Do-orzaat. Dorset is part of L’Angleterre profonde. It is possible to find evidence of modernity, but only in limited areas. Around 120 miles from London, west Dorset and the Somerset marches are around the same distance from the 21st century, let alone the 20th. It helps that no motorway runs through the county and mobile phone reception is delightfully bad. A lot of locals believe that the great proprietors have risen up and taken counsel together against the networks: thus far, successfully.
On every side, there are fine trees and calming woodland. These are not Wagner’s God-haunted woods or Tolkien’s fearsome forests. In Dorset, trees have a sweet sylvan charm, while every kitchen garden is bounteous. No wonder that, unless they have nature conservation duties in northern Britain, friends with houses here are hard to entice away in August. They point out that London is humid and overcrowded, while abroad is too hot, full of foreigners and generally bloody. Who can blame them? Dorset has its own profonde. There is a place called Chettle, as pretty as any village in England. It has a big house, also called Chettle, which was designed by Thomas Archer with help from the Bastard brothers: that is a fine Dorset name. Among the villagers, there is a family called Priddle. Everyone swears that they poshed themselves up a generation ago, by adding the ‘r’.
Although Archer has never received proper recognition, he was a great architect and Chettle is one of his masterpieces. The village is another masterpiece, of English life. When it was first described to me, I was sceptical. It sounded just like Boot Magna Hall. So it is, except more so. I wonder if Waugh ever visited Chettle?
The Bourkes, who own the village, have kept cottage rents down, partly payable in rabbits, cabbages and other produce.
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