Elegy Written in a Country Dump
By Nick Pitt

You find yourself at a loose end. The weather’s fair and you need to get out.
I know, I’ll go to… West Bay? Hive Beach? Eype? Pilsdon Pen?

No. Go to the new dump, Bridport’s number-one attraction. Easy access. No ticket required. Free parking. Plenty to do.

Nothing to dump? Don’t worry. Go there empty-handed. Go purely for the experience.

On entering the site, observe, with a thrill of virtuousness, the sign that records that last month 65% of waste has been recycled. Park and sit comfortably. Imagine for a moment the old dump. The queues; the tight turns and spaces; those iron ladders; the hauling of garden waste, or waiting at the base while some codger creeps down; the dirt; the dump men dressed as pirates; and no doubt some paltry recycling percentage.

Now compare. Oh bliss. Watch the happy folk of Bridport and far beyond get rid of rubbish, and with such leisured ease. And what of the dump men? Same fellows, but these are operatives. No longer do they retreat to their cabin with sandwiches from Morrisons. They have meals delivered to their office. Now they smile and parade their domain like lords.

Look up and take in the wider vista, the surrounding landscape of mounds, trees and lake. What hand and eye shaped such symmetry? Forget Stowe and Chatsworth for Capability Brown never achieved such sympathetic grandeur. Reflect that like the ranks of saplings all around, this magnificence will grow.

Alas, and all too soon, the shadows lengthen and the church clock sounds the knell of parting day. The dump’s work is done. The key is turned in the ignition, the wheels turn away. Outside the gates of majesty, all seems humdrum, normal life resumes. Do not be sad. Rejoice. The Bridport dump, once a slough of despond, is now a gleaming citadel.