January 2013 – Page 3 – derrickjknight

Have You Got An iPaD?

Running Hill was full of ponies as I set off to walk the ford ampersand on this crisp sun-kissed day. Others, throughout the route, had begun their day-long quest for fodder. In ‘Furzey Gardens road’ some half a dozen were lined up as if in a trough. One was forced to turn its head to stay in frame. They are reaching higher and higher for prickly greenery. Sheep in a fold munched, basked, and idled away the morning. The avian residents were very vociferous. I recognised a blackbird in a hedge, and robins and pigeons flitting and flirting across the lanes of Minstead.

Close to the ford, opposite an aptly named house called ‘The Splash’, lies Minstead Study Centre. Taking the motorists’ warning sign literally, I have been calling this establishment a school. On passing the centre and the nearby twig circle mentioned in posts of 4th, 26th, and 30th December 2012, I was reminded that Berry had clarified both the purpose of this educational facility and the source of the ‘pagan’ circular constructions. The truth is far less mysterious than I had imagined.

The Study Centre is a forestry learning establishment for schools who send groups of children to discover the delights of the New Forest. I have, in fact, seen crocodiles of escorted children emerging from the forest track. One of the exercises these young people are given is the creation of the circles. So I am not likely to encounter ‘The Wicker Man’, from the 1973 British horror film, remade in America in 2006.

This afternoon wagtails wandered about our lawn. When Sam phoned to give me an estimated time of arrival for him and Malachi, who are staying for a few days, Malachi asked to speak to me. Sam passed him the phone. This little chap, who is not four until March, began with ‘excuse me’. He went on to tell me he had just seen a sign which said you could buy coffee.

When they arrived, Malachi, taking off his shoes, asked the question we had feared. ‘Have you got an iPad?’. We hadn’t of course. Fortunately Sam had an iPhone. This meant we were half way there. We still had to access the internet. Our old laptops were not adequate to download Malachi’s games. The iPhone was, but we required a password to access our home hub. Of course we couldn’t remember it. Eventually, I remembered how to access BT wifi with Fon. And we got Sam on. I ask you, its enough to remember all these terms, without throwing passwords in as well. Malachi was soon esconced on the sofa with a game he had downloaded. With a little help from his Dad he played games of varying degrees of difficulty.

Jackie produce a delicious beef stew and bread and butter pudding. Malachi drank milk. Sam and I enjoyed Selexione Sangiovese Shiraz 2011, a rather nice Sicilian wine. Malachi had to be persuaded to eat enough of his dinner before he was allowed to get back to his games. After his bath I struggled to maintain his interest in my rendering of Winnie the Pooh. My own son seemed more intrigued.

Bursitis

Just after dawn I set off walking to Lyndhurst to visit the GP Surgery. I took the A337 route which is half a mile less than the Emery Down one, as I wanted to be sure of being in good time. Consequently I was twenty minutes early, and could easily have chosen the pretty route. The purpose of my visit was to discuss removal of a seborrhoeic wart which has adorned the side of my face, hidden in sideburns until recently, for about fifteen years. The time has come, I decided, for us to part. My new GP, Dr. Alison Cleland, agreed, and an appointment is to be made for its removal.

Walking along the A337 I pondered upon GPs I have not known. It has been my good fortune not to have troubled the NHS much, and, apart from the period in 2010 when I was in need of a hip replacement, I have only made two other visits in 40 years. These were both in Newark. I do not remember the name of the second man I saw. It was he who told me the growth on my face was benign. He asked if I would like it removed and I opted to leave it. The first was Dr. Mark Hunter. My need for him followed an incident on one of London’s minor bridges.

I cannot recall which particular bridge I was crossing a bit more than twenty years ago, when, for some reason, I raised my right arm to point something out. I was walking on the right hand side of the pavement and pointing across my body. This meant my elbow was sticking out a bit. Suddenly. Smack! The elbow had been hit with a loud crack from behind. A quick inspection told me that the crack hadn’t come from inside my funny bone. I looked up to see, speeding on down the road, a van with a bent wing mirror.

