February 2013 – derrickjknight

Artificial Carnations

Beginning with Jackie driving me to Southampton Parkway Station, I took my usual route to Norman’s in Harlesden. This time I walked further than Green Park Underground, crossing Piccadilly and, weaving in and out among the side streets, passing the heavily fortified American Embassy, to Oxford Street where I turned right to Bond Street tube station to pick up the journey as usual. These streets are all so familiar to me from years of running and walking around them.

On the train to Waterloo I sat with a family of three. They were very quiet, even when speaking to each other. The middle-aged mother was reading and conversing with her grizzled husband in Arabic. He sat calmly, occasionally speaking to the women, the second of whom was their young adult daughter. Both women were working on the silent screens of their mobile phones. When the wife passed her device to her husband I was intrigued to see that the script was Arabic. I was silently reading ‘Wordsworth A Life’. Soon after Peter arrived with his trolley this all changed. The man offered to buy me something from the trolley. I politely declined. He gently insisted. I explained I was going to have a Norman lunch. Then he understood.

As the gentleman and his wife carefully tidied up their snack debris, I complimented them. There then ensued a most amicable conversation. I closed my book. The father is a teacher of Education at Kuwait University. Their home is in Kuwait. The daughter is studying at Bournemouth University. I forget what her current subject is, but she is considering changing to cultural studies. She did a little bit of interpretation, but not much was required. We spoke about language and about English mosques. When I mentioned that we use Arabic numbers, they agreed, and added that they don’t use them themselves. They use Indian numbers. I didn’t know that. Before parting Saleh Al – Rashid (Ph.D) presented me with his card; we exchanged e-mail addresses; and he took details of ‘Cryptic Crosswords and How to Solve Them’. Mr. Al – Rashid had not been reading because he had forgotten his book. I commiserated. It is not much fun being without a book on a train journey. The young Englishman next to me reading his Kindle on the return journey may not agree.

A bridge over the road links Waterloo Station with the South Bank area. The London Eye stands on the Embankment. Today strings of schoolchildren excitedly awaited their turns on the famous fairground ride. From there onwards tourists abound. Cameras are everywhere, their owners either photographing the various symbols of London or their friends in front of them. The Houses of Parliament and the London Eye are popular backdrops for portraits. The subject emerging from a red telephone box is a favourite scene. Since the posers all have mobile phones I doubt that they actually make calls from their props.

On Westminster Bridge the artificial carnation thrusters were in operation. These women prey on unsuspecting visitors by fastening the buttonholes to their victims’ breasts and then asking for payment. Seeing me with a camera in my hand they suspected I would be easy pickings. I’m not. I was caught once years ago, and returned the flower saying I didn’t want it if I had to pay for it when I hadn’t asked for it. That was at Piccadilly Circus and earned me a certain amount of shocked abuse. Today’s brandishers clearly hadn’t learned from our encounter a fortnight ago. Neither then nor today would I allow the pin anywhere near me.

Oysters were being laid out for the window display in Piccadilly’s Caviar shop.

Norman’s first course was literally fall-off-the-bone lamb shank, followed by crisp apple pie and custard accompanied by an excellent 2007 reserva rioja.

Then it was back to the underground for a trip to Carol’s, a short walk from Victoria Station. For the forty years I have known it, Victoria Street has been the site of building or road works. Major refurbishments to the underground station have been going on for at least five. Lengthy barriers on the other side of the street have been caged off. I was therefore amused to read a sign prohibiting crossing at that point. One would have needed the stride of a Gargantua to have done so.

The very handy 507 bus virtually outside Carol’s home took me right into Waterloo station where I continued my journey as usual. Jackie was waiting at Southampton when the train drew in on time.

Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

This morning we visited Berry who lives on the other side of the house. She had invited us for coffee and an introduction to her ancient tree mapping activity. An amazing array of birds were enjoying her feeders; several different kinds of tit and a woodpecker were recognisable. I am fascinated by the tree spotting. The Woodland Trust operate a national system for pinpointing ancient or interesting trees. Anyone can send in photographs, measurements and grid references of likely subjects. A qualified verifier then examines the prospect, and, if successful, this is added to nationwide records. We were shown old and modern maps, all on line in great detail. I am excited that Berry intends to take me on her next identification session. She also put me out of my misery over Stoney Cross. I have several times, for example on 21st February, puzzled over where it was. In fact it never was a village, rather a crossroads that was stoney.

