Dorset - and the Queen

Morning dawns and I thank and farewell Libby and hop into my Uber to Temple Meads Station. It's been a wonderful 20 hours in Bristol.

The station is very quiet. My train comes along and I get on board - with the help of a very nice woman who lifts my case on board and even stows it safely for me! 

We trundle through the Dorset countryside, passing Bath and other lovely English towns and villages along the way. The portly conductor comes along and checks my ticket. "Maiden Newton", he states the name of my destination and I nod in confirmation. 

Bath

Through this station and that station we go, past hills and dales and picturesque countryside. I hear the announcement "Next station Maiden Newton" - this is my destination. The train slows and I stand up, grab my baggage and head for the door. Push the button, hurl myself and bags out the door. No one else gets off and the station is deserted except for a lone man on the platform. 

I look up. OMG, the sign at the station says "Yetminster".  

OMG this is definitely not Maiden Newton. The lone man feels my angst and says something presumably helpful that I don't hear.

Yikes, I turn around to get back on that train, with visions of the doors closing before I can lug myself and my luggage back on board, stranding me in a place I've never heard of. 

OMG, the doors close. It's a couple of hours before the next train to Maiden Newton is due through. A sinking feeling envelops me, but one must never panic. 

I look to the front of the train for some help that I am not sure will be available and am relieved to see the nice conductor man standing there in the distance looking back at me. 

"This is not Maiden Newton, luv," he yells out. This I do know by now, and while I'm relieved he's recognised me and remembered where I'm going, this statement does little to diminish my plight. He stands on the platform looking towards the driver and I get the feeling he is going to have a bit of fun with me. 

"I need to get back on board," I yell, pointing furiously so he gets the message loud and clear. It seems like an eternity, but the doors do open with a welcome hiss, and I lurch back on board, my bags and rattled self intact, but my dignity in shreds. 

I remain standing as sitting down is more effort than hanging on. I wonder how on earth I got it wrong but there is little point; I've been saved by quick thinking, loud yelling and a nice conductor man.

Nice conductor man presently comes into my carriage, smiling at my near disaster. He confirms that Maiden Newton is the next stop - and the exit is on this other side, he says. Feeling much better prepared, I duly alight at the next stop ... and there are Lyn and her friend Lois to greet me. 

Maiden Newton is a small station with no lift and a car park on the other side of the tracks. Carrying luggage up and over the old footbridge is no easy task but between us we manage!

We drive to Lyn's home in the market town of Bridport. I've stayed with Lyn in Bridport before, but not at this house which she has done up beautifully over the past several years. My room is The Pink Room - in tones of pink and lilac with hints of taupe and a beautiful "hearts" display. As a girl I used to dream of having a house with themed rooms, and now I am in such a house. 

Lyn had left the TV on to keep her dog Smartie company while she was out collecting me and, around 12.30 as we sit down to chat, news of extreme concerns about the Queen's health erupts, with reports of the royals rushing to be with her in Balmoral. We chat, with an eye on the events unfolding. Outside, rain is falling. 

Later, while preparing dinner, news of QEII's death is announced at 6.30pm by a man in a black tie. We toast the Queen's full life with a nice red, and dine on delicious dahl and pappadoms and other Indian treats. At 7pm new PM Liz Truss, makes her statement, the first of many formalities. Little did she know that the handshake with a white-fingered Queen just a couple of days earlier would be their last. 

The royals arrive at Balmoral, with Harry a lonely last. Tears will be shed in the depths of Scotland and a new King Charles III will soon be proclaimed.

Lyn and I continue our chat and catch-up until bed beckons. As always, it's like there were never any years in between. We catch up regularly on Facetime but there is nothing like the real thing and it's great to be in her house for real rather than seeing it via a screen!

OBSERVATION OF THE DAY:
Being in the UK on the day the Queen dies and Operation London Bridge gets under way is quite poignant. There's a sense of sadness that an old lady has died - but no lady wants to linger when old age becomes a burden. There are no details about cause or time of death at this point, but it seems her life-ending decline and ultimate death were mercifully swift.  

Within minutes of concerns about her health breaking, people were heading to Buckingham Palace in the rain, milling around outside as if their presence might make a difference. 

When her death is announced, with a notice pinned to the gates of the palace, people flock there. The mourning and pageantry is about to begin on a scale never quite seen before. Whilst I won't be joining any queues, and the endless media attention and speculation quickly grows tiresome, there is something about being here and witnessing it all unfold in real time. 

Smartie in sombre mood