Before 1943, Tyneham was a simple working village with farming and fishing being the main industries/sources of livelihood. Then Churchill commandeered the village and land for a tank firing range ahead of D-Day the following year. 228 Residents were given one month’s notice to leave. One of the final members to leave attached a note to the church door saying, ‘Thank you for treating the village kindly’.
They never returned.
The villagers were promised they could return after the war but, sadly, another war followed and as a result it remained as a firing range to this day.
This is another perspective of all those sacrifices made during the wars and particularly the Second World war. Think of your home. Then, imagine being told you had to give up your home…. many of the residents didn’t own these houses and as a result were only compensated for the vegetables in their gardens. It is true that the village was in decline (the school had already closed down due to lack of numbers) with the fishing and farming industry lost to modern advancements and bigger towns nearby. Perhaps it could be argued that Churchill put the village out of its misery, but it was still home to some people and who knows for how many generations.
70 and more years on don’t be blinkered into thinking that this is a tourist hotspot – it is not. Visiting here is quite eerie. It’s like time has been frozen. Bylaws prevent the sale of any goods or development as an attraction (there are so many more places that could benefit from this type of law!!). Before reading the superb boards that tell of the history of Tyneham one might easily think that it resembles a bomb site and not a place deserted and almost lost to the ravages of time. The roofless buildings look like they were blown off by bombs rather than, perhaps, blown off after years of wild British weather. The frames of the houses still stand strongly, proudly giving a backward glimpse into the lives of the long-departed community. The only buildings still recognisable are the church and school for both have received some tender loving care. This is a true ghost town which stands as a memorial to the sacrifice made by a village to train personnel in order to accelerate the end of the war. A lonely red phone box stands in front of a cable less pylon, perhaps begging for a buyer – what an iconic symbol of modern times.
Tyneham is located in a beautiful valley that is untouched and unspoilt by modernisation, rich in wildlife and provides access to Worbarrow Bay in Dorset. It is a long time since I made a brief visit here, but perhaps another, lengthier visit is in order. It is isolated close to the coast and it provides a tranquil haven from the well-trodden tourist path.
As I leave, I appreciate my home and think of the sacrifices of many, and also consider whether to write about such a place for fear that this place no longer remains hidden from the masses!!! As I write it is a long way from the modern, instant internet/insta fame that destroys the beauty of many a historic spot. Thank God for bylaws and long may it stay that way.
On my way home from work today I was distracted by a near perfect rainbow. By the time I found somewhere to park up and get a picture of it, sadly, it had disappeared. The place where I stopped was by the river Stour just outside Wimborne. This place was new to me even though it is only an hour or so from my home. The river had clearly suffered from the recent wet weather. My lack of rainbow photo took me on a beautiful drive back to my home. That route home took me past Sturminster Newton which showed some serious flooding damage. The swollen river had already eaten up most of the local farm land and it was heart breaking to see the local area struggling.
Upon leaving Wimborne as the first stop my sat nav took me along a beautiful, tree lined road to the village/hamlet of Pamphill. I was immediately drawn to a perfect looking church at the end of this road. On parking up, I walked expectantly up the drive only to find out that I couldn’t gain access to it. The rest of the village was filled with quintessential thatched cottages. A couple of pictures taken quickly and I was on my way again.
On pulling out onto the main road I realised where I was. I was driving along the edge of Kingston Lacy. It seemed silly not to make the second visit there this year. The extensive estate is vast, and perhaps in a warmer season and along with the dog this may make for a day of good walking. The elegant house and formal gardens were home to the Bankes family for over 300 years. Loyal to their King they fought for him against the all-conquering Cromwell. Cromwell destroyed the family’s former home, Corfe Castle (blog on here to follow), during the Civil War, the defence of which was led by his wife, Lady Mary Bankes. Her husband was elsewhere serving the king. When the royal castle became uninhabitable and Sir John Bankes passed away, his son decided to build this mansion. Isn’t it funny how history seems to link with modern times, as our parliament seems to be heading to a modern civil war (of words at least)?
Imagine the uproar and cost of building a house this size in this modern world. The house, although it looks simple on the outside, gives off a sense of immense wealth. Every house that I visit in the National Trust is completely different, and that is what makes them so very fascinating. The inside of Kingston was at times dark and filled with lots of art collected by William John Bankes. It is one of the finest private collections in the country. It didn’t seem that the whole house was open and most of these places are on Christmas opening hours. There was one room in particular that caught my eye with what looked like a dining room lit up with a glorious chandelier and which had its own organ! I was amazed that this was here, perhaps thinking it looked so out of place and would have been better suited to a church.
The gardens, as always and expected, look better in the summer or autumn when they’re awash with colour. Sadly, on today’s visit everything in the gardens had been wrapped away for the winter. After strolling through the gardens, the love and appreciation wasn’t there so I trekked back to the car reminiscing over those glorious summer days, when, as always, pictures seem be easier to take in a different light. I shall certainly be back to this area of Dorset for I think that Wimborne is worthy of a blog.