Building No 38

All over the globe, or at least the bits I have been to, I have favourite spots: places I feel some special resonance with; sometimes an overwhelming melancholia, or joy or nostalgia. The Vine Inn is one of the latter.

Sitting squarely into a hill in an area near Wimborne, the building of red and grey brick has a comforting air of 'I will always be here, no matter what happens' about it.
When I was forced, at the age of about thirteen, to go on school cross county runs, I would often slow (not that I was going at any speed at all) near this pub and admire its burgundy-framed windows, hand-painted sign and clambering vine.
Sometimes when unable to go any further, (running is something that has always eluded me) I would collapse near the pylon at the top of the hill and lie there, looking at clouds and wondering how electricity travelled in the power lines.
On my trips back (see last post) to see Mum in The Home, I visit the inn occasionally, as I am now well over the age of thirteen and thus able to drink ginger beer in the establishment. I leave the yellow dining room of The Home, drive through sunken Dorset lanes back to the hill and install myself for a reflective half hour of cheese sandwich eating/ginger beer drinking.
The menu is how pubs should be: none of this Tai chicken on a bed of exotic whatever, just four items: Cheese sandwich, ham sandwich, cheese ploughman's or ham ploughman's; extra items (tomato, pickle, 10p)