May 2013 – Page 3 – derrickjknight

‘Follow Grandpa. He Knows The Forest’

Bench The day was changeable, but better than predicted.

This was a relief, for Louisa, Errol, Jessica, and Imogen came for the weekend.

As soon as they arrived the two girls were into their princess dresses (see post of 16th February).

Then they were off to explore the garden, which would not have been possible had we had the predicted rain.

After lunch I took the family on a pony hunt. Louisa drove us to Football Green where we parked because fortunately the area was full of ponies. This was a result, which was more than could be said for Manchester City who were beaten by lowly Wigan Athletic in the F.A. Cup Final match that took place later. Perhaps incongruously, there was a cricket match going on there.

The streams and fallen trees held the interest longer than the ponies, possibly because of a brief moment of excitement. Jessica decided to closer investigate a pony chomping away at the bank of a stream by the roadside. As she approached, the animal leapt up the bank with a thud and shook itself dry. We then wandered into the forest in search of good climbing trees, of which there were a considerable number. Yet another use was found for fallen trunks and their knobbly branches. With a certain amount of help, Jessica and Imogen were adept climbers. At one point my younger granddaughter decided she had something in her Wellie, so she sat down on the fallen steed and shook it out. Sometimes she had to be helped down. Readers of my last few posts in particular may be amused at the quote of the day. When it came to return to the road, Louisa said: ‘Follow Grandpa. He knows the forest’.

Back home we had an albeit belated Easter Egg hunt. This created great excitement. Imogen doesn’t like chocolate, so she gives her spoils to her sister. It is evidence that she prefers the search to the result that when it was all over she insisted the little eggs should be hidden again. And again…and again.

Then it was time to settle down to drawing, at which both the children are very talented. Jessica made one for me and took it away to add some rather significant detail. There had to be raindrops if there was a rainbow and sun.

Before bed, blowing bubbles and an adventure in our young neighbour Eleanor’s den, by the bench in the corner, were enjoyed.

The children dined rather earlier than the adults, who waited until after the bedtime stories read by their mother. The stories continued while the grown-ups ate Jackie’s cottage pie followed by rice pudding and/or profiteroles. We were entertained by hilarious giggling from their bedroom while Jessica read to Imogen. Louisa and I drank Oyster Bay merlot 2011; Jackie and Errol drank Stella; the children’s hi-jinks had nothing to do with alcohol.

They Do Pick Their Moments

Unerringly, this morning, I picked my way from the farm underpass to the Sir Walter Tyrrell and back, using a different route each time. Almost.

I was on a mission to measure the oak I had found recently. Berry had replied to my e-mail by asking me how many hugs it was. A hug is apparently a metre, give or take a bit of wingspan. So off I went and, in full view of anyone who happened to pass, ignoring the bramble growing up the trunk, tenderly grasped the bark. Untangling myself each time, I did this three and a bit times before reaching the point at which I had begun. Unfortunately this means I have not found my first ancient tree. An oak, to qualify, must be 4.5 metres in girth, and my arms are not long enough for three and a bit hugs to stretch to that. My one consolation is that there were no witnesses to my act of dendrolatry.

On my outward journey I was less confident than I expected to be on the way back, because I have not made the trip in that direction before, and even fallen trees and streams, which I am beginning to try to use as markers, look rather different the other way round. Actually, enough of one or two of the dead trees remain upright to serve as rather good milestones.

The day was changeable, the occasional sun brightening the view. The recent rain, however, has made everything soggy again. I set off on clay, which meant it was still hard underfoot, pitted with small round cups of water pressed into the surface by the feet of ponies. I could step on the rims. Where there was no clay, I was soon sinking halfway up my shins in shoe-snatching mud. Sometimes I could skirt round these patches, but that wasn’t always possible.

Every now and then I fancied I heard a chuckling in the woods. If I peered through the trees I would see shadowy light brown figures dart across the way, and on one occasion a still, erect, creature that gazed in my direction, then, with all the stateliness of the high-stepping horses of the guardsmen of two days ago, strode off with its entourage in tow. My mockers were an enormous mottled white stag and three dingy little does. Maybe they weren’t making fun of me. Maybe they were just rustling the leaves.

Taking a diversion around a fallen tree, an unmoving flash of colour caught my eye, and I went to investigate what turned out to be possible remnants of an orgy. Several sets of discarded clothing were arrayed on another prone trunk. Perhaps some optimists had hung them out to dry, and couldn’t get back through the surrounding quagmire tio retrieve them.

