August 3 The English Seaside

Since Weymouth is only ten miles from Dorchester, the train wouldn’t leave until church had already started, and a taxi would cost no more than train fare, we took a taxi to church this morning, dropping off our bags at the B&B on the way. Chris will remember both the pretty little church building on the Chickerell Road, and the Greenwood Guest House on Holland Street in Westham. John guided our driver here by instinct. The branch has shrunk since we were here last year, losing five families who moved away. We walked the two miles home after church.

We’ve liked Weymouth since our first trip in 1997, when we took the family and some extra students and rented a cottage in Osmington, a few miles east around the bay. Quintessentially English, I don’t remember hearing any foreign voices in Weymouth but our own. Jane Austen would not approve of the town, one fears, but she would understand it as she understood Brighton and Lyme Regis. On previous visits, usually during a British bank holiday, the esplanade and somewhat pebbly beach were populated by large, blonde, loud, red-cheeked people determined to enjoy their trip to the seashore no matter how cloudy and windy the day. This time, however, I’ve heard German, Dutch, and accents from further east; in our little B&B half of the guests are from America.