October Sunshine

Although my usual BCG procedure symptoms disturbed my sleep, by midmorning they had subsided, leaving me rather lacking in energy. I therefore dozed over the BBC radio transmission of the third day’s play in the second test match between England and Pakistan.

Having once more watched the cumbersome wood pigeons teetering precariously among slender stems while they attempted to keep the occasional crab apple in their beaks, I took a brief walk around the garden where

roses such as Aloha and Festive Jewel are still blooming,

and Rosa Siluetta Lavender continues to wind itself around the Weeping Birch trunk which it shares with mushrooms generated from its wood.

Fuchsias, for example Mrs Popple and Delta’s Sarah will probably survive the winter.

Clerodendrum Trichotomum is at its peak;

dahlias continue and Japanese anemones still attract bees

A hidden clematis cluster shelters alongside the Heligan Path.

Many pots of violas have not been mislabelled, they carry signs that bulbs are planted beneath them.

This evening we dined on Ferndene pork and garlic sausages; creamy mashed potatoes; crunchy carrots; firm cauliflower, broccoli, and Brussels sprouts. with which I drank another glass of viña San Juan.

Yerma By Federico García Lorca

We were very fortunate at Southampton General Hospital this morning because my BCG vaccine procedure began on time and 20 minutes later I was ready to go home, This meant that we were on our way out of the building when an ear-bursting bellow vied with piercing higher tones from the tannoy system instructing everyone to clear the building by the nearest available exit. It seemed that the whole world then walked slowly towards the main doorways. No-one panicked which was a good thing. By the time we had walked to our car, those who still had appointments or work inside, continued to mill about outside. I had warned others approaching that they could expect an evacuation. We recognised many of them as we escaped by car.

It is interesting that I had forgotten the acute discomfort I experienced for the first 48 hours after the first session; I was soon reminded after we returned home. Never mind, I know it will pass.

I spent much of the afternoon reading the first of the three tragedies in the Folio Society’s collection by Federico García Lorca.

The frontispiece above is clearly a portrait of the author himself and that on the front board probably Yerma. This tragic figure struggles with her longing for a child to whom she talks while caressing her empty womb and wishes for passion from her cold husband while trying to suppress her own. She lives in a society where a woman doesn’t count as one unless she has children. Identifying with this belief she engages in fertility rites to help her conceive, yet clings to her honour.

García questions this through the voices of his largely female cast, including gossiping washerwomen; young girls; a sorceress and her acolytes; and the silence of her husband’s shrivelled sisters.

We have music and dance, and the poetic language one would expect from the writer that García is. “The rain smoothes the stones by falling on them, and then the weeds grow – people say they are useless – ….but there they are, I can see them moving their yellow flowers in the wind.” “Have you ever held a live bird in your hand? ….Well [pregnancy is] like that; only in your blood.”

Even the scene directions are telling (Pause. The silence intensifies and without any outward indication one is aware of the struggle between the two) or (The second sister appears and goes over to the doorway, where she stands like a statue in the last light of the evening)

Sue Bradbury, the translator, provides a knowledgeable and well written introduction to the writer and his work.

Presenting Peter Pendrey’s Lino-cuts as they lie on the page offers examples of the poet’s writing.

Wood pigeons are heavy, ungainly, birds more like barrage balloons than delicate creatures who could manage to feed on the crab apples I see beyond my window as they cling precariously to the bending branches and tear at the fruit, dropping as much as they consume. Today they faced the afternoon gloom and allowed rain to drip from their plumage.

This evening we enjoyed further portions of Hrodle Chinese Take Away fare with which I drank one glass of La Macha viña San Juan Merlot, Syrah, Tempranillo 2023.

Summer Time Flowers

Yesterday afternoon Jackie photographed a snails’ snuggery in a plant pot she unearthed. This contained 52 specimens.

On this still, warm, morning when we prepared the car for another trip to the Efford Recycling Centre, a T-shirt beneath a normal shirt was at least one layer too much. All was quiet, save for the grating rasp of the returning magpies.

We thought that the Hagley Hybrid, the first of these two clematises, had suffered the fate of a witch burnt at the stake during an early summer hot spell, but after a severe haircut it has risen once more.

A number of fuchsias, such as Mrs Popple, white Hawksmoor, and Garden News continue to thrive;

the Weeping Birch Bed features one of the several Delta’s Sarah.

Jackie has tried to plant nerines before without success. The first in this gallery, named Lipstick seems to enjoy this position beside the patio. Obviously the cosmetic sharing its name is more delicate than that favoured by Hot Lips salvia.

Some of the many roses still flowering are the peach climber, pink Compassion, red Super Elfin, pale pinks Penny Lane and New Dawn, yellow Summer Time, and mauve Alan Titchmarsh.

Hanging baskets and other pots contain begonias, antirrhinums, lobelia and violas underplanted with daffs.

Dahlias are in their element.