Now I have to explain the one word second sentence of this post, that flouts all the rules of grammar. I did not mean to indicate that I didn’t quite manage the walk. Far from it. It was extended a wee bit. This is because what I do mean is my return trip wasn’t exactly totally devoid of error.

Saufiene picked a rather less than convenient moment to telephone me from France. I have to answer my mobile within three rings. This was rather difficult when it was in my jacket pocket and I had one foot in the water and the other half way up the bank of the stream I was intent on crossing. I did manage to answer the call and fortunately the Frenchman didn’t ask me where I was. I mention this here because I would like to blame him for what happened next. Yes, he did distract me, but it wasn’t his fault that once across the stream I forgot I had forded it and followed it dutifully, according to my newly discovered rule of thumb. In the wrong direction. It wasn’t until I glimpsed through the trees the cottages on the outskirts of the village of Brook that I realised my slight mistake. So back I went along the brook, seeking the ford by Castle Malwood Farm. The truth is, I cannot pretend Sofiene put me off. I’d have gone the wrong way anyway.

Now it is all very well following a stream until you come to a fork in it that you don’t recall having seen before. It is especially inadvisable to take the wrong fork, which is of course what I did. I never did find the ford, but I found the roar of the A31 an increasingly friendly sound. I was soon walking under it and up the steep climb to home. Elizabeth chose to present me with the second inconveniently timed call of the morning as I was ascending the almost perpendicular stretch of this.

Lyndhurst’s Passage to India provided our evening meal with which Jackie and I both drank Kingfisher. We had to drive out there and sit down in the restaurant of course.

A Near Miss

Although the temperature was a little more than zero degrees today, it was cold and blustery so it seemed appropriate that I had an appointment at the Lyndhurst GPs’ ‘freezing’, or cryo- clinic today. The purpose of this was to persuade another skin blemish to depart from my left shoulder.

After a hasty drive to Totton’s Lidl and a mad dash round the shop for weekend provisions, we still arrived back at Minstead without allowing me quite enough time to walk to the surgery. Jackie therefore drove me to Forest Road’s crossing with the Newtown and Acres Down roads, and I walked from there. She collected me after the cryosurgery. I was in and out in ten minutes.

Along Forest Road we learned a new road warning signal. An oncoming driver flashed headlights at us. Jackie instinctively knew what she was being told, which was fortuitous because around the next bend a good dozen ponies straggled across our path. They required a bit of weaving through. The morning’s rain held off for my walk, but began again after we returned home.

On this grey day bluebells brightened the verges leading to Lyndhurst; and the kitchen garden Jackie has now finished planting up, sparkled. Even in the rain the shrubbery that has now bloomed for us to view from our living room is an attractive sight.

Photograph number 17 in ‘Derrick through the ages’ was taken by Elizabeth on 24th August 2007. Hopefully not quite the biter bit, this is more accurately the photographer photographed. This was the day James Arondelle’s parents got married. Although rather less important than their son, born a comfortable time later, the bride and groom were my niece Fiona and her husband Paul. My post of 20th March tells of how I am sometimes roped in to photograph family weddings. One such occasion was the wedding of these two. Elizabeth wanted to make sure I featured in a few pictures. This one looks as if I might be pondering about something.

The above mentioned post also describes how it is possible to have a disaster on such an occasion. It was just a week after Fiona and Paul’s big day that I photographed the Notting Hill Carnival. This was in my pre-digital camera days. On the first roll of the film I took of that famous regular event in West London are some of my favourite photographs. Something went wrong with the shutter during the exposure of the second roll. I only captured half of each frame, and the camera was irreparable. I was sorry to lose the carnival pictures, but think of how much worse it could have been had the camera not held out for another week. In fact I only discovered the problem after I finished that particular film in Australia, after Sam and Holly’s wedding, but they had had a professional doing the job, so all was well covered.

A postscript to this is that on that August bank holiday it was absolutely freezing. As cold as any days we have suffered lately. Sunny and bright enough for photogenic shadows, but teeth chattering and goose pimply for anyone, like me, who had turned up early enough to bag a place at the barriers three hours before the action started. Eventually, I remember, my bladder got the better of me and I had to nip home for a pee. Then of course I couldn’t regain my place, so I concentrated on photographing the crowds rather than the dancers and their floats. It is those crowd shots that I lost.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s chicken curry and savoury rice. Brilliant. I finished the Carta Roja. Brilliant.

A Splendid Occasion

Today completes a blogging year. As is appropriate for this particular one, it rained throughout in Minstead, although not in London.

