gentle breeze. We see increasingly longer glimmers of it as we wind our way downhill, glimpsed between bends and buildings, a distant, sparkling mirage.
After an hour’s random driving and a steep last-minute descent, we’re here. We drive through the village – a long, thin strip of road edged with a combination of fancy and functional shops, a pharmacy, a post office and a Community Hall – and take the coastal road out of it again.
I see the car park Cherie has advised us to use and pull in, reminding myself that despite our long sightseeing cruise to get here, we’re only about three miles from the Rockery.
I’m nervous as we park up at the bottom of the hill, edging into a spot between a Land Rover and a Fiat Panda and hoping I can get out again. The car park is packed, which doesn’t surprise me at all. The weather is divine and the location is even better.
Spread in front of us is a beach, small but perfectly formed, that curves inwards in a kind of horse-shoe shape. There are lots of families and dogs and walkers down there, enjoying the sunshine, paddling and swimming and spreading out over picnic blankets.
A single ice-cream van has set up at the far end of the car park, and is doing a brisk trade. Overhead, seagulls are wheeling and screaming and occasionally swooping down to snatch up a discarded cone or a wandering sandwich crust. The only other sounds are children laughing and adults chatting and the constant whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the waves creeping ever closer, splashing frothily onto the sand.
Nate gazes out longingly and I just know he’s already considering chucking off his trainers and rolling his jeans up to knees and making a run for it. Lizzie is trying not to look like she feels the same – because she hates Dorset after all – but I can tell she does. That alone makes me smile, and for a moment I consider suggesting we all head down for a quick paddle. But, you know, new job and all – best not to arrive barefoot and covered in sand.
The cove is surrounded by towering cliff tops and boulders that run from the bottom of the cliffs about twenty feet out into the sand. People are using them to sit on or drape clothes on to dry in the sun, and a few people are investigating the rock pools hopefully, looking out for crabs and creatures. At high tide the waterline undoubtedly comes all the way over, and I can see the dark, mossy marks left on the cliffs.
A path leads up from the side of the car park to the top of the hill. It’s steep and I fan myself with my fingers, which is totally useless against the midday heat. I’m not thrilled at the thought of climbing that path, but I have to. Because up the hill lies the Comfort Food Café, and Cherie Moon, and my new job, and, well, a free lunch. So I usher the kids in that direction, promising them a dip in the sea later, and we start the upwards trek.
The path actually has low steps cut into it and a wooden handrail, so it’s not quite as arduous as it looks. I see that over on the far side of the hill, there’s a more meandering path that’s been paved over, presumably so people can also make the Comfort Food pilgrimage if they have a pram or a wheelchair.
Near the top, by what is obviously meant to be a little viewing station, we pause. Not just to catch our breath – which is definitely a factor for me – but to admire the vista. It is pretty amazing, and Lizzie is silently taking photos already.
It feels a bit like we may have reached the edge of the world – all we can see is that glorious stretch of glittering blue-green water colliding with red and brown cliffs; dots of colour as back-packed walkers amble along high-up footpaths, patches of yellow sand getting smaller and smaller as they become more distant, curving off around the coastline.
The sun is shining down on my skin, I can hear the birds and the laughter and the waves, and I feel a moment of complete and utter peace. A rare sense that everything will be all right in our family’s fractured little world. I close my eyes and turn my face to the sky and smile.
‘You all right, mum?’ Nate asks, poking me curiously in the side. ‘You’re not having a stroke or anything, are you?’
I laugh and shake my head, and gesture that we should carry on to the top, where we can now very clearly see our destination.
Lizzie bounds ahead like a mountain goat in a Nirvana T-shirt, clicking away. She turns back to face us and takes a picture of me as I smile up at her. She even smiles back – a proper smile, big and warm and genuine – and I take a solid hold of the railing to stop myself falling down in shock.
And at the very top, I see it. An archway built over the path, of wrought iron decorated with beautifully forged metallic roses, a kind of man-made trellis, painted in shades of red and green. Amid the roses and the leaves and the stems are carefully crafted words, made up of curling letters, all painted white.
‘Welcome to the Comfort Food Café.’
The café itself is one storey apart from a few attic windows and really rather ramshackle. It has the look of a building that has been expanded to suit varying purposes over a number of years, growing organically further and further along its cliff-top location. The entrance is surrounded by open green space looking out over the sea. The land here isn’t entirely flat and is dotted with slightly wonky wooden tables and benches.
Plenty of customers are using them, families, walkers and people who have the weather-beaten look of those who spend their whole lives outdoors. None of them seem to be put off by the slope, but I notice that quite a few are keeping a tight hold of their drinks.
There’s an enclosed patch of land off to the right, fenced in, with a wooden structure that looks a bit like an old-fashioned bus stop and offers a long, shady patch of protection against the sun. I realise that it’s some kind of doggie crèche, and although a few of the tables still have dogs sitting under them panting away, there are also about six or seven inside the little paddock. Some are running around, sniffing each other’s bits and play-fighting, but most are snoozing away in the shade or drinking from the water bowls.
We’ve left Jimbo at home this afternoon, as he seemed perfectly comfortable curled up in his bed, merely raising one eyebrow when I offered him his lead before we left – but it’s good to know that on the longer days he can come here with me.
There’s a decked patio