I wasn’t going to let the driver get away with that, so I sped on after him. Unfortunately for him, he had picked me out during my running days, I was wearing my trainers, and he had to stop at a red traffic light. All of which was in my favour. He was a little surprised at seeing a raging Fury banging on his side window.

I told him what he had done. He was crestfallen, and possibly rather scared. He said he didn’t know he’d done it. When I pointed to his wing mirror he had to accept that he may have hit something. By this time I was feeling sorry for the startled gent; my elbow wasn’t hurting; and I couldn’t be bothered any more. I’d used up all my adrenalin in the chase. I also reflected that I may not have been entirely blameless. Maybe my elbow had been stuck into his wing mirror, rather than the other way round. So I let him off, just this once.

That night I became aware of another bodily growth, rather more alarming than the one on my face. A soft-centred tennis ball had appeared on my elbow. The next day I visited Mark Hunter who sucked out the unnecessary fliud. With an instrument, I hasten to add. Apparently I had bursitis. All this was quite painless.

My visit to Dr. Cleland today wasn’t quite painless. She suggested that she took my blood pressure whilst I was there. ‘Fine’, I said. She then asked me if I’d ever had a ‘flu’ jab. I hadn’t, and wasn’t about to. She persuaded me otherwise. I had my first ‘flu’ jab after my blood pressure was tested. All this was very good-humoured. As she began to take the reading she said that maybe she shouldn’t have mentioned the innoculation before taking the blood pressure. She needn’t have worried. It was ‘nice and low’. The needle stung a teeny bit. I hadn’t been afraid of the needle. I just didn’t want stuff which might make me feel under par for a day or two to be stuck into me. Well, it has been.

I decided to walk back via Emery Down. Unbeknown to me Jackie had decided to come and fetch me. She rang me from Lyndhurst as I was walking through the village. By the time she reached me I had passed through Emery Down. After I got into the car we decided to go to Ashurst and check out the London trains, as this is rather nearer than Southampton Parkway. The station was, unsurprisingly, unpersoned, but we gleaned the necessary information. We decided on a drive through the forest. Via Brockenhurst and Lymington we arrived at Millford-on-Sea where we brunched at The Needles Eye Cafe from which we had a misty view of the Isle of Wight. (Florence, please note the absence of the apostrophe in Needles is no doubt deliberate, innit?). Watching the slender rays of sun sliding through the cloud cover and painting a silver line on the sea was fascinating. Strangely enough, the more the sun appeared, the more the view of the famous outcrops at the end of the island was obscured.

This evening Jackie produced ham and pea soup, followed by cheese and mushroom omelette, and very tasty they were too. Strawberry jelly and evaporated milk was for afters.

Feng Shui?

An exchange with Lorna Barnett about a restaurant in Bali took me back to my Bayswater days. I lived in Leinster Mews for six months in 2007. Almost opposite, in Leinster Terrace, were two Greek restaurants about 100 yards apart at either end of a parade of shops. One was always so full that, even alone, it was necessary to book to gain entrance. Needless to say it was an excellent establishment where Alice, aged about seven, once had fun with the waitress. They had struck up a banter throughout our meal. When it came to the complimentary Delight, Alice said: ‘Ooh. Turkish Delight.’ ‘No’, said the young lady, ‘it’s Greek Delight.’ Laughter all round. Although Alice was somewhat confused she knew it was a joke. The other restaurant was always empty.

Two years later, when running down this street, I noticed that the unpopular venue was up for sale. This morning, on Googling Leinster Terrace to check the location, I stumbled across ‘The tale of 2 Greek Restaurants’, a 13.11.09 posting on his blog by Dr. Michael Oon. Dr. Oon mentions that the empty eating place had finally closed its doors. He put the relative success of these two establishments down to Feng Shui. The Halapi, because of its location enjoys floods of energy from two different sources, whereas the now defunct Zorba had this mystical force rushing downhill away from it. I never tried Zorba, but I enjoyed several excellent meals and delightful service at The Halapi. I suspect there is more to it than the relative fortune of the location of footprints. Possibly the cooking and waiting?