Jackie was pleased to be able to drive Gladys and Dave to Southampton Parkway with us. Their trip to Edinburgh happily coincided with my London visits to Norman and Carol.

I took my usual walk from Waterloo to Green Park where I boarded my Jubilee Line train to Neasden.

I don’t normally plan a photograph or manipulate the image to change it. I picture what I see and crop if suitable. At almost any time of the day or night in central London, a helicopter will be seen hovering overhead or making a dash to a hospital. Today one was hovering apparently motionless high above the Thames. After I’d photographed it, I realised the potential for setting the flying machine against the London Eye. Walking on to that feature of the skyline, I raised the camera and pressed the shutter. Faster than the movement of my finger was the flight of the pigeon that stole the shot. Serendipity indeed.

The London Dungeon exhibition first opened in Tooley Street near Guy’s hospital some time in the 1970s. It is a series of waxworks tableaux representing historic horrific happenings in the capital. When Matthew and Becky were still quite young I took them there to see it. No way would they be persuaded to enter. These horrors are now housed in part of the old County Hall, alongside the river. For years I have been under the misapprehension that it was such as the body that lies at the top of the steps outside the new premises that deterred our children. Not a bit of it. ‘It was the rats’, was the explanation Becky recently gave me. Given that Matthew soon kept them as pets, I was rather surprised by this.

At eleven o’clock this morning Westminster Bridge was marginally easier than usual to traverse half way across. After this point it was far more populated than ever. Every race and nationality in the world must have been represented. Whitehall was cordoned off. The only way to cross it was via the public subway at Westminster tube station. The reason for the helicopter became apparent when police cars blocked the entrance to the Houses of Parliament car park. Every few feet along the approaching streets stood a police officer facing rows of crash barriers. Crowds of people packed the thoroughfare, cameras hopefully raised at arms lengths above the throngs. There seemed to me no chance of any point and shoot device snatching a reasonable image of the horse guards and ceremonial coaches glinting in the occasional sunshine. I focussed on the crowds through which I was elbowing my way, thankful that I could see over most of the heads. I had stumbled upon the State Opening of Parliament.

Having reached the comparative sedateness of St. James’s Park, my way across The Mall was again blocked. The band I had heard getting nearer as I crossed the park turned out to be a military one. The crash barriers and police protecting the musicians were supplemented the length of this famous street by guardsmen in their splendid uniforms. There was one pedestrian route across, reminiscent of Birdcage Walk during the London Marathon (see 25th September last year). Every so often one of the guards would present his rifle and march back and forth across the pathway, eventually returning to his place and shouldering arms. Pedestrians had to hang fire while this went on. The whole route from Admiralty Arch to Buckingham Palace was a sight to behold.

At the entrance to Green Park itself, a pair of golden arches suggested that McDonalds was now sponsoring this national treasure.

Walking through Brent’s Church Road market, I felt I was in a different city.

Norman produced a roast pork dinner followed by apple strudel, accompanied by a fine Italian red wine. I then took my usual route to Carol’s, and afterwards the amazingly frequent 507 bus to Waterloo and the train back to Southampton for Jackie to drive me home.

The two way train journey was sufficient for me to devour Jack London’s excellent story ‘The Call of the Wild’, in the Folio society edition, superbly illustrated by Abigail Rorer. It is the savage yet tender tale of Buck, a phenomenal dog who eventually obeys the call.

All Is Right With The World

This warm, bright, morning I walked, with a little diversion, the two underpasses route via Sir Walter Tyrrell that I had discovered three days ago.

I took a different diagonal across the, in parts still waterlogged, heathland towards the inn, as usual following pony droppings as a guide. When I saw the Rufus Stone through the trees on my right, I realised I had a fair chance of emerging from the forest at the Sir Walter Tyrrell. Indeed, I did arrive at a magnificent oak alongside the pub. I have photographed it to e-mail to Berry for consideration for the Ancient Tree Hunt. My sense of direction continued to be devoid of error. This encouraged me to take a much wider diversion to Castle Malwood Farm.

Such paths as there were through the forest were often completely blocked by fallen trees, and had a tendency to dissolve into a shoe sucking quagmire. The freshly leaved and sometimes elegantly shaped trees glowed in the mid-morning sun as I made my way, not exactly unerringly, through the woodland. My reluctance to accept that a stream I crossed was an extension of the one I had forded the first time I did this trip brought about a minor error of judgement. Perhaps it was a less than somewhat minor mistake, for I completely overshot the farm and found myself confronted by scattered cottages. Whilst I walked along the road passing them, I came across two gentlemen on bicycles labouring up the hill. As I wondered whether they would be able to tell me where I was, the one in the lead stopped and asked me: ‘Are you local?’. Rightly thinking this was likely to prove a marginally embarrassing exchange, ‘sort of’, I replied. His friend sported white warpaint on his nose, rather like an Australian cricketer.

