The good folk of Bridport will be offered the chance to enjoy, for one day only, a delicacy that most of them will not have seen or tasted in decades. It is one that the vast majority of them would give their eye teeth to enjoy again, I know I would, if I still had any.
To enter Poundbury is to enter the Pit of Despair.
Put an artificial skating rink in the Square, glue a few rooks up in trees and invest in a couple of tons of artificial snow and tourists will flock to Bruegeland in Dorset
AS THE LEAVES of our calendars turn remorselessly onwards, the evenings lengthen, and the sound of Cliff Richard singing some nausea-inducing seasonal ditty drives us all out of shops around Bridport, excitement at the prospect of a new Mayor grips us all.
Once – I am not a greedy man – just once I would love to see a single person actually working on the gas pipe holes at the bottom end of South Street in Bridport.
The connections between the demise of Bridport Bitter and the weather, IPA and the Middle East.
“The mighty roar of London’s traffic” is to be drowned out by the crashing of Dorset surf on Chesil Beach.