Patterns, Places and Possibilities in Beautiful Beaminster 06.06.26
- Ronnie's Boots
- 4 days ago
- 7 min read
Rain had altered their plans before they had even begun. A walk across the Dorset countryside had seemed the obvious choice but grey skies and steady drizzle encouraged a different kind of adventure. Instead of following footpaths, they followed creativity, setting out to explore Dorset Arts Week and whatever surprises might lie behind gallery doors and in tucked-away studios.
They were in Beaminster, Dorset, where they wandered into the 13th century church of St Mary's which was a welcome relief from the stair-rods outside. Eventually, sunlight filtered through stained glass, casting pools of colour across ancient stone, while the magnificent Herbert Read rood screen drew the eye towards the chancel with its intricate craftsmanship and quiet dignity. Nearby stood the Strode monuments, reminders of lives long past and of the generations who had left their mark upon the town. One was the work of Peter Sheemaker, a 17th century Flemish artist who's work included memorials to William Shakespeare and John Dryden at Westminster Abbey. They commented on how the other memorials looked similar to the Digby monument at Sherborne Abbey. Later she learned that they were likely crafted by the same fellow, John Nost. Excellent, she thought, feeling pleased at having made the link.
The church organ was a relatively recent addition, dating from the early twenty-first century. In a world that often seems to move away from such traditions, it felt surprisingly heartening to know that organs were still being built and actively engaged in old churches like this one. She found herself wondering what it must sound like when the instrument was given full voice, its notes rising into the lofty spaces above. Outside, there was a lift from the street level to the church yard. This in itself gave the impression of a well used location in the town, where rights to accessibility had been fought for and had won. She had never seen anything like it... hidden in the wall-scape of the graveyard and opening onto a sea of flowers.
Across the road, Art and Beyond beckoned. It was a tidy gallery with an impressive exhibition. Almost immediately, her eye was drawn to a screen print by Stephen Bamford. It featured Agatha Christie's typewriter, the one she took with her everywhere. It was an image repeated in bold teal and orange, interwoven with text from The Murder at the Vicarage. The timing felt uncanny. Only the previous evening she had been immersed in the world of Agatha Christie at the British Library, discovering new aspects of the author's life and work and feeling a long-dormant enthusiasm for writing stirring once again. Seeing the print felt less like chance and more like a signal. Before long, it was hers.
It was an indulgence by her standards, but one she felt no regret about. The print now stood on a shelf at home, not merely as a piece of art but as a reminder of something important: that beyond the practical demands of daily life lived a deeper soul who still longed to write, imagine and create. This was a declaration that this part of her mattered.
The day continued through a succession of creators and conversations. One artist, Kennedy, drew inspiration from the cranes, pipework and industrial geometry of Liverpool's docks. His work spoke to her immediately. The angular structures and industrial forms reminded her of Teesside, where she had grown up among petrochemical plants, steelworks and the stark beauty of heavy industry. Others might see machinery; she saw memory. For someone who grew up around them she was reminded of landmarks of identity.
Kennedy was an entertaining guide to his own work, delightfully eccentric and full of stories. He spoke about a series of paintings inspired by an underground club in Liverpool. The paintings depicted shadowy figures emerging from darkness, their forms dissolving into movement and suggestion. When asked about the club's name, he explained that "The Cedar Club" was not actually its name at all. The sign had been stolen. The sign became the name. The name becomes legend. The idea enchanted her. It existed in liminal space between truth and invention, reality and underworld; becoming almost mythical through retelling. 'Writers' gold,' she thought. A fictional setting, half remembered, half imagined. Fights breaking out in the shadows. People becoming silhouettes. Truth blurring into stories.