This afternoon Jackie drove us to Ringwood for her to have a shop and me to have a wander. From High Street I walked down West Street where it was market day. From the comments of the stallholders, some of whom were packing up early, they weren’t having a very lucrative January. I ventured into Jubilee Gardens which had become a fishing lake. This informed me that the Avon was still in spate. Opposite this public park there are a number of angling suppliers and a path leading to the static caravan site I have seen surrounded by water from the other side of the flooded fields. Their gardens were waterlogged and access to the riverside was impossible.

I walked back to the Castleman Trailway by the usual route and along it in alternate directions, first right, then left and back to the carpark via The Bickerley. The paddling ponies I had seen on 23rd December 2012 had clearly been rescued, for they were nowhere in sight and there was no difference to the levels of the fast-flowing water on either side of the trail. On the bridge over the swollen river Avon I met a beautiful catwalk model in canine form. This was Ozzie, a young Saluki accompanied by his equally elegant owner. Despite his gangly friskiness on display for my benefit, I was informed that he was a ‘real couch potato’ indoors. Even after our engaging conversation, the dog’s conscientious companion remembered she had to ‘pick up his poo.’ She carried a plastic bag for the purpose.

Oven-cooked fish and chips sustained us for the evening.

History Group

The early morning light, as I began walking the London Minstead/Shave Wood loop, gave Hungerford Cottage, in its setting, an idyllic appearance. On Seamans Lane I was approached by a woman, against the light, leading two ponies of clearly dissimilar varieties. I believe I had seen part of this group on 8th December. The difference was that this time the larger horse was a foal, and the Shetland pony had, that time, borne a little girl.

Further along, attached to a hedge, I spotted yet another pair of gloves (see post of 3rd January). These, I left in situ. The sky soon clouded over, as if someone had replaced a clear electric light bulb with a pearl one.

After I spent an afternoon clue writing Jackie produced a delicious meal of slow roasted pork belly which we ate in time for her to drive me down to Minstead Hall for my introduction to the Minstead History Group, following which she came and collected me. This was an unstructured and somewhat loose meeting to which we had been asked to bring, in one e-mail an object of local history interest, and in another a favourite object of our own, and talk about it. I was rash enough to bring both and to compound this by asking for clarification as to which had been required. Like the army ‘volunteer’ who gets to clean the latrines, I was asked to start. Having brought the portrait of Jackie, the subject of my post of 15th July 2012; and a photograph of the alleged Grinling Gibbons mantelpiece described on 9th December, I decided to start with the mantelpiece. No-one could verify the claim of Jeanie that this was the work of Gibbons, although all were intrigued with the problem and enjoyed the story of my knocking on doors in an attempt to discover the origin of Seamans. Neither did anyone know the history of that name, even those who had lived there for many years. In fact I got applause for my presentation, but the fact that I had also brought a personal favourite was forgotten. I judged it impolitic to remind people. Only three others had brought beloved objects which were all fascinating, although not of local historic interest. Those were well received and Jill and Steve discovered, through bringing mementos of their antecedents that they both had origins in Hinton Martell in Dorset.

A number of those present had lived in or around Minstead all their lives. Others, like me and Jill, had settled there from other parts of England. The fact that Jill didn’t grow up here made the link with Steve all the more remarkable. Tom Penny, a ninety three year old retired farmer was there with his daughter Jane. After the presentations, Tom very soon became the focus of attention. He is lucid, intelligent, and with a lifetime’s knowledge of the village and its denizens. People were particularly intrigued at his description of the second wife of the squire of the 1940s. He used to deliver milk to the grand house and would be summoned to her presence. In his opinion she can only have washed about once a week, for fear of removing the paint that was so caked on her face as to obliterate all wrinkles. Oz, who is a leading member is keen that someone should write down Tom’s words, although he is aware of the difficulty of this task.