On another cold day Jackie drove us to the Redcliffe Nurseries at Bashley where she used to take tea with her mother. I set off for a walk, to meet her back there afterwards. Right along Bashley Road; left at the Rising Sun; along Holmsley Road to the A35; left alongside Beckley Common; and eventually back to Bashley and the nursery. The walk took rather longer than anticipated. The nursery had closed by the time I arrived so Jackie had to wait in a layby across the road.

A piece of land just by Bashley Road seemed to be a dumping ground for car wrecks.

On Wootton Heath, not far from The Rising Sun public house, stands a horse trough. I have mentioned one which still stands at the top of Wimbledon Hill, and there are others throughout London. Nowadays all they contain is flowers. This one, however, is clearly in regular use for which it was originally intended. Currently ponies and cattle can be seen drinking from the numerous pools which cover the forest, but there must be other times when they are most grateful for the clear water this receptacle contained.

Brownhills, near the junction of Holmsley Road and the A35, contained a string of ponies as we arrived in the car, as I walked past it later, and as we drove home. None of them can have covered more than a few yards in three hours.

As we arrived at Bashley the sun, which had not emerged for a couple of days, began to put in an appearance. The Rising Sun was an appropriate milestone. By the time I reached the ponies, shadows were lengthening.

The stretch of the A35 was long enough for me to resort to consulting the Ordnance Survey map to see how far I had to go before reaching the road to Beckley. Walking along the grass verge doing this, I was aware of a car with its left hand indicator lit, standing in a side road. As I passed in front of it the shrill blast of its horn made me jump. The elderly driver wound down his window and asked me where I wanted to get to. I told him. He looked rather concerned as it was a long way. He had seen me consulting the map, so very helpfully asked to look at it so he could put me right. He then had to fish for his specs so he could read it. This enabled him to direct me to a short cut which was the one I was aiming for anyway. This took some time. He then offered to drive me there. I explained that I was walking for pleasure. Eventually I was free to continue. What I hope this gentleman had not noticed was that, with my legs crossed, I was hopping from foot to foot. It’s quite difficult to do, but absolutely necessary when all you really want to do is be allowed to get on so you can dive into the nearest bush.

The Beckley Common stretch was really beautiful in the evening sun. The shadows mentioned earlier were now even longer. As I was contemplating mine, a familiar farmyard fowl crossed the road in front of me, thus providing a definitive answer to the proverbial conundrum. This chicken crossed the road to pick snowdrops.

Having driven us home, Jackie produced a delicious ensemble of delicate flavours consisting of smoked haddock; mashed swede and potato, and cauliflower cheese with mustard. We finished the Montpierre cabernet sauvignon and had a glass of Sancere 2011 which I liked, but Jackie didn’t. This was a shame because she would have enjoyed my glass of Montpierre more.

Episode 4 of ‘Call the Midwife’ provided our nightcap.

On A Mission

On another cold dull grey day I put off my walk until after lunch. Jackie drove me to Ashley Heath, left me there, and I walked back along the Castleman Trailway (see 10th December 2012) to meet her in the Ringwood carpark. She dropped me off in the One Stop general store. I realised how aptly named this was when, immediately behind it, I found the site of Ashley Heath obsolete railway halt. This was on the stretch which runs to Poole, so I crossed Norton Road to follow the path to Ringwood. The whole of this two and a half mile length is bordered on the right by a deep and wide trench. Much of this has been to some extent filled in over the years by fallen leaves and other greenery. It currently carries much rainwater. Where buildings back onto this ditch, many of them, especially those homes in Ashley Heath, have gates in their fences and bridges across the cleared out moat, giving their owners access to the trailway and forest beyond. Dog walkers are always in evidence. Some way along the track, where there is no sign of habitation, there are the remains of a small concrete shelter. It contains the usual modern graffiti, but has clearly been there since before spray cans or felt tip pens were invented. What is it? I wondered. Not really big enough for people waiting for trains. Maybe an emergency phone box? No wiring in evidence, but then there wouldn’t be by now. Any ideas, anyone?

