December 2012 – Page 2 – derrickjknight

After The Deluge 1

A bright, crisp, frosty morning ushered in a respite from the deluge for

the saturated forest. I walked the ford ampersand, the term coined on 17th.

The new lakes alongside our upper drive are beginning to merge into one. Water still streamed down the hills into Minstead, creating candy

floss foam as it descended into ditches. Whilst dazzled by the low direct sun as I walked down the steep hill I heard the stirring of hooves in the verge just in front of me. This prevented me from walking into a facing pony. I stopped and spoke to her, asking if she preferred today’s weather to yesterday’s.

The recently thatched house now masquerades as Chad. For those not familiar with him, Chad is a graffito character, the British equivalent of the American Kilroy, who was likely to turn up in all sorts of places during the second world war. A drawing, rather like this house, would be left as a joke, with the legend ‘Chad was here’, or more likely ‘woz ‘ere’.

The coned off pool above the ford was unchanged except that the wreckage of one of the cones lay scattered and submerged in its depths. Further along the road a number of car tyres distributed at more or less regular intervals are either evidence of flytipping or they are serving some purpose of which I am ignorant. On my return a woman was riding a horse up the steep incline leading up from the ford, whilst on the other side of it another was leading hers.

After lunch we drove to Ringwood for a final Christmas food shop. A largely white wagtail, completely oblivious of car wheels inches from its toes, flitted about earning its name; yet whenever I got near enough to take its photograph it came over all camera shy and flew off, just far enough to be out of range.

This evening we dined at Passage to India in Lyndhurst. Draft Kingfisher accompanied our meals.

Would You Like My Seat?

Rain continued throughout the day as it done all night. Jackie drove me to Southampton for the London train. The forest was even more waterlogged. The lanes leading to the M27 were, in places, completely covered with rainwater running off the fields and overflowing from swollen ditches. Yesterday’s bedraggled pony was dry and comfortable compared with the poor creatures we saw today. Visibility on the motorway itself was much reduced. Windscreen wipers were going like the clappers, fending off the driving rain. Even when the glass was fleetingly clear, the road ahead was a swirling mist of spray thrown up by other vehicles’ wheels. During the last two or three miles, some of which was in nose to tail traffic, the red petrol warning light was flashing. Jackie calculated that the nearer we got to the station before she ran out of fuel the less I would have to walk. I speculated about how far I would have to push the car.

We arrived in good time for the train, which had been cancelled. The next one to Waterloo would not arrive for over an hour. I was advised to take the cross-country train to Newcastle and change at Basingstoke. This was delayed. Fortunately by only five minutes. Just like my last trip to London, the train only had four carriages and the London travellers had to join an already crowded group. I secured a seat by asking a woman to remove her bag from it. Whilst I was sitting down Jackie texted me to say she had made it to a garage.

The train from Basingstoke was of three coaches. Because of the crush of people boarding, the replacement guard could not get on. Those passengers who had managed to do so would stand in the aisles divesting themselves of their coats and feeding their luggage to the racks, while the rest of us waited for them to settle. As I arrived in the carriage I announced: ‘The guard cannot get on the train until the passengers do. That means we won’t be going anywhere until he does. Coats can be dealt with later’. This was delivered and received with humour. One man, proving his point, stood up and took off his coat, saying ‘that’s difficult to do without hitting someone in the face’. This was greeted by general laughter.

The only seat I could reach was being obscured by a gentleman’s backpack. He was leant over it, looking for all the world as if he had something to hide. When I asked him to move he said he hoped the seat would be taken by a Swedish blonde. ‘Bad luck’, I said, ‘you’ve got me. You have to take what you can get today’. In fairness, he did then offer his seat to a young woman who declined it. Maybe he didn’t fancy me.