A Shrine And A Memorial

This morning we continued taking down our Christmas decorations. For our fresh holly and ivy Jackie had raided the forest. Well, we could have driven into town and bought some, but there didn’t seem much point with it all around us. I thought it only right that the now crisp and crackling foliage should be returned to whence it came. There was not much point in bagging it up for the binmen when it would rot down as nature intended. I didn’t then know what my lady had discovered when Googling to verify whether Twelfth Night was 5th or 6th of January. This was that long ago people believed that tree spirits lived in the greenery that they brought into their houses to provide a safe haven for them during the harsh midwinter days. Failure to release them once this period was over meant spring would not return, leading to an agricultural disaster; furthermore, if left indoors the spirits would cause mischief until released. I had therefore, albeit unwittingly, been ensuring that our crops would grow again, and that our flat would not be filled with troublemakers.

Having released our sprites we drove on to Landford to buy some Foxi. Foxi is a material which we are assured will, when inserted between our rugs and the fitted carpet underneath them, stop the mats from getting rucked up or going walkabout. We have yet to test it. On our return we visited the parish church of St. Margaret of Antioch at East Wellow. We didn’t think it wise to enter the church at the same time as a very noisy group, one of whom whistled in the aisles, so we looked around the churchyard first. There was a very well trodden path to a family memorial which bore, among others, a simple inscription: ‘F.N. born May 12th 1820 died August 13th 1910’, as dictated by the will of Florence Nightingale. I have to confess to being rather more fascinated by a large pile of huge, recently cut, logs of a pumpkin hue, which were all that was left of a sizeable hollow tree nearby. No doubt this giant had lived during the lifetime of Florence, the famous Lady with the Lamp. Wither had its spirits fled on the felling of their home?

As we entered the church itself, with only the briefest overlap with our rowdy companions, Jackie was particularly intrigued by the 15th century, pitted, main door with herringbone patterned iron banding. She recognised, accurately, that the numerous holes had not been made by insects, but by nails. Her speculation that the nails had held notices, was not quite right. On the nails in the 17th and 18th centuries hung rats and other vermin ‘until paid for by the Churchwardens’. ‘Pay up or be stunk out’ would seem to have been the message of the early Pest Control Officers.

One is immediately aware of very old wall paintings decorating this place of worship. Much of this work, discovered, hidden under layers of whitewash, by the Rev. R.H. Fair in 1891, is thought to date from the mid-thirteenth century. On the north wall, opposite the porch, is a large figure representing St. Christopher, carrying the infant Christ with an eel spear in his right hand. Eels, which still live in local waters, surround his feet.

I first photographed a twelfth century wall-painting in St. Botolph’s at Hardham in Sussex in the early 1960s. Maybe that is why these interested me. I do wonder just how many of these treasures quietly exist in our ancient churches. And would St Margaret of Antioch’s be so well known without the Nightingale connection? Indeed, the memorabilia inside the building, including a windowsill containing a cross made from battlefield debris and various photographs, can only be described as a shrine to the nursing legend who wished to be buried with such an unobtrusive inscription.

Given our proximity to Romsey we went there for a shop and lunched in the Fresh Cafe which is to be recommended for breakfasts and an excellent array of well-filled baguettes and large slices of home made cakes. The coffee was first class.

On our return journey we passed a tree on the A3090 which had a yellow ribbon wrapped around it and a large ‘J’ affixed above that. Thinking it related in some way to the song ‘Tie A Yellow Ribbon Round The Ole Oak Tree’. we stopped to investigate further. The oak bears a plaque just above the ribbon’s bow. The legend informs the reader that this is the official memorial site of Jason Bates. Jason was a young man killed in a car crash on 22nd February 2011.

This evening we finished various spicy leftovers followed by apple crumble. I finished the Roc des Chevaliers and Jackie drank Hoegaarden.

London Smog

Mist beset the forest today as I walked the ford loop.

On the gravelled area outside a bungalow in Minstead a car was parked and the boot opened. A small black and white spaniel, tail flat on the ground into which she was trying to vanish as she looked backwards – for all the world like Fred Basset having swiped the sausages – scuttled out of the gloom. She was closely followed by a shriek of panic, as a tall thin figure, arms and fingers outstretched, rushed around the car, urgently crossed the road, gesticulating wildly, and tried to grasp the dog’s collar. This, I thought momentarily, must be Worzell Gummidge.