At the recycling centre we left five bags of green refuse and various wood and plastic items with no more useful life, and returned with a fine bevelled mirror to reflect light in the garden and provide a target for birds pecking their reflected enemies.

The lunchtime news on BBC featured a hospital carrying out medical procedures at weekends in order to keep down waiting times. The Hospital was Southampton General; the team Urology; the specialism Bladder Cancer. How about that?

This evening we dined on Hordle Chinese Take Away’s excellent fare.

The Castle Of Otranto

Today I finished reading

With devices such as living artworks such as sculpture magnified to be too huge to be accommodated by the eponymous castle and a portrait painting transcending decades to carry the likeness of a future protagonist, Walpole has woven a story of seemingly star-crossed lovers; of deceit; of manipulation; of usurpation; of intrigue; and of thwarted sexually abusive abduction in which a tyrant battles to maintain his ill-gotten possession of title. “At that instant the portrait of his grandfather …. uttered a deep sigh and heaved its breast.”

Romance, links with a bygone past, mystery, and menace; the essential ingredients of the Gothic novel, are all brought to play in this lasting classic of the genre.

Effects of the weather such as winds of varying strength and dramatic claps of thunder; of sudden sounds; of light and darkness are employed to feed the fears of a young woman seeking refuge in unfamiliar corridors and stairways of “a subterranean passage…..blasts of wind that shook the doors she had passed, and which, grating on the rusty hinges, were re-echoed through that long labyrinth of darkness… ” she flees the advances of a powerful man who would make her his possession. “She heard him traverse his chamber backwards and forwards with disordered steps; a mood which increased her apprehensions.”

Much of the story is presented in dialogue between the various protagonists at which the author is very skilled. “..whatever be the cause of —‘s flight, it had no unworthy motive. If this stranger was accessory to it, she must be satisfied of his fidelity and worth ….. his words were tinctured with an uncommon infusion of piety. It was no ruffian’s speech; his phrases were becoming a man of gentle birth.” “Persuade her to consent to the dissolution of our marriage, and to retire into a monastery…..”

The introduction by Devendra P. Varma is most informative, itself in delightfully descriptive prose.

The frontispiece and these other imaginative lithographs are all by the incomparable Charles Keeping.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s penne pasta arrabbiata sprinkled with Parmesan cheese, with which I finished the Malbec.

A Bumper Recycling Haul

This morning we transported ten more green refuse bags and various wooden and plastic items that we decided had no more recycling life to Efford Recycling Centre and returned with a cast iron chair with no seat; a heavy concrete plinth; a sound kneeling stool which is no longer marketed; a metal plant stand; and one of our own large plastic containers which had been used to transport pieces of wood and now may perhaps be placed in the chair with no seat.

We continued into the forest where, at Portmore,

it was possible to distinguish sheep from goats.

Had the sheep lived in one of many Mediterranean climes, it may have

been fed on cardoon, a thistle like example of which was found around the corner in Pilley https://derrickjknight.com/2015/07/05/yarntons-cardoon/

Also at Pilley a young horse rider paused on the verge to allow us to pass, and we encountered

ponies reflected in the lake, now filling up. In the distance beyond those in the second picture in this gallery can be seen the

dappled grey Shetland we had passed earlier; the other sports the recently trimmed tail indicating that it had featured in last month’s annual round-up known as The Drift. https://derrickjknight.com/2016/08/30/the-drift/

After lunch I photographed our bumper recycling haul.

This evening we dined on roast lamb, mint sauce, boiled potatoes, Brussels sprouts, carrots, and mangetouts, with which I drank a little more of the Malbec.

The People’s Act Of Love

Today I finished reading James Meek’s acclaimed novel published in paperback by Canongate in 2006:

Set in the period between the end of the First World War and the Russian Revolution this is a book of Twenty-First Century Modernity and beyond.

Much more than a murder mystery story involving deception, cannibalism, religious fanaticism, self-mutilation, war, and terrorism this work discusses humanity’s dual nature present in all of us, and what we present to others. Ultimately, who can be trusted with anything?

Reflecting on the title, what is the act of love? There are various manifestations including and beyond physical “mechanisms”, depending on the views and behaviour of the main protagonists. Meek’s description of the normal physical act is sensitive and beautifully detailed.

With the breadth and scope of one of the great Russian novels couched in the spare precision of an award-winning journalist constrained by allotted space having the ability to expand with more lengthy description engaging all the senses, Meek judges the pace of this story providing perfect word pictures. “The locomotive came over the bridge, a dark green beast streaked with pale corrosion, like malachite, creeping across the thin span with a string of cattle wagons in tow. The whistle sounded down the gorge and the weight of the train bore down on rotting sleepers with the groan of wood and the scream of unlubricated iron and steel. It crawled on as if there were many ways to choose instead of one and flakes of soot and pieces of straw drifted through the air towards the river. One of the wagons was rocking from side to side and above the noise of the engine and the train there was a hacking sound as if someone was taking an axe to a plank.” or “When Elizaveta ‘Timurovna fell silent it was light and tranquil in the dining room, with windows on two sides, dust spinning in sunbeams, the ticking of a clock and the swish of cloth as the maid…..poured tea.”