From Waterloo I took a Bakerloo Line tube to Picadilly Circus where I did some more Christmas shopping. On Vigo Street I lost my temper. One of my betes noir is people who poke you with their umbrellas. In one short stretch of this street linking Regent and Bond Streets I followed a young man marching along with complete disregard for the crowds on the narrow pavement. His action was so savage that I could hardly believe what I was watching. His umbrella was like a scythe cutting a swathe through corn. He travelled very speedily, never relaxing his grip or slackening his pace. He struck one man and two women in the side of the face. He also collided with another umbrella, almost wrenching it out of a woman’s grasp. After the third viticm whinced in pain, I went after him. I had to quicken my pace. As I neared him I called out, three times: ‘Hey, you with the umbrella!’. He ignored me. I was almost upon him when he turned to climb the steps to a building. I cornered him and told him what he had done. ‘No, I haven’t,’ he retorted. ‘Yes you have’, I bellowed. ‘And the last woman was in considerable pain’. He walked into the building.

I continued along to Green Park, caught the Jubilee Line to Neasden, and walked to Norman’s. London is as wet as Hampshire, and Harlesden’s cracked, uneven, paving stones harbour numerous pools.

Lunch was lamb shank followed by bread and butter pudding accompanied by an excellent Spanish Tempranillo. Then I was off to Carol’s by tube.

On the Jubilee Line train, diagonally opposite me, sat a trim middle aged man wearing a woolly hat, a bomber jacket, jeans, and trainers. His copy of the Metro served as a tube wrapped around a can of drink, which he did not touch on the journey. He entered the carriage talking to himself, which he continued to do for a while. Soon, he must have tired of his own company, for he sought another conversationalist. Even though all the seats were occupied, when he said ‘ere, nu”y professor’ I instinctively knew I was the target. I decided to humour him. Eventually this meant abandoning my book. He ruined my concentration. He did, however, approve of reading as being ‘more human than all these robots’. The expansive gesture that accompanied this comment made me aware that the majority of our companions were attached to mobile electronic devices. Apparently I look very like his psychiatrist, so I must be one. Unless, that is, I worked for Old Bill. He felt sure he recognised me. Before I left the carriage he gave up his seat to a young woman who, in stark contrast to the rejection I had witnessed this morning, gratefully accepted. He continued to talk to me until I got out at Green Park.

When I departed Carol’s I took a bus to Waterloo where I eventually caught a train back to Southampton. At Waterloo the departure board received the undivided attention of numerous passengers awaiting information about delayed trains. Suddenly a mass movement akin to a shoal of sardines swooping to escape the net signalled that a train had been announced. My journey was cramped, but I was one of those fortunate enough to obtain a seat.

Jackie drove me home, where the deer awaited us on the lawn.

Bedraggled

www.weather. That is what 50 m.p.h. winds have turned our wet and warm days into. (Mr WordPress took my joke one stage further. I didn’t type http:// and he won’t let me erase it)
We went out for a drive this morning; first down to the clifftop over Hordle beach at Milford on Sea; then through the forest via Burley, Fritham, Lyndhurst, and Brockenhurst.
In the early part of the afternoon I watched the second televised Rugby League match between England and New Zealand. This reminded me why I had given up on it years ago.
Afterwards, I worked on the morning’s photos. Normally, I do very little in the processing, but today I wanted the results to reflect the mood of the day, so I converted most into black and white, and toned down the colour a little in the three that were not made into monochrome. This subduing was because the camera had produced slightly brighter colour than was available to the eye.

Jackie parked the car at Paddy’s Gap, so we could watch the mountainous seas pounding beneath us. I had a very difficult job prising the car door open against the gale, and when I emerged, the driving rain blurred my vision and, as can be seen, left its mark on the camera lens.

A pair of lone joggers performed the involuntary dance of falling leaves, as they battled along the path. I swear the lighter one was lifted aloft.
Interestingly, the more we drove into the forest, the less the wind blew, but the rain was just as heavy and pools were beginning to develop on the grass and heathers. All cars had their headlights in operation, even at 11 a.m.
Perhaps we should not have been surprised than there was scarcely a pony in sight. Areas where we would expect to see many of them cropping the grass or molesting tourists in the car parks, bore no sign of life except the wind sending reluctant leaves, not yet ready for hibernation, spinning on the more slender twigs before spiralling downwards.
Most equines had no doubt repaired to the middle of the forest in search of shelter.

The outskirts of Fritham are normally well populated by shetland ponies.