They moved from industrial memory and urban mythology to the geometic architecture of Björk. Huldufolk og rokdysir - hidden folk and storm girls. On the surface it sounded very different to the Agatha Christie screenprint or paintings of Liverpool docklands yet there was a common theme running through them all... stucture. Björk's sculptured designs were influenced by viking poets called Skalds. They weren't writing spontaneous, free-flowing verse. Their poetry was often highly formal, intricate, patterned and layered with meaning. It helped create rhythm, memory and complexity. A listener could hear recurring sounds, images and structures while also uncovering deeper meanings beneath them. Björk translated that literary structure into visual form. Instead of repeated sounds she used repeated shapes, motifs and geometric arrangements. The artwork became a visual equivalent of verse. These skydancers looked very striking as a monochrome against nature's vibrant backdrop in Dorset. Strapped up at the neck with gentle silk thread and a piece of volcanic rock, from Iceland, poking out of the top. These depicted a head. Looking closely, she thought she could see traces of runic forms hidden within the designs, as though fragments of an ancient language had been woven into cloth and colour. The work felt like a visual form of storytelling.
One of the highlights of the day came at the Symondsbury Estate. Nestled beneath the watchful shape of Colmer's Hill, the estate seemed perfectly suited to artistic discovery. Originally rooted in Dorset's agricultural and wool-trading history, it had evolved over generations into a place where heritage, landscape and creativity met. Old buildings had found new purpose as galleries, workshops and exhibition spaces, creating an atmosphere where art felt entirely at home. There was a wedding celebration in the main building and periodically they caught glimpses of the highly manicured guests. She paused a while in thought. 'I always stumble upon them!' she laughed.
Inside, every discipline seemed represented. Jewellery sparkled beneath carefully placed lights. Ceramics lined shelves. Stone sculptures stood with quiet confidence. Yet it was the textile art that captured her imagination most completely.
One particular piece enthralled both of them: a starling rendered in textiles. At first glance it seemed simple, but closer inspection revealed delicate strands of turquoise thread woven through the feathers. The effect was extraordinary. As light touched the surface, the colours shifted and shimmered, recreating the iridescent flash that appears on a living starling's wings. It was a small artistic decision, but one that transformed the work entirely. She found herself wondering whether she might one day create something similar, drawing inspiration from the landscapes, birds and fleeting moments she encountered on her own walks. The thought stayed with her long after they had left.
Elsewhere they visited the studio of ceramic artist Jo Saker in the village of Loder. The experience felt wonderfully personal. Her two gorgeous dogs were so excited and playful as they regarded today's art explorers. Rather brave having them anywhere near, having glanced at the price tags, she thought. These ceramics seemed deeply connected to nature. One glaze in particular caught her attention. It reminded her of a tiny wildflower emerging from an old stone wall, delicate life pushing through weathered rock. In places the glaze appeared almost frozen, carrying a crystalline, icy quality that seemed impossible to achieve in clay. The pieces felt rooted in Dorset itself, reflecting both its ruggedness and its beauty.
By late afternoon they arrived at Camilla and Cilla's. The café and gift shop possessed an unmistakable air of understated elegance. The coffee was excellent, the cake even better, but it was the atmosphere that lingered in her memory.
The green-painted walls seemed to soften the light and lend the room an unexpected sense of history. Sitting there, she felt transported into another era, perhaps the 1930s. The play of light and shadow created scenes that felt almost cinematic. Certain gestures caught her eye. Certain faces suggested stories.
At the table behind her friend sat a couple who seemed entirely absorbed in one another. There was nothing overt about their behaviour, merely a touch on an arm, a lingering glance, a scan to see who had observed them, the subtle language of affection that needed no words. She found herself inventing stories for them. Around the room sat perfectly put together wives and widows arranging their diaries over tea, restrained visitors discussing the day's exhibitions, and locals catching up with news they wanted to share. Everyone appeared just slightly more polished, slightly more refined than usual. She made a valiant effort to soften her flat vowels though any such attempt at decorum was quickly defeated by peals of laughter that escaped into the manufactured space.
They talked for hours. About art, writing, life, places they had been and places they still hoped to see. They put the world to rights in the way old friends do, with equal measures of seriousness and humour.
As the day drew to a close, she realised that Dorset Arts Week had offered something more than a tour of studios and galleries. It had provided a reminder of the many ways creativity can reveal itself: in a typewriter transformed into art, in industrial landscapes turned into memory, in ancient poetry translated into pattern, in a flash of turquoise thread on a bird's wing, and in a flower emerging from stone through the alchemy of glaze and clay.
Most of all, it reminded her that creativity was not something she had left behind. It remained present, waiting patiently, woven through the fabric of her life like a bright thread catching the light.
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