Upon the Dorset downs, where high winds roam, Nine souls set forth from a forgotten inn, The Greyhound's sign, a promise of a home, Where weary walkers might their rest begin.

A sun-bright morn, the tenth of August's heat, Did urge them up the steep and winding way, To Woodbury's height, a cold and flinty seat, Where markets bloomed in Henry's faded day.

Through dusty lanes and tracks where cattle tread, To Bloxworth they strode, and sought the cup that cheers, Then Morden Lane before them slowly spread, A path where toil doth banish doubts and fears.

They crossed the A31, a modern scar, To find Winterborne Zelston's gentle grace, And took their lunch beneath the sun's bright star, In that sweet, quiet, and timeless place.

Then footpaths wound through valleys, green and deep, Past Winterbornes still and ancient guise, Until The Greyhound offered them its keep, And quenched their thirst beneath the summer skies.

But six, their spirits restless, would not cease, And turned their faces to the open downs, O'er Bere Down's heath, they sought their final peace, And left the village with its rustic crowns, To find their cars in Bere Regis and home, And end the journey they had made from home.