Today, just one, bedraggled, muddied, munched alone.

For dinner this evening, The Cook produced a tasty lasagna with a melange of fried Mediterranean vegetables, followed by Tesco’s chocolate eclairs. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Madiran.

Moshi Monsters

Last night we came well down the field in the pub quiz. Nevertheless, because it was Christmastime, we won a large box of Maltesers.

As we drove into the grounds at home three deer were caught in our headlights. They had clearly been chomping on the bergenia plants which bear evidence of constant nibbling. Every morning the path beside them bears fresh deer droppings. The startled animals took off to the far side of the garden, turned to face us, and stood as if, like rabbits, transfixed in the headlights. Then they were off. Gone. Were they the three I had seen on the morning of 6th? (see post) I wondered.

This morning, in an effort to break the back of our Christmas shopping – or maybe just our backs – we drove, on Shelly’s recommendation, to Bournemouth’s Castlepoint shopping centre. This, we had been reliably informed, was more user-friendly than the ghastly Southampton West Quay. It most certainly was, and the parking was free. We knew we were in Dorset rather than Hampshire because even the road signing was clear and in good time.

A week or so ago, Louisa had posted on her Facebook page a photograph of five year old Jessica’s delightful letter to Father Christmas. Not having the slightest idea what it was that I was signing up to, I sent Louisa a message saying ‘sign me up for a mosh sheey monstys play haws’. This hadn’t been intended as a Christmas list for family and friends, rather a display of a wonderful snapshot of childhood. However, that is what it turned out to be, and one of Louisa’s friends, who did know what she was doing, has bought Jessica a moshi monsters play house. When Jackie and I were shopping for the girls I left Louisa a voicemail message asking for ideas about presents, saying we would take unilateral action if we didn’t have a reply in time. We were approaching the checkout when Louisa rang back, confirmed that the alternative present we had chosen was probably surplus to requirements, and suggested any moshi monster. These little creatures are apparently connected with a television programme. I got the job of returning the Peppa Pig to the Asda shelves. When I returned from this, Jackie was almost through the checkout. As she emerged she asked whether I had chosen anything else. I hadn’t, I explained, because I now knew our gift had to be a Moshi Monster. ‘They sell those here’, she said.

As Jackie took the rest of our purchases to the car I found a suitable monster and rejoined the queue waiting to pay. Because of problems with the till, and the young man using it, this one item took rather a long time to purchase.

This evening we drove to Thornhill for an excellent curry in Eastern Nights. We drank draft Cobra and Bangla.

Obstacles

The landscape after the deluge was pretty waterlogged today, but the light was bright and clear, giving us beautiful skies.

Apart from a diversion to Acres Down, my walk took the form of a roughly drawn ampersand. I turned right at Minstead Hall, left down to the ford, right at the ford, through Fleetwater to Acres Down, and back via the other fork, going straight into the village from there.

Five or six ponies approached me as I walked down Running Hill. They completely blocked the road. I can’t say I was scared, just marginally apprehensive, to be surrounded by these creatures we have been warned not to touch. Apparently they can bite. I used my usual method of negotiating them, which is to hold my line and walk on. Normally this works well. This time the horses had the same idea. One in particular, the light-brown white-maned creature in the centre of the picture, was into the head-to-head approach. Close enough for me to smell its not unpleasant mustiness and eye its not very pleasant teeth. As I rejected its desire for further intimacy, used the better part of valour and walked around this beast, I did momentarily think I would rather have been in one of the cars whose drivers were patiently waiting for the road to clear. On skirting my interested pony I said ‘I’m not supposed to touch you, mate’. I received no reply, and one of the most disconcerting aspects of these animals is that they are always absolutely silent.

Sheep in the field alongside what I call Furzey Gardens road were silhouetted against the sky.

When taking the right fork after the ford I exchanged greetings with two Highway Maintenance workmen seated in their stationary truck.

