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.

Three Minutes

A sudden scary hail-like clattering seemingly about to pierce our bathroom window panes with a virulent volley at 7.10 a.m. this morning ensured that I was fully awake enough to investigate further.

A violent storm had lifted the patio parasol and, leaving the base behind, threaded it through the arms of a chair ripping the canvas top. Three minutes later all was still and silent. Jackie had righted the pot of chrysanthemums on the table before I produced my camera. Later we unthreaded the parasol pole and returned it to the base.

Fortunately the rain kept away while, returning with two reconstituted stone plinths, we transported another fifteen bags of garden refuse to Efford Recycling Centre.

The postman had delivered an admissions letter with a schedule of dates for my BCG vaccination installation procedures, beginning on Wednesday in two days time. This will mean six once weekly trips to Southampton General Hospital and some unpleasant side affects.

I had hoped to put my feet up this afternoon in preparation for some more chopping and bagging up of pruning from the section along the West Bed fence which Martin hadn’t had time for at the end of his recent visit.

Since I will probably be out of garden action for the next two months I

decided to carry out this task today and take a rest tomorrow. It needed five spent compost bags.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s wholesome shepherd’s pie; sliced fried potatoes; firm cauliflower, carrots, and Brussel’s sprouts, with which I drank Patrick Chodot cru du Beaujolais 2023.

We Are Familee

Frances’s friend David arrived at the same time as Jacqueline and Elizabeth delivering our sister-in-law.

There followed one of those enjoyable and occasionally embarrassing conversations where one person’s story sparks off another’s and snowballs ad infinitum.

One of mine appears in the following post:

An Attachment To The Gates.

My sisters stayed on for lunch after Frances and David left to drive back to Swindon. The apples from our garden appear by special request from Sheree.

Today’s title is taken from Frances’s title for the e-mail in which she sent me the two portraits in the first gallery above.

This evening we dined on breaded chicken in Katsu curry sauce; Jackie’s flavoursome vegetable rise; firm Cauliflower and carrots, with which I drank Beefsteak Club Mendoza Malbec which Elizabeth had brought.