Other similes and metaphors include: “He was looking inside the bag. His hands fluttered against the inner sides, like a trapped bird, getting madder.” “…..the striding cacophony of important boots was already out of hearing.” “…took so many bullets in the neck that his head popped back like the stopper on a beer bottle.”

The author deals well with dialogue in which he displays a complex knowledge of human nature, including the power of group pressure and the herd instinct.

Of 1919 we are told “It’s a different kind of war. One where you can’t understand who is on which side.” Like much of this work it is so relevant to today. We have already moved from the age of hussars honourably facing each other wielding sabres to destruction from the skies inflicted without even seeing those being killed; taken to a horrifying new level in the 21st century where there appear to be no acceptable rules.

Early photography; a lengthy letter; group meetings; elaborate, fabricated, descriptions of imagined environments; are all devices employed to present the story.

This evening we dined on oven battered cod and chips; baked beans, and fresh tomatoes with which I drank a glass of the Malbec opened two days ago.

Chicken Shashlik

This morning I listened to the BBC live broadcast of the last day of the first cricket test match between England and Pakistan in Multan.

Later I packed the Hyundai with 14 bags of garden refuse which we transported to Efford Recycling Centre. As will be seen from this I am feeling quite fit and there were no repercussions today, nevertheless I spent the afternoon reading much more of ‘The People’s Act of Love’.

During my first BCG installation two days ago we were given informative dietary sheets clearly indicative of the negative effect of my long term penchant for very hot curries. Naga, Phall, Vindaloo, Jalfrezi all have to go.

Jackie is very partial to sizzling ponir or chicken shashlik. I have always been attracted to the dish when it arrives steaming on the table and therefore tempted to try it, but weakened and chosen the spicy-hottest meal on offer. Since cheese is also best avoided I tried chicken shashlik at Rokali’s this evening. Plentiful fresh salad is part of the meal, to which we added mushroom rice.

Alcohol is not recommended either, but I am advised that my one pint of Kingfisher wouldn’t be too harmful.

As usual fresh flowers appear on each table, and the service was friendly and as perfect as the cooking.

Cleaning And Tidying

This morning I sat listening to the fourth day of the multiple-record-breaking first test between England (visitors) and Pakistan (hosts).

While Jackie, opening up the view to Florence along the Phantom Path,

continued the clearing and cleaning of the Brick Path and Westbrook Arbour, I took a short walk around the garden this afternoon.

This particular pendulous fuchsia Delta’s Sarah and two types of crab apple adorn the front garden;

the main rear plots harbour myriads of Japanese anemones;

roses such as pale pink Penny Lane, a darker hued rambler, and the hips of Rosa Glauca;

numerous dahlias; lingering begonias;

and hanging baskets and a sunflower photobombed by owls.

This evening we enjoyed more helpings of Jackie’s wholesome chicken stewp and fresh crusty bread.

BCG Vaccine Installation Begins

Today Jackie drove me to and from Southampton General Hospital for the first of my six weekly vaccine installations, and stayed with me for the several hours allocated to the process.

Surprisingly, this was a very pleasant experience.

Anna, the colleague of Natalie, who had telephoned me to explain the process, was as clear and friendly as had been the caller.

She began with a genuine and heartfelt apology for the difficulty of discovering my necessary information because of what had been “lost in translation”. She was then very clear about what I could expect to experience, conveying the information in such a manner as to put me at ease without avoiding any details. She took as much time as she needed without showing any time pressure. Indeed she actually made it fun.

The procedure itself was painless, efficient, and lasted all of three minutes.

We then needed to wait for a couple of hours before leaving in order for confirmation that all was in good working order. The timescale for e.g. when I should first drink, and when to urinate to empty the bladder of the vaccine etc was mapped out and Anna kept to the minute at each stage, for example bringing drinks for each of us. She could not have been more attentive, and gave good advice on how to manage the next few days before the next one, which will not require us to wait afterwards.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s wholesome chicken stewp and fresh crusty bread.

Crows Caught Scrumping Corn

Our overnight heavy storm this morning gradually morphed into bursts of warm sunshine alternating with heavy chaotic squalls wreaking momentary havoc.

This afternoon, following a trip to the Milford on Sea Pharmacy to collect medication, by which time unrelenting rain had returned, we set out on a forest drive.

Along Lymore Lane the skies, whenever another car approached us,

filled with a murder of crows we caught scrumping corn. Only the first picture in this second gallery is mine; the rest are Jackie’s.

On the moorland at East Boldre ponies lined up attempting to shelter against the shrubbery,

while a curious cow left off grazing to observe me briefly before returning to more important matters.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s wholesome shepherd’s pie; sliced fried potatoes; firm, flavoursome, carrots and Brussels sprouts; and tender runner beans, with which I drank more of the Fleurie.