Reaching the main road between Emery Down and the A31, I noticed for the first time a chalked sign advertising the Acres Down Farm Shop, and decided to go down and check it out. There was also a ford on this road, with fast-flowing water streaming across it. Its footbridge looked rather inaccessible, but I thought I would give it a go. Not a good idea. There were three deterrents to taking this route: the thick, squelching mud; the piles of glistening horse shit; and the low branch requiring a limbo dancer’s technique to get under it. Feeling intrepid, I persevered and reached the bridge. One glance across to the other side made it clear that a better option would be to wade through the clean, fresh water. I stepped into it and did just that.

The farm shop wasn’t open. According to a notice it didn’t open for another ten minutes. I thought I would wait. A gentleman suggested I should ring the front door bell of the house next door. I did. A young woman told me it wasn’t open on Mondays. As she said this she looked at me quizzically and said there was a notice which contained this information. ‘Ah, yes, I read that.’ I said, ‘I’m retired you see. Ah, yes. Monday. Sometimes I don’t know what day it is’. This was the point at which I sensed her instincts were telling her to back away. She stuck with it, however, and explained that her sister ran the shop and its stock was largely meat and eggs from the farm; various chutneys and pickles; and seasonal gifts. I thanked her, saying that was just what I needed to know, and I could now report back on my find. As I left, the helpful gentleman was starting to drive off. Claiming to be a dodderer he said he’d forgotten the shop wasn’t open on Mondays. Since I had told the young woman that he had suggested I ring the bell, she must have thought we were a right pair.

Returning down the road to Minstead which takes me to the left prong of the fork, I discovered evidence that my prediction yesterday, that the rainwater would reach the cones by the vast pool, was correct. Water now trickled between the cones onto the private drive. Rounding the corner now blocked by this water, I met my Highway Maintenance acquaintances. This time they were leaning on their truck, one having a fag. He was their spokesperson. Perhaps because it was about three quarters of an hour since I had last passed them, he greeted me with: ‘We’re not skiving. We’re waiting for a machine to clear all that water round there’. Only when the water was cleared would they be able to determine what needed to be done to rectify the situation. I told them about the obstacles to using the Acres Down ford footbridge. They advised me to contact Hampshire County Council. I said I wasn’t bothered enough for that and thought not many people walked that way. They agreed.

As I walked up the road from the ford, the machine, not unlike the vast vacuum cleaner I described four days ago, passed me. I considered the smoker would have time to finish his cigarette.

This evening we are going to The Amberwood Christmas quiz, where we will be fed what are promised to be very good and plentiful snacks. Anything worthy of note will be recorded tomorrow because we will probably be late back.

Primrose And Champion

This morning I walked to Emery Down where Jackie picked me up and, after an abortive visit to a closed Highcliffe, drove us to Lyndhurst where we made a start on Christmas shopping.

Ponies were out in force today. At Seamans Corner one was scratching its nose on the wooden seat surrounding a tree. Another quietly allowed me to pass before ambling across the road.

As I passed Orchard Gate, a large house on the left on Running Hill, I greeted a young woman I had seen before, emerging with a bucket. An older version was struggling with her bicycle mudguard. Not being particularly handy I was rather relieved she hadn’t seen me walk by. When I reached the two horses in the waterlogged field I was pleased to see them tucking into fresh hay. The young woman came along with the bucket, smiled, climbed over the stile, sploshed into the waterholes, and walked across to the far side of the field. Whilst I was engaged in photographing the horses, the woman I took to be my acquaintance’s mother arrived on her bicycle. She had just had a tyre replaced and the mudguard had kept catching on it. It seemed to be allright now. She told me she was a commoner and these were her horses. She had other horses on other land. These two were Primrose and Champion. Primrose was the most beautiful example of the New Forest pony you were ever likely to see. Champion had a bit of a cough which seemed a little better today. My informant introduced herself as Mrs. Audrey Saunders. She had bought herself a Victoria Pendleton bike but couldn’t get on with it so had given it to her daughter who, it seems, is less inhibited in whizzing around the lanes.

On a bend after the left hand fork of the forded road there is a steep camber in the road which is always full of water. When walking by it is sensible to wait for any cars to pass first. The opposite side of the bend abuts a very waterlogged private drive that someone is attempting to fill with gravel. Roadmenders’ cones have been placed to prevent drivers from running over the verge, creating yet more mud. This leaves even less room for pedestrians to negotiate.