Fred Basset is an eponymous cartoon character, created by Alex Graham, which first appeared in the Daily Mail in 1963 and has since been syndicated around the world. Fred’s emotions are portrayed in both facial and bodily expressions. Worzel Gummidge is a walking, talking, scarecrow popularised in television series of the 1980s and 2021, based on the books by Barbara Euphan Todd. For some reason Becky thinks that, after having been subjected to Jessica’s face-painting a couple of years ago, I looked like Jon Pertwee in the role.

‘She’s in season’, cried the scarecrow. ‘Oh, I see’, said I, as Worzell’s fingers tried to grasp the wriggling spaniel’s scruff. With one last grab the dog was collared. ‘I’m looking after her for someone’, the foster parent continued. ‘So, I’d hate to lose her’. I silently reflected that I hadn’t imagined that was the worst that could have befallen the bitch.

I imagine the dirty-grey sheep were on their hillside as I passed, but the only sign of them I saw was shreds of fleece clinging to thorns and barbed wire. Their static tumbleweed bodies would have been shrouded in the mist.

Near visibility for pedestrians was, today, unproblematic. Quite different from London in the 1950s, the worst decade of smog. This is a term coined by compacting elided versions of ‘smoke’ and ‘fog’. One nickname for London is ‘The Smoke. The capital in those days was frequently visited by fog exacerbated by smoke from the burning of coal. It had been a problem in industrial towns since the previous century. The return home from school in December 1952 was expected to be in the dark. Normally, when we got off the trolleybus (see post of 17th May) at Arterberry Road, even at night time, we could see the pillarbox at the corner of Stanton Road in which we lived, and the street lamps rendered the crossing as bright as daylight. Not so, soon after 4 p.m., when the great smog hit ‘The Great Wen’, another name for London. Imagine a gas lamp in a Victorian alleyway, glowing a dull, weak, egg-yolk hue, its halo vanishing into the darkness, and offering no practical illumination. This is what the street lamps of Wimbledon, and the headlights of passing cars looked like for a week of winter evenings. They had no impact on the pea souper that penetrated our lungs and our living rooms. Alighting from our bus, Dad having come to meet us, we felt our way along fences to the corner of Arterberry, peered into the depths of Worple Road, and hoped the lack of feeble car lights would persist until we tripped over the kerb and into Stanton Road on the other side. We then had to progress down to the dog-leg around which, over the road, lay our home. Readers will know from my post of 16th October that there were very few cars on these roads at that time. Those that did emerge, crawled along, their drivers blinking into the gloom. I really don’t know how the bus drivers managed.

I do not exaggerate these conditions. I see the all-enveloping obscurity blanket still. In 1956 the Clean Air Act, which introduced smokeless zones, came into effect. It was a direct result of the virtual blackout of December 1952.

This evening, accompanying my Roc des Chevaliers 2010 Bordeaux Superieur and Jackie’s common or garden Hoegaarden, we dined on her Spaghetti Con Carne Arrabbiata With Mushrooms. We do not believe the TV chefs are onto this yet, so, for those of you who wish to impress your friends with your culinary expertise, I have permission to reveal the secrets of this marvellous meal. As a basis you take left-over chilli con carne from the freezer. This should originally have been produced from a Coleman’s mix with the necessary additions of supplementary chillis, onions, cumin and coriander. Cook this up with Sainsbury’s extra lean minced beef and a further two chopped chillis; two very large onions; two cloves of garlic; sun-dried tomatoes; and mushrooms, in beef stock. Lay it all on a bed of Waitrose, or, in truth, anyone else’s, spaghetti, and I guarantee you will be the talk of the neighbourhood, especially if it is followed by Aldi’s Christmas pudding.

An Old Dog Unravelling

In discussing the taking down of our Christmas decorations, Jackie asked me to photograph the mantelpiece. This is because she wanted a record to guide her when festooning it next year.