As I neared Ringwood the birdsong was first joined and then gradually drowned by the shrill clamour of schoolchildren approaching. Chaperoned by three adults they came tripping, bounding, dawdling, and lagging along the trail. I asked one of the escorts if this was a field trip. No, it was just a walk. That certainly beats being cooped up in a classroom.

When he read that I was walking along the Castleman Trail to Ashley Heath, Geoff Austin told me that he had done the same thing some years ago after his parents had retired to that village. Recently he unearthed the photograph that appears at the top of this post. In the picture he is hamming up waiting for a train at the extinct railway halt. He sent me the photo and said he would be interested to know whether the sign was still in situ. Not only is it still there, but it has been cleaned and tidied up. Not just by the removal of my old friend.

Walking through the Meeting House Lane shopping centre in Ringwood I was pleased to see that the tomb of John Conway ( see post of 30th November 2012) is at last receiving the protection it deserves. Tasteful iron railings were being installed.

We dined on roast duck breasts this evening. Possibly the most succulent yet non-fatty I have ever tasted. I finished the Carta Roja.

After this we watched episode 3 of the second series of ‘Call the Midwife’.

Stonehenge Sandwiches

After an early brunch consisting of ‘roast dinner soup’ by the chef, she drove us to Salisbury. I should consider myself fortunate really. Most people who inhabit country houses need to employ a couple to provide these two services. I have a staff of one and I don’t need to pay a salary.

As usual Jackie did her thing (touring charity shops for example) and I did mine. I walked around the Harnham water meadows, eventually crossing the river Avon, turning left and left again down Harnham Road to the cathedral; round the cathedral and, after wandering in the town, back to the carpark.

On entering the water meadows area, where some ambitious landscaping was under way, I exchanged greetings with one man and his dog. Much later, on a road on the far side of the river, we again approached each other from opposite directions. This time we stopped and spoke, and he confirmed I was headed for the cathedral. ‘I thought you was one of the round-the-blockers’, he said. I understood this referred to walkers of shorter distances.

Passing from the elegant grandeur of the cathedral precincts and their surrounds, through to the poorer end of the city, I was struck by the contrasts that are experienced in all such places. (see 10th May 2012)

The river and streams were full and fast flowing. Waterfowl abounded, especially when flocking to a gentleman feeding them. One disappointed duck came flapping, late for the feast, as the elderly man folded up his empty carrier bag.

I was experiencing views of Salisbury cathedral made famous by the paintings of John Constable. On this slate grey sunless day, no way was I going to rival the artist’s masterpieces with my camera. I did my best.

Harnham Road, leading to the cathedral, is a small, interesting, street of terraced houses; thatched on the right, and tiled on the left, as I walked down it. The river runs along the back of those on the left.

The Salisbury visit was a break in our journey to Chris and Frances’ home in Wroughton, Wiltshire, for a private viewing of a photographic exhibition featuring some of my brother’s pictures. So on we went, across Salisbury plain, which is covered in tumuli. On the A303 we passed a stone’s throw from Stonehenge, now fenced off, where it was once possible for Jackie and Helen, as young girls, to clamber up onto one of the fallen sections of the monument and watch the sunset as they ate their sandwiches. Less dramatic, but far more prolific, are the stones at Avebury which we passed as we neared Wroughton.

Frances had been caring for their grandson James. His Dad, Paul, having come to collect him, stayed on to see us for a while. James is a dear little chap who is beginning to look very like his grandpa at that age. Clearly teething, he made no fuss. He weighs up visitors very carefully before committing himself.

Frances then gave us an excellent meal of beef stew and mixed fruit crumble. The crumble was unusual. Frances had made it during the brief window of opportunity created by James’s afternoon sleep. She wasn’t sure exactly what farinaceous mix she had used to create it. Or even whether it was farinaceous. No matter – it was very toothsome.

The three of us joined Chris at the exhibition and admired all the photographs. Chris has specialised in 3D prints which are most effective. There were several pairs of special glasses for viewing these. The photographer was very patient in protecting them from the sticky fingers of a small boy who had been diving into the complimentary bowls of sweets and crisps. A display of street scenes was fascinating, and a particularly interesting shot of Oliver taken at Louisa and Errol’s wedding completed his section.

We returned home directly from Swindon College.

Where Is My Poncho?

After lunch on another bitterly cold day, I walked through London Minstead to the Cadnam roundabout where Jackie picked me up and drove us to The Firs to visit Elizabeth.