By the time we left Lyndhurst the day that had dawned bright and clear had deteriorated into a damp deluge. No doubt the pool above has reached the cones by now, for the downpour did not desist. Indeed, it turned to hail and we waited in the car outside the house until the stones stopped ricocheting off the roof, windscreen and bonnet. The clean gleaming white hailstones on the grass contrasted with last night’s black shiny wet deer droppings.

This evening we returned to Lyndhurst for a meal at the Passage to India restaurant. This was excellent, and augmented by draft Kingfisher. We were quite disconcerted by a small Oriental group consisting of two young women and a little boy. The small fellow, although not looking too unwell, coughed and spluttered all the way through his meal. One of the women seemed to be bravely keeping up a cheerful conversation whilst reclining and slowly subsiding in her high-backed chair. Her face became more and more grey-looking; her handkerchief more and more soggy; her eyes more and more glazed; her nose more and more like Rudolph’s. Since Jackie traditionally has a Christmas cold she was most relieved when our neighbours left the restaurant.

The Tree House

This morning I took the Minstead, Football Green, Shave Wood and London Minstead circular route. In case anyone is wondering, London Minstead is so-named because it lies on what was the road to London. That such a narrow winding lane should have been the way to the capital is amazing by today’s standards.
.Minstead was very crowded this morning. Cars were parked on every available space, including all the grass verges. As The Trusty Servant came into view I saw a gathering of horses; riders in hunting outfits; friends and families, including children in buggies; and various assorted dogs. Drinks were being passed around, and the staff of the inn were distributing tasty looking snacks. I asked one of the observers whether this was a hunt party or whether they were actually gathering for a hunt. ‘It is a meet.’, she said, ‘In a while the master will call them all together for the off”. I expressed surprise that they would need such sustenance before setting out on such an exercise. She assured me it was needed before they left.

A large garden on the way to Minstead contains a tree bearing what I assume to be a derelict house. This always reminds me of Sam’s tree-house in an old false acacia in the grounds of Lindum House. He built this with friends some twenty-odd years ago. This structure was of two, possibly three storeys. It could, and on occasion did, harbour several boys overnight. One day he found an estate agent’s ‘For Sale’ board. This was placed in a prominent position on the tree, and was visible from the road.

I have mentioned Beauchamp Lodge Settlement before (e.g. 15th August). One of the projects managed by this charity was the Community Cafe. At the time Sam’s tree-house appeared to be up for sale, a young woman with a pronounced Lincolnshire accent worked in the cafe. I asked her to make a phone call expressing interest in buying the property which was very close to Lincolnshire. It seemed to work a treat when Sam answered the phone. Knowing my son, however, I suspect he probably twigged what was going on and decided to humour his Dad into believing he had been hoodwinked. Louisa was not forbidden to enter Sam’s house, but she and a little friend did build their own less ambitious one in another tree.

The cafe project was one in which a small staff was augmented by trainees who either had mental health problems or special educational needs. One day one of the people on placement who had psychiatric ill health asked me if I’d bought my Lottery ticket. I said I didn’t buy any because I considered I had no chance of winning. Quick as a flash he replied ‘that man who won several million last week wouldn’t have done if he thought he had no chance’. I had to acknowledge the sense of that argument.

This evening we drove to Helen and Bill’s at Poulner where we enjoyed a very convivial family dinner party. Helen produced a truly excellent meal which would have graced the best of restaurants. We started with parsnip and gruyere goujeres which were both crispy and melted in the mouth. The next course was a rich, tasty, and succulent French beef stew with perfectly timed vegetables. This was followed by a tangy lemon mousse with home-made chocolate and cranberry biscuits; then a cheeseboard. Various red and white wines were consumed; port accompanied a cheeseboard.