I recovered a certain amount of self respect when they asked me whether they could cycle to the Sir Walter Tyrrell from there. I told them I had just walked it, but I wouldn’t recommend cycling it. Having glanced at their steeds which were rather more thoroughbred than wild pony in nature, I told them about the fallen trees and pointed to the mud on my shoes. I described the first barrier they would find, and off they went, quipping that they might soon turn around and come back to me. This they did. I now felt it fair enough for me to ask where I was. I was 500 yards from a pub at Brook. So I retraced my steps as far as the stream, and followed it, which is of course what I should have done in the first place. I found the approaching drone of the A31 surprisingly comforting.

So there you are, my faithful doubters. A 50% failure rate. Everything back to normal. All is right with the world.

Speedwell greeted me on the verge of Lower Drive as I less than speedily clambered up from the farm underpass.

After lunch a further trip to Cadnam Garden Centre was required. This was to buy more hanging baskets and plants that any self respecting rabbit would reject if they were served up in their freshly growing salad bar. French marigolds and alysum are examples. Unfortunately alysum was off.

This evening’s feast was Jackie’s delicious chicken curry and savoury rice followed by syrup sponge and ice cream. With this I finished off the Lussac St. Emilion we had brought back from The Firs yesterday. Taking it away with us was on the instructions of Danni who said that her mother should not be tempted to imbibe for another week.

She Does Make Exceedingly Good Books

On another glorious day, I had a wander around the garden of the Lodge, the shrubberies of which are now blooming splendidly. Jackie had spent the morning attending to her little garden on our kitchen corner, after which we drove to The Firs to put in a stint there.

In less than a week the trees lining the M27 have burst into leaf.

Jackie and I and Danni worked on the beds. My task was to mix topsoil, all-purpose compost, and farm compost and apply this as top dressing to weeded beds. In preparation for this the grass edges were trimmed and weeding carried out.

We continue to be pleased with the fruits of last year’s work, if only because the really heavy work has all been done. There are examples of serendipity, usually created by self-seeded primroses, such as their coordination with epimedium, or their contrast with forget-me-nots. And there are happy results of planting, such as the numerous tulips planted everywhere.

I was particularly pleased with those I had bought at last year’s Bishop’s Waltham Garden Fair.

They have all come up again, in a bed which didn’t exist a month or so before they were planted.

Danni took the opportunity to photograph Jackie and me taking a break.

While the serfs slaved, the lady of the manor sat in the shade making beautiful little books for the planned summer exhibition. In fairness to Elizabeth, who normally gets stuck in with the rest of us, she is recovering from a general anaesthetic and minor ENT operation and, like Mr. Kipling and his cakes, she ‘does make exceedingly good’ books.

Danni made an excellent sausage casserole meal which we enjoyed with the assistance of red wines and, of course, for she who will be nameless, Hoegaarden. A delightful Berry Bliss from the Co-op was for afters.

The low sun was blinding along the motorway as we drove west to home. As is now quite common a handful of deer dashed across the road in front of us in the vicinity of Shave Wood.

When she had finished driving and we settled back home, I poured Jackie a complimentary. Others would call this a Bailey’s. We have renamed it in line with the custom of many local Indian restaurants who offer us a complimentary drink, usually a Bailey’s, after our meal.

It Has Come In Useful

White cloud with occasional sunshine was what the meteorologists had promised for today, and this is what we received. This was much to the delight of the organisers of the Bishop’s Waltham Garden Fair which we attended with Elizabeth.

We began the day by visiting The Firs to collect Elizabeth. This naturally involved further investigation of the fruits of last year’s work. The berberis was glowing orange; wallflowers, gigantic when compared to their pre-compost existence, displayed a range of colours; tulips, pansies, and other spring flowers brightly raised their faces to the sun.

When, this time last year, we first attended the Bishop’s Waltham Garden Fair in the grounds of Wintershill Hall, Durley, the ground was so wet that we feared for the lawns over which we were tramping. Our car, like many others, had to be pulled out of the car park mud by tractor. Little had we realised that the rain we were experiencing would be more or less consistent over the whole country for the next twelve whole months. Today, however, the weather was warm with plenty of sunny spells, and