This afternoon we drove Flo back home to Mitcham. We will miss her and Kalu. As a passenger, ever since my teens I have been allocated the front seat in a car. This is because I usually have the longest legs. When Chris, or one of my sons, is in the vehicle, my pre-eminence is less apparent. Nevertheless I retain priority on the grounds of age. Flo, unfortunately has an irrefutable superior claim by reason of car-sickness. So I had to rough it in the back. Once I am in it is not too bad, provided Flo has her seat so far forward that Kalu is sandwiched between her knees and her chin. Getting in and out is a different matter. First I have to be folded up like an articulated puppet with less than flexible ligaments. Then I must find the seat belt and its socket, ensuring I don’t get tied up with that of any companion I might have alongside me. Disembarking requires unravelling of both belt and limbs. Shins have to be firmly grasped and heaved backwards as far as possible in order to manipulate feet through the slender space provided by the open door. This is particularly tricky when parked in an allocated spot when the next car has crossed the white line. It is then very difficult to place feet on the ground with enough leverage to prise the rest of the body out; or to haul myself out one-handed when the other is employed ensuring that the door is not allowed to open wide enough to scratch the intrusive neighbour. I had not realised how much narrower the doorway is at the back than the front. Neither had I realised how restricted vision is from the rear of the car, the windscreen view being obscured by the backs of people’s heads. Never mind Flo, you are worth it, especially as you assure me that this slightly eases your discomfort.

Especially if I have fallen asleep in my cramped confinement my knees have remained fixed in an acutely flexed angle. Once I have swivelled the legs, one at a time, out of the car, the business of straightening them begins. This is when I am reminded of Paddy, our dog, a collie/labrador cross, in her later, arthritic, years, extricating herself painfully from her circular basket bed. In settling herself to sleep Paddy would walk round in circles preparing a nest, curl up when satisfied, and slumber. Watching her awake and unravel herself, awkwardly, stiffly, stretching her quivering limbs, was heart-rending. She was as fluid as Muffin the Mule.

Arriving in Morden rather late in the day we phoned Becky and Ian and arranged to meet and eat in the Ravensbury on Mitcham common, in order marginally to reduce the amount of driving Jackie had to do. This we did. A variety of good pub meals was eaten. Doom Bar, Diet Coke, Peroni, and water were drunk. Afterwards, as in a good gangster movie, we transferred Flo’s boxes and bags from Jackie’s to Becky’s car in the dim available lighting.

On our journey back to Minstead we had a look at the Christmas decorations adorning houses in Lower Morden Lane, mentioned on 11th December.

Adam And Eve

Florence set off first this morning. She joined Berry, who drove her up to the field alongside the road to Fleetwater where her ponies are kept. Flo helped prepare the two animals for their trip, and I joined them in time for the off. I had to step it out to get there on time. Poppy, the only one of the ponies accustomed to being ridden, was Flo’s steed, whilst Berry walked Libby. Libby has yet to be ‘backed’, or ridden for the first time. I walked and chatted with Berry.

Berry clearly knows the personalities of her ponies. Libby is described as ‘naughty’. She certainly didn’t like having a bit in her mouth, and did her best to dislodge her trappings. Before we set off Berry concentrated hard on ensuring that Flo was comfortable as she was responsible for her safety. In order to free her to adjust Flo’s stirrups and girth Berry asked me to hold Libby’s lead, a rope attached to the head collar. She also handed me a whip. I was a little perturbed when she said ‘try not to let her bite you’. I wondered quite how one did that, as this large hairy heavy hunk of horseflesh stomped round and round in circles tugging at the lead rope and bouncing her buttocks against me. Later on, Berry told me this pony didn’t kick, but I didn’t know that then. Nevertheless I did use my shoulder to push her back, and decided I’d better stand firm, otherwise she and I would probably get quite dizzy, and I didn’t want her falling on me. When she diverted her attention from biting her bit, to focus on clamping her choppers on me and the lead rope, I poked her neck and nose with the soft end of the whip. This seemed to do the trick, until she suddenly became very agitated, and tore great strips out of the turf with her forehooves, tossing her head up and down as I clung to the rope. Two terriers emerging from a car which had just driven up provided an explanation for this. One, until called off by its owner, was daft enough to come snapping at the pony’s fetlocks.

It seemed to take quite a long time to make the necessary adjustments to Poppy’s paraphernalia. I doubt that it was really. Soon we were off, passing the Acres Down shop and taking a long loop through the forest, arriving back at the field after a couple of hours. Throughout the journey Flo led on Poppy, occasionally pausing to let us catch up. Libby became agitated when Poppy was out of sight.

Having worked for forty years as a cartographer for the Forestry Commission, and still engaged in mapping veteran trees, Berry is a mine of information about her environment. We met a forest Keeper well known to Berry. We had a long, very friendly, talk. He is responsible for something like 7,000 acres, including inclosures. Berry pointed out Puck Pits inclosure as we passed it, and explained that these were areas of the forest historically legally fenced off so as to be exempt from grazing. In recent years the fences are gradually being removed. Sometimes, when replanting has occured, fences are retained until the saplings are strong enough to be safe from the attention of deer. On the road soon after this we were treated to what is the very rare sighting of a young cream coloured buck. As we approached him he trotted off into the forest and for some time continued to be visible through the trees.

The veteran trees which Berry is mapping are often three to five hundred years old. Two of these which she pointed out near the ford have borne local names for many many years. They are Adam and Eve.

This evening I finished the Carta Roja with our meal of steak, chips and beans.

Bonjour

Despite the date, the weather, as I set out for a walk in the early afternoon, was almost sultry. Already feeling sticky under my open jacket, as I walked through Minstead on the Shave Wood loop route, I thought the domesticated horses in the fields looked decidedly over-dressed. As I approached Football Green, a young man sped past me on a noisy moped. The staccato roar of his vehicle was similar to those I sometimes hear tearing down rue St. Jacques in Sigoules. Unless the law has changed you can ride a moped at fourteen in France. There is a little square further down the road from numero 6 where there seem often to be a number of teenagers. They enjoy speeding up and down the steep gradients of the road.

It was the reputation of these young motorcyclists that deterred Nicole from moving to Sigoules from Bergerac. I met this woman who lived in Bergerac, one cold and wet Easter Sunday as we were both traversing the pedestrian crossing by the village square. The custom locally is to greet anyone you meet in a friendly manner. As Nicole passed me I uttered ‘bonjour’. This, for some reason, sent her little white poodle incandescent. It barked repeatedly and snapped at my heels. I must have been a little perturbed because I used English for the first three words of my next sentence. Addressed to the dog, this was: ‘I only said bonjour’. This made Nicole very happy. She jumped at the chance to practice her English. We had a long chat, the rain dripping off her waterproof hat, and off my equally waterproof scalp.

Bergerac, which I had previously only known as John Nettles’ early television detective character, has become familiar to me as the town 16km from Sigoules. Olivia, the young Frenchwoman who bought the upper floors of the house in which I lived in W2, had an English boyfriend who, by coincidence, grew up in Bergerac.

As I continued into the forest this afternoon, I carried on Wombling (see yesterday’s post). Straightening up after picking up a couple of cans, my head almost collided with that of a pony which had crept up behind me, no doubt intrigued by my strange activity. This made me jump a bit. As I gingerly gathered up the second of a scattered pair of thin rubber medical examination gloves I thought that Becky’s 2011 Norbury Wombler who wore the protective variety was probably quite sensible. I was decidedly less squeamish about the more substantial single gardening glove that lay further along the verge. So now you know, Beck, what to get me for my birthday. I could try a grabber, like those the volunteers use in Morden Hall Park, but I would then be deprived of the pleasure of repeatedly bending without having to think of what else I could do whilst down there.

Before setting off in earnest today, I had delivered photographs of their horses to Berry and to Audrey Saunders. Berry was delighted with hers. Audrey didn’t seem to be in. Her front door was unlocked, so, rather than risk disturbing the other elderly resident again, I opened the door and left the pictures where I had placed the first set. By invitation, when I returned home, I took Flo round to Berry’s to plan a horse ride for the morning. Berry was amused at Flo’s fear for the poor 14.1 hands Poppy having to carry her, who normally needs a 16 hands horse. ‘She’s a New Forest Pony’, was the answer.

Flo was also aware that she may look rather like her Uncle Mat on Alda’s Shetland pony Max. I imagine Mat looked rather like a Victorian child on a hobby horse.

This evening we ate Jackie’s cottage pie variant. ‘In deference to Flo’, this had crusty roast potatoes instead of soft mash topping. Nice. Revamped bread and butter pudding was to follow. The revamping was required because someone stripped the crusty bits off yesterday’s leftovers during the night. Since the back door was locked, it can’t have been the deer. I drank Carta Rosa gran reserva 2005, and Kalu snored and muttered in his sleep on the carpet.

Wombling Free

Grey clouds were back today, releasing only slight drizzle. As I walked down Running Hill at midday I was confronted, at a safe distance, by a deer planted in the middle of the road. When she decided I was close enough, she trotted off into the forest. Three others filed after her. This set off baying of hounds in the garden of Hungerford Cottage.

I took the first ford route, walking up through the bridleway to the Emery Down road and back via the Study Centre ford. Having been inspired by the man I met at the bottle bank on 30th December, I took my first steps towards clearing the forest of litter on this trip. I doubt I will be around long enough to finish the task.

I couldn’t conduct this exercise in environmental service without thinking of The Wombles. Like me, these pointed nosed furry creatures frequented Wimbledon Common in the 1960s and ’70s. I would walk up there from my homes in Wimbledon and Raynes Park. The Wombles lived in burrows on the common, and spent their time collecting and creatively recycling rubbish left around their environs. They were the brainchildren of Elisabeth Burrows whose set of books featuring them began in 1968. Their popularity spread through the introduction of the television series which soon followed, and eventually the 1977 film adaptation, ‘Wombling Free’. Mike Batt’s band ‘The Wombles’, climbed on the bandwagon, and enjoyed a number of hit records. In case anyone is wondering, visitors to 4 Castle Malwood Lodge will not be expected to admire inventive uses of drink cans and fag packets. My collection is going straight into black bags.

Following Bill’s recommendation, we ate this evening at Masala restaurant in Ringwood. This tiny, unprepossessing, windowless box tucked into the corner of a precinct near the car park, provided excellent meals with most friendly service. I counted 19 covers which makes it even smaller than Edgware Road’s Akash. It was a good recommendation. They do not serve alcohol there, although you are welcome to bring your own. We didn’t do so. Jackie drank Diet Coke, Flo J2O, and I sparkling water. Perhaps because it was ‘banquet night’ the establishment was full. Other diners had brought their own alcohol and were consequently rather noisy. Kalu played quietly on the table until the food arrived, when he snuggled up with Flo and went to sleep. This meant our granddaughter had to eat one-handed, but she managed it well enough.

I presume the lack of alcohol is a matter of religious belief. We are quite happy for that to be the case. I don’t remember the name of the very good restaurant for which we used to drive to Southwell from Newark in the early 1990s. It was worth the journey, even though Newark had its own Indian eating place. Here there was a very different approach to intoxicating drink. After the uncle took over.

When Jessica and I first travelled to the restaurant in question, they served the usual range of drinks. It was a shock to all when the comparatively young proprietor was knocked down by a car and killed. His two young sons were determined to continue their father’s business. One evening soon afterwards we visited for a meal. The restaurant, much larger than today’s Masala, was, apart from us, empty. A middle aged man we had not seen before introduced himself as he came to serve us. He was the brother of the dead man and had come to take over the management of the business to support his nephews. We soon had reason to wonder what they thought about this. He tried to persuade us not to take lager. The restaurant did stock it, but it was against his religion to drink it. It would do us no good. It was wrong to imbibe. We should have orange juice with our curry. He did actually provide the lager but continued to try to make us feel guilty about it. We ate and drank up, disappeared, and never went back.