Judy

This morning I finished reading Flaubert’s ‘L’education sentimentale’. This long nineteenth century novel, more than twenty years in the making, is beautifully written, and has been a great help in brushing up a very rusty vocabulary. I have needed a dictionary at hand, and have had to be careful not to use some of the author’s antique or purely literary words or phrases in the supermarket. The writer of the more popular ‘Madame Bovary’, Flaubert must have been very disappointed in this work’s original reception. The world was not ready for a piece in which nothing much actually happens, until Proust came along, praised it and wrote his own great ‘Remembrance of things past’, as we translate it. Maybe the theme of the protagonist’s emotional life blighted by an unconsummated love for a married woman was not very fashionable either. I found his descriptions of scenes, events, thoughts, and emotions inspiring and educational.

I then began ‘La Porte Etroite’ by Andre Gide. When I bought this 1947 large format illustrated paperback edition in Wimbledon Village’s Oxfam shop earlier this year, the volunteer assistant looked fondly at it and said ‘I did that for A level’. ‘So did I’, exclaimed another customer.

This afternoon Jackie drove us to Romsey where we visited the Abbey. Actually begun before the Norman conquest, this building created for Benedictine nuns is largely in Norman style. One can only marvel at the structure with three tiers of arches and splendid stained glass like that lighting St. Ethelfraeda’s chapel. How those men more than a thousand years ago, with none of today’s equipment managed even the perpendiculars is beyond me. St. Ethelfraeda’s is just one of the side chapels. It contains, on the left-hand side, what is described as the ancient tomb of an abbess. Could it be hers? I notice this is not claimed.

Volunteers were preparing the abbey for a concert this evening. We had managed our timing well, for we arrived before the concert and after a significant funeral. Bob Smith, who told me he was the head guide of the establishment, recited a number of stories relating to this place of worship, and I am sure he had many more. He began with the tale of John Warren, styled ‘an intruder’ in the list of vicars on the wall. He had apparently got into the list by virtue of his brother’s rectorship in the seventeenth century. This brother gave him the position although he had not been ordained. Before Julitta Beatrice Walker came along and took on the research, this list was incomplete. She filled in the gaps, and became a source of all knowledge about the abbey. Bob said that what she didn’t know about it ‘could be written on the back of a postage stamp in block capitals’. Among other publications this Cambridge graduate has written ‘Romsey Abbey Through The Ages’. As we entered the abbey we had seen piles of funeral service booklets for Judy. This was Julitta. May she rest in peace.

Our evening meal was Jackie’s sausage casserole followed by trifle and accompanied in my case by Montpierre reserve Languedoc 2011, and in hers by Redbridge Creek chardonnay made on the other side of the world in the same year.

The Vacuum Cleaner

Yesterday afternoon Jackie drove us to Wimbledon where she attended her former workmates’ office party and I should have had a straightforward District Line journey to Edgware Road whence I would walk to the Akash (see 31st October post) to meet Jessie. Not a bit of it. There were no trains in the station. The indicator informed passengers that the first train in would be for Edgware Road on platform 2. It wasn’t. This was a Plaistow train which arrived on platform 1. We were obliged to board that and change at Earls Court. As Wimbledon was the starting point, I got a seat. On which I sat, going nowhere, for fifteen minutes while other travellers filled the train. Prising ourselves out of the packed carriage and onto the even more packed platform at the interchange station was a delicate operation. We then stood, eyes glued to the indicator board, watching for a lighted arrow to be pointed at Edgware Road. After some time an announcer told us to catch the next train which was terminating at the following station, High Street Kensington. After another wait those of us on the crowded platform had to force ourselves into the equally crowded train. A seat was out of the question. I was back in London. It was almost a relief to walk along the brightly lit Edgware Road with the hustle and bustle of its thriving Arab community. At least you could walk round people as they stood on the pavement outside the shops, gesticulating; or outside the pubs, smoking.

In the year since my last visit to the Akash, Arab shops and restaurants have spread further up Edgware Road from Harrow Road. This is apparently affecting Majid’s business, because their customers don’t eat curry. However, the Akash continues to thrive, largely through takeaway trade. I had a very enjoyable meal with Jessie and was welcomed as an old friend by Majid, Zaman, and Shafiq. As always, there were other regulars there.

The tube journey back to Wimbledon and the drive home to Minstead were straightforward.

