Above Ringstead Bay

It’s not quite 8am and the sun is already strong; we’re in an early heatwave – this week, temperatures will reach the highest ever recorded in the UK in May. I’ve come out here early to try to beat some of that heat, but I can already sense that the walk, even if not long, will be harder work than normal. The breeze coming off the shore does little to take the edge off the heat or underlying humidity.

Here is where I most often want to be, above Ringstead Bay. I’ve found it difficult writing about here before. In part, because I feel I’m giving something away – a sense that this is somehow a secret place that I’d prefer people don’t find out about. But also because I worry that I won’t do it justice – that I won’t capture the essence of what makes here so special to me (and others)

This walk is one I’ve done countless times before, in countless weathers and seasons and lights. Today, the fierce heat brings perfect blue skies, at a time of year when the grass and crops along the cliff tops and inland are a perfect green. The sea is a perfect deep blue, tinged with fringes of perfect turquoise. It’s a perfect day for a walk here – but then walks here, even when the colours aren’t always like this, are always perfect.

I start slightly inland: I want to save the return along the coast path for best and last. To my left, there’s an endless view across Dorset and beyond, the ups and downs of its contours covered in a neat quilt of farmland, as if here life is nothing but farming, whereas 50m to the right, life will be nothing but the sea. And yet for now that sea is hidden, my path a dry brown along the edge of a field towards a horizon on the brow of a gentle hill. I walk past a sign for Dorset Art week, an arrow pointing to nothing in particular, as if the countryside itself is the art and I am an unwitting visitor to the gallery.

Through a gate and walk those 50m to the right, and then I see what I’ve really come for: ahead, the long chain of white cliffs and the steep ups and downs of the land between them; the glitter of the sea as it rolls into bays and beaches seemingly only reachable by boat; the gentle sway of long golden grass and the rustle of the breeze that blows through.

This a place to take some time to lie in the grass, not so much for the rest, but to make sure I enjoy the simple pleasure of being here. There’s the view across to Portland and Weymouth Bay, today all clear, but on other days often shrouded by mist or the portent of coming rain. There’s the empty horizon promising France somewhere beyond, a subtle meeting of the blues of the sky and the blues of the sea, with a few brave sailing boats – from this distance, like cartoonish triangles of white paper – drawn towards it and the mysteries beyond.

There are the faded scars of what once might have been – maybe still are – paths climbing or descending the cliffs, perhaps smugglers routes in centuries past or more recent tracks for the brave-hearted (or foolhardy) to try to reach (or retreat from) the beaches below. And of course, there’s the temptation of the sea itself, accentuated by those perfect turquoise tinges: I feel like I’m poised on the edge of a diving board ready to plunge into a giant pool below.

At moments like these I want time to stand still. Despite the steady stream of early arrivals at the beaches in the distance, there’s a delicious solitude up here. It’s a rare chance for proper contemplation, to reflect on what has been and dream of what may be, all in my own way, and in my time. I’m in no rush today; free to let the breeze brush over my face, and to savour the warmth of the sun.

Walks here often take longer than they should: “I’ll be back in an hour”, when really I know I’ll be back in two. Whether it’s taking the time to have those quiet moments, or to take more photos of the views I’ve seen those thousands of times before, I want to capture it as if this is the last time I’ll be here. Or at least that this will be the last time for a few weeks or months, and I want – need – the memories to cling to.

Since for me there’s no coastline quite like here. Nowhere that conjures quite the same sensation of mountains rising from the sea; nor the same kaleidoscope of colours, sometimes months apart, sometimes within the same walk. Nowhere, I think, that can lift spirits more when they need to be lifted, or take me higher when I’m already high. And nowhere, simply, where I get to look at what’s around and say “wow”, each time, without fail.