I was envious of horses in their jackets. One even wore a scarf. In fact I contemplated the illicit acquisition of equine accoutrements, then thought better of it, surmising that a heavy horse’s hoof probably carried more clout than the long arm of the law. In the 1990s I must have watched ‘Doctor Zhivago’, or some other long coat epic, for I bought a made to measure Burberry with a warm lining insert. It was so long I probably looked ridiculous, especially when we didn’t have Russian snow for it to flap away, and as my regular readers will know, I didn’t wear wellies. The flapping around the ankles was likely to unbalance me, especially when going down stairs. I left it on a train. By mistake. I went back a few minutes later. It was at Kings Cross, a terminal station. In that short space of time the coat had disappeared, and never turned up at the lost property office. I hope the thief was continually tripping himself up.

After delivering me to my sister, Jackie went off for a Sainsbury’s shop. We had coffee on her return. In the interim Elizabeth and I had discussed the prospective art exhibition she will be holding in August on the theme of drums. Danni’s boyfriend Andy (not quite an anagram, but at least an onomatopaeic one), as am drums (worth a look – www.amdrums.co.uk) as well as being an excellent drummer, makes beautiful instruments. His drums will be there, as will work by a variety of artists and photographers, one of which will be me. I took a series of photographs in 1976 of Ondekoza, an absolutely stunning Japanese drumming group, then only seven years old (the group, not the members), performing at the Soho festival. I am to make some prints for the exhibition. My colour slides are still at The Firs. My scanner and printer are now at Castle Malwood Lodge. So I unearthed those 37 year old slides which are still vibrant, and will be reproduced in various sizes.

What I also found was a 1976 slide of me in my poncho. This was how I kept warm then, and could have done with it today. I have no doubt no-one who has never fancied themselves as Clint Eastwood in the Spaghetti Westerns would think I looked ridiculous, but if I knew what had happened to it I would retrieve it and wear it tramping around the freezing forest. When I got back home I tried to scan the slide and attach it to this post. On 20th of this month I explained how the computer can do my head in. Well, I have not used the professional scanner for three years. I scanned the picture very well, but I couldn’t save it in Jpg format which is what it required for the blog. So I sat and cursed the first person I had engaged to teach me how to use Photoshop. Not only was he one of those people who has to do it for you at a rate of knots, so it is impossible to take it in, but he attempted to arrange things so I could scan direct from Photoshop. The result has been I cannot scan unless I go through Photoshop. Whenever I turn the computer on I am told there is a ‘shared library error’. I have never found a way since then of saving to jpg. After a couple of hours at this, I was in a foul mood and hadn’t written a word of this current masterpiece. So I reverted to the memory stick Elizabeth had given me of the photos she had collected and reproduced to project on a screen for my ‘Surprise’ party on 1st July 2012. And I couldn’t get up any pictures. What appeared seemed to be a game. In duplicate. I really lost it then. And phoned Elizabeth. I got her voicemail. Deep breaths. Glass of wine. Start again. Exit the first game. Exit the second. Eureka. Pictures. One of which you see today. You may not think it was worth it. But if anyone recognises the garment, I would be grateful for its return.

At least in the garden of The Firs the Prunus pissardi has not been deterred by the weather, and is beginning to bloom. Jackie couldn’t resist pointing out to me that this flowering cherry had a Turdus turdus (blackbird) perched upon one of the branches. Poor Matthew. With parents like us he didn’t stand a chance to be other than an inveterate punster.

Our evening meal was an excellent roast chicken with all the trimmings followed by sticky toffee pudding and custard. I drank Carta Roja gran reserva 2005 and Jackie had Hoegaarden. Having been grateful for the glass of red wine which helped me write this, I managed to knock it over onto the pale green carpet. Fortunately I knew how to deal with this. I learned soon after we moved to Newark. I had had a very large area of dining and drawing rooms fitted with a green carpet. The very first guests to sample this extravagance were Ann and Don. Poor Ann managed to overturn a full bottle of red wine onto our glorious purchase. Jessica steamed into action. Salt was applied in bucketfuls. Bottles of liberally spilled white wine were added,. The next morning the carpet was as good as new. So was Ann. We’ll have to wait until morning to discover whether I will be equally relieved. In the meantime I am having a refill.

A Fortuitous Teaspoon

Flurries of snow occasionally accompanied me as I walked this morning to the Royal Oak at Fritham, where Jackie met me for lunch, then drove me back home via Fordingbridge, in time for the kick off of the Wales versus Italy rugby match on television.

On the other side of the A31, I eschewed the cycle track, and, taking some guidance from telegraph poles I had noticed two days ago, struck out across the heath, following pony trails. The rumpled mud across the flinty terrain was still hard, and ice still crackled underfoot, which was just as well in some spots. When water was trickling downhill it was rather marshy. Otherwise bracken and desiccated droppings provided a soft carpet. I passed some groups of ponies on the open stretch, and soon after I reached the road to Fritham a string of them decided to cross the road and held up the traffic. Having walked by the side of the road for a while, I too crossed over and took a diagonal towards Fritham.

The plateau at the top was rather breezy and snow was more consistent, although not enough to settle. Concrete strips on this flat area, seeming to go nowhere, are all that is left of a Second World War aerodrome. I was struck by how much narrower these landing areas are than those of today. Two days ago I scoured the hoofprints for a representation of the Olympic rings. Today I had forgotten about this. Suddenly I looked down and there it was. That seems always to be the way. In the 1970s I occasionally cycled to work in Harrow Road from our flat in Soho. One day one of the tyres was punctured. I didn’t have a suitable lever. Whilst I was bent over struggling to remove the tyre with my fingers, I looked down into the gutter. There was a teaspoon. In a central London street. Just the job.

I would like to be able to say that I did not take a wrong turning in the sprawling village, thus adding an unnecessary mile to my journey, which in any case ended at the top of a hill. Unfortunately I cannot. I therefore arrived half an hour late, subjecting Jackie to the embarrassment of trying to keep a table in a pub which was heaving with adults in walking gear, their children, and soggy panting dogs, many of whom had nowhere to sit.

We each ate a Ploughman’s lunch. Jackie had Peroni and I drank Ringwood’s Best. The return drive, mostly on B roads, was picturesque.

The first rugby match, in very wet conditions, was naturally a bit scrappy. Wales won. A totally different game at a dry Twickenham made for a frighteningly physical fast-paced contest. For the first three quarters of the game France were unrecognisable from the team that had lost their first two matches, but they fell away after some key players were substituted. England won by ten points.

Our evening meal was Jackie’s rich liver casserole accompanied by Montpierre reserve sauvignon blanc 2012 for her and Saint Emilion grand cru 2010 for me.

A Sad Duty

On another cold day I put off my walk until after lunch. A day or two ago we had been talking on the subject of soups. Jackie had mentioned that her favourite was watercress. She made one today and it was very tasty.

As I left the flat, the first flurry of snow greeted me. It didn’t amount to much. I walked under the A31 again, this time by the Malwood Farm underpass.My intention was to then walk across the forest to the Stoney Cross underpass. I knew there was no footpath in the direction in which I wanted to go. Today I found out why. Eventually it was clear I was wire fenced in on all sides except the narrow space by a cattle grid that I had slithered through. So, back I tracked, coming out on to the other side of the A31. I walked along there for a while, until a crash barrier petered out, and I decided that to fight my way through the undergrowth was preferable to withstanding the drag of passing lorries. It turned out not to be. Clambering over fallen trees and battling through holly and rhododendron bushes, I persevered until a branch poked me in the eye. I then battled back to the roadside, to walk the comparatively short distance to the Rufus Stone road, and from there across the heath to yesterday’s cycle track, under the second underpass, and back home via Furzey Gardens.

I have mentioned before that people in the forest are expected to inform various authorites of sightings of sick or injured animals. Jackie read recently that an average of two ponies are killed on the roads in this large national park each week; usually by hit and run drivers at night. It is actually an offence not to report collisions with the livestock. On that final stretch of the A31 roadside lay a dead deer with a car number plate not far off. I normally carry the card with the emergency numbers on it, but I didn’t have it today. I rang Jackie and asked her to text me the phone number I required. She did so. It is the Forestry Commision who wish to be informed about dead deer. They were grateful for the call I made. I was informed that this was a ‘hot spot’ for deer emerging at that point. Even in death, this beautiful creature looked so elegant that I trust my readers will understand my publishing the photograph.

I followed muddy pony tracks over the heath. The rest of the walk was uneventful, possibly because I was thinking of the poor doe.

Jackie produced a leftovers fusion meal for dinner tonight; lamb jalfrezi, chicken in chilli and black bean sauce; with the addition of fresh samosa, spring rolls, and savoury rice. Delicious.

We watched a repeated episode of ‘New Tricks’.

The A31/M27

We found the password for BT Yahoo, so I was able to get direct access to the Internet on my Apple. This didn’t last. I kept being informed that the password was incorrect. It was perfectly adequate the first time.

So I went for a walk. Down to the village hall; right past Furzey Gardens; up to the remnants of Stoney Cross; under the A31; straight across heathland to a road junction; right to Fritham where Jackie met me.

The temperature had plummeted and a bitterly cold East wind was getting up. I really had to keep up a brisk pace and was regretting not having worn a topcoat when I stopped to talk to a sheep farmer. We stood for a while, each trying to rub life into our hands. Interestingly, he, too would warm up after half an hour. Unfortunately neither of us had yet done the required amount of exercise. After passing Furzey Gardens this road becomes very rough, full of holes, and usually muddy. This morning, like the criss-crossing trails of various hoofed animals on the other side of the A31, the mud was frozen and therefore much easier to negotiate. Iced over pools crackled underfoot.

The path across the heath was a wide cycle track broadened by the cropping of ponies whose aforementioned hoof prints made numerous patterns involving overlapping rings. I tried in vain to find a perfect Olympic symbol. There were plenty of droppings interspersed with the prints, but it was not until the track turned right on meeting its junction with the road to Fritham, that I actually met any animals. First I encountered Eyore, Winnie the Pooh’s assinine friend, who tore himself away from his gorse to stare at me gloomily, and was not prepared to budge from his advantageous position. This was quite unlike the pair of magpies that flew from their lofty perch at my approach. The terrain was cropped smooth and other donkeys and ponies were feasting on the prickly yellow-flowering shrubs. The wind up here, with no trees to take the edge off it, was fierce.

Lining either side of the road at Fritham were a number of the smallest ponies I have yet seen. One looked like a cuddly toy having curled itself into a ball, bounced out of its small owner’s bed, and rolled out into the open for a taste of freedom.

‘Where shall I meet you?’, Jackie had asked. ‘It’ll only be a small place’, I’d replied. ‘We’ll find each other. I’ll stand in the middle of the road if I have to.’ As I did, in fact, stand in the middle of the road at a junction into Fritham, bitterly (as in freezingly) regretting this statement, I began to wish I could have been more specific. What I hadn’t realised was that this was a much larger village than the few buildings nestled around me. Jackie had quite sensibly gone to the Royal Oak first. But, being quite accustomed to being a search party of one, she tracked me down, thawed me out, and drove me back to the pub where she enjoyed Peroni and I did Ringwood Best until time for lunch which was ham and barley broth, and mixed gammon and cheese ploughman’s respectively. This hostelry probably well deserved the Good Beer Guide’s award for Hampshire’s country pub of the year. Apart from the excellent ales and food there are some really good local oil paintings on the walls. There is far more seating outside than in, but today all the customers were inside as near as they could get to the log fires.

After lunch we travelled by car to Ringwood for shopping, then on to Helen and Bill’s for a brief celebratory visit on Helen’s birthday. Incredibly, we were unable to find strip lighting in Ringwood and had to go to Hedge End Home Base, in quite the opposite direction, to make our purchase of these.

We are so well sited alongside the A31 just before it joins the M27 going East, that it is easy to forget that it has cut the forest down the middle. This major east/west route enables us to cover distances in short spaces of time unheard of in London. The road to Fritham bears one reminder of the damage to communities that seems to have been the price. The signpost to Fritham also bears a sign to Stoney Cross. If you follow this you just come to the A31 onto which you must turn right and travel to the Cadnam roundabout before you can come all the way back to a few buildings which you could easily miss. There are signs in Minstead bearing the same legend. What I have, in my second paragraph, called the ‘remnants of Stoney Cross’ are a few houses, a garage, and a Little Chef, which is all I have been able to find. Maybe other properties were demolished to make way for the road. Cadnam, although a larger place, appears to have suffered the same fate. Nevertheless, we were able to drive backwards and forwards from Ringwood to Hedge end in search of a few strip lights. So how can I object?

This evening Jackie produced an excellent meal of stir fried chicken in chilli and black bean sauce; with egg fried rice; followed by bread and butter pudding and evaporated milk; and accompanied by a shared bottle of Lamberhurst Estate Bacchus Reserve 2011.

Harry The Grape

There is nothing more certain to do my head in than to try something either new or that I haven’t done for more than a week on the computer. You will therefore be able to understand why I have been putting off moving my Apple computer to Minstead from the Firs. Well, to be more accurate, setting it up at Minstead. Elizabeth persuaded me to remove the Mac some time ago, but I have deferred the satisfaction of actually getting it to work. I had to feel very strong to tackle that. So I spent the morning at it. Getting it plugged in was straightforward enough. Turning it on worked out all right. Then came the wireless mouse and keyboard. No idea. The box on screen said they weren’t discoverable. Perhaps the batteries needed changing. They did. That did the trick. Now for the internet. Couldn’t get on. We have a home hub, but can’t remember the password or how to set it up. Ah, but I can remember Elizabeth’s. Tried that. That got me access to a BT hotspot. Which will have to do for the moment.

The reason I bought the Apple in the first place was for photography. I also bought a professional negative film and slide scanner, and printer capable of producing A3+ size photographs. The ever practical Jackie has rigged up a wheeled platform housing these that can be brought from the bedroom wardrobe cupboard to the computer in the living room when I want to use them. For everyday printing I have a smaller printer/scanner that works well enough with the Windows laptop. But it wouldn’t work with the Apple. Of course not. The software disc must be loaded in. Where was it? After about half an hour I found it where it should have been and where it actually was in the first place and I didn’t find it when I looked. It was quite a long process to upload this, but I managed it. Then I printed a sample picture which had lines all over it. That meant the nozzle had to be cleaned. Simple enough on the laptop, but it took me ages to manage it on the Apple.

One last task would suffice for today. Downloading the digital photographs from my camera to Windows Vista laptop works like a dream. But could I do it on the Apple? No. That computer, bought in 2007 is too old, for goodness sake.

It was almost a relief, after lunch, to walk to Lyndhurst, ahead of Jackie to meet her there, via Emery Down, where The New Forest Inn was making good use of at least one chimney.

On the way through Minstead I stopped and chatted with a couple on a walking holiday. Thinking I recognised their accent I asked where they were from. It was Spalding in Lincolnshire, which is not all that far from Newark.

On the road down to the ford a male pheasant scurried across my path. ‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’ is a hoary old question to which there are numerous humorous answers. I don’t know why my bird crossed the road in the first place, but I think he turned and recrossed it because he had seen me get my camera out, and, proud of his plumage, wished to prance about and pose for me.

Molehills abounded in the fields and on the verges. I have never seen a live mole, but I am sure I would know one from E.H.Shepard’s marvellous illustrations to Kenneth Grahame’s children’s classic ‘The Wind In The Willows’, which was one of my favourites. So inspired was I by Mr. Toad and his friends that, in my teens in the mid-’50s, I began to make a comic book called ‘Toad in the Wild West’. That original masterpiece is long gone. But here is a rough sketch of the eponymous hero.

Perched on the hilltop as you approach Lyndhurst from Emery Down is the rather splendid Victorian church of Saint Michael and All Angels.

In its graveyard lie the ashes of Alice Hargreaves, nee Liddell, the inspiration for the reverend Charles Dodgson, otherwise known as Lewis Carroll. His ‘Alice’ books are also timeless classics.

A steep set of stone steps winding down to the town carpark is made from old gravestones, almost all the inscriptions of which are completely obliterated. One would hope that these erasures were the effect of centuries of wind and rain, rather than of recent footsteps.

Jackie’s complete lamb jalfrezi meal was reprised for our dinner. I finished the Carta Roja while she drank Orange Hefeweizen beer from Kitchen Garden Brewery in Sheffield Park, Uckfield. This is a Sussex outlet which seems to have some provenance for Jackie. Some years ago Jackie picked grapes for the friend of a friend who ran the Sheffield Park Vineyard and Nursery. He was Harry the Grape. Harry Godwin would be beyond retirement age by now. So has he or his son branched out? Or are there now two different enterprises? Answers in a comment please.

Episode 2 of ‘Call the Midwife’ followed our meal.

‘That’s Not A Yew Tree’

On the forest strip alongside our Upper Drive, as I set off to walk via Furzey Gardens road; the ford; and the footpath to All Saints church, I met the unusual sight of four foraging ponies. Their sunlit-dappled coats blended in so well with the trees that it was only the swish of a rebounding, suddenly released, holly breakfast branch that alerted me to the presence of a brown one that could have been a trunk or a shrub, or both. Because the church footpath would require the use of wellies I was suitably attired to venture into the mud and heaps of soggy leaves to wander among the animals who actively ignored me, simply getting on with their meal. Just as the ponies’ camouflaged coats reflected the strong sunshine, the steaming swirls of their breath were demonstrative of the temperature. It is amazing to me that three rain-free, sunny, days have been enough to dry their fur and enable them to shake off the mud that matted it. Some pools nevertheless still contained cracked ice.

At the top of its hill the churchyard basked in sunshine, although its carpet of spring flowers was frosted. I wandered among the memorial stones, noticing that many were now so worn as to be illegible. The more recent ones told a story. It took Sarah Woodhouse, for example, exactly twenty years, to lie again alongside the contemporary husband, James, who had accompanied her in life. Long widowhoods seems the lot of so many women.

A rosary is reflected in the brass plate attached to the wooden cross still marking the grave of Louisa Wells who died just four months ago. A sheet of paper attached to the reverse asks that the myriad of pots of flowers should not be removed as the writer will keep it tidy. A well-stocked vase on the recent grave alongside this one had toppled over. I picked it up, rearranged it for balance, and wedged it in the loose soil. I was struck by the number of vases of flowers that marked this cemetery.

As I approached the lych gate to let myself out of the churchyard, I noticed a gentleman down the lane leading up to it, photographing something directly into the sun. Rather intrigued by this I walked to his viewpoint. Silhouetted against the bright blue sky, with the sun providing a glaring corona, was a familiar skeletal arboreal creature displaying long nobbly fingers, and signs of amputation of large lower limbs. I greeted the very friendly and cheerful elderly photographer. Despite his hearing aid it was clear that he needed to lip-read me. He and his wife, who remained in the car, had spent weekends and worshipped here for many years. They had now to attend services in another church which had a Loop system for people who are hard of hearing. Without that benefit he cannot hear what is going on.

It soon became clear why he was photographing the oak tree. ‘Do you know that tree is 700 years old?’, he asked. The penny then dropped, for I too had read the descriptive brochure supplied in the porch. ‘Is this the one mentioned in the leaflet?’, I tactfully enquired. ‘Yes’, he replied, ‘the one by the lych gate.’ Pointing out that there was another tree the other side of the gate, which I thought was more likely to be the correct one, I asked what information the leaflet had provided. ‘It is a yew tree’, was the answer. ‘Well, that is a yew tree and it has fallen down and been regenerated’, said I, helpfully. ‘Do you know?, he responded, indicating the oak, ‘I thought that wasn’t a yew tree’. We both went back into the churchyard and photographed the correct tree, in context. My companion, who certainly had all his marbles even if he didn’t know his trees, was most grateful. He said I had saved him much embarrassment from family and friends, who, when shown the original picture, would have said: ‘That’s not a yew tree’.

Rounding the Trusty Servant Inn I returned home and accompanied Jackie back to the pub, where we enjoyed the monthly village lunch. My choice was fish and chips and Doom Bar ale; Jackie’s was lasagne and Peroni. Given that we are told that this sunshine will soon come to an end, we decided to make hay and took a trip across the sun-streaked forest and hazy heathland to Fordingbridge. We had a mooch around there, bought a few books, and a top for Jackie, and returned the way we had come. Lots of donkeys joined the ponies in shaving the forest floor.

For our evening meal Jackie produced an all-in-one pie of left over beef stew and mashed potato including some fresh vegetables. As long as no-one is going to imagine the meat is pony, I think this should be called verderer’s pie. It was jolly good whatever it is called. This was followed by mini Co-op syrup puddings which were perfectly acceptable. The drink distribution was the usual Hoegaarden and red wine, in this instance Carta Roja gran reserva 2005.

We finished the day by watching, on BBC i-Player, episode 1 of the second series of ‘Call the Midwife’. This is intriguing, exciting, and nostalgic entertainment.