Waking up a world away from Edgware Road, over our morning coffee we were intrigued by a steady distant drone with a bright tone. After a while it stopped and I, for one, forgot about it.

I walked the loop taking in the road to Furzey Gardens and the ford, making a diversion to look up Steve Cattell who I had been told would be the man to tell me about Seamans Lane. Steve wasn’t at home, but his wife, Pat, invited me in, had a chat, and took my details. Pat, in her sixties, has lived in the village all her life.

I had intended to do my walk in reverse, but hearing the bright drone again, and seeing a slow-moving vehicle start up the hill towards Furzey Gardens, I decided to catch up with it and ask the operative, Jeremy, if he was hoovering the road. Indeed, he was. He stopped and we spoke. On a couple of occasions he had to manoeuvre his vehicle to allow cars to pass. One of these must have been a parish councillor’s because, when he explained his mandate, he said one had just driven past. Jeremy works for The New Forest authority. Three or four times a year he clears the Minstead Roads, when requested by the Parish Council. He told me that when he first cleaned Minstead, in four days he collected loads totalling sixty tons. The vehicle looked like a traditional hoover with a vast tank for its casing and thick concertinaed pipes like elephants’ trunks coiled around the back end. Since there is nothing much other than equine excreta needing to be sucked from Minstead’s asphalt, I thought that tonnage represented an awful lot of recycled grass.

Our evening meal featured Young’s fish pie followed by Jackie’s trifle. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I had some more of the Le Pont St. Jean minervois.

I Don’t Actually Work Here

The morning dawned as frostily as the last few days, but the temperature did rise a few degrees by early afternoon. We needed another trip to Ringwood where Jackie had to take her car to the excellent Wells garage in Salisbury Road for a light bulb to be replaced. It must be a stroke of design genius that requires the bumper to be removed before a £7.50 bulb can be replaced.

Whilst she waited at the garage I walked back to the river and turned left along the Castleman Trail to see what the other direction was like. Passing three boys busy making themselves sick on Golden Virginia, I soon came to Bickerley Road, where there was no continuation sign. With a sense of deja vue I searched for a route. A major road called Castleman Way, and especially a Railway Hotel pub, offered a shred of hope. This was unrealistic. I even asked a postperson for directions. She stood with great internal concentration, scratched her head, stroked her chin, and kept repeating ‘I have done it’. Eventually she proclaimed: ‘but it was so long ago I can’t remember’. I bet she’s wondering still. I know I am. I didn’t find it and eventually returned to the town centre and the cafe where we again enjoyed excellent lunches in the Bistro which, although not the Martin Cafe is a pretty good replacement, reminiscent of Jackie’s regular Rosie Lee in Morden. My choice was toad in the hole. Jackie’s was eggs on toast.

Whilst by the river I thought again that the water on the fields may not be so high. Swans and an egret were enjoying the unwonted flooded expanse. There was the odd submerged tuft that offered the swans a perch.

Whilst Jackie was booking the car in I stood in the foyer idly looking at a little old Fiat vehicle perkily standing on the floor. My reverie was disturbed by a voice from behind which compared its owner’s three year old Volkswagen most unfavourably with this allegedly perfect gem. This gentleman, who appeared to be inflicted with logorrhoea, proceeded, with neither introduction nor pause for breath, to eulogise about the 1971 Fiat car which was being renovated by the garage. I must say it did look in pretty good nick for a 41 year old, even if it had only done 21,000 miles. He, of course, should know, because he had worked for Fiat when a young man in Greece. When he helped himself to coffee from the machine, and demonstrated his complete misjudgement of me by going into great technical detail as if assuming I would have the first idea of what he was talking about, I thought maybe he was on the staff in some capacity.

Because of the necessity to remove the bumper, Jackie’s car wasn’t ready by the time we were to meet, so we walked back to the garage after lunch. On the way we spoke of our garrulous friend. Apparently he had found other victims in the form of people looking at cars for sale in the forecourt. He was happily showing them round. As she left for the cafe she overheard him saying ‘I don’t actually work here’.

This afternoon we took the car up to Wimbledon for separate evenings out which, because by the time we get back it will be too late for a post, will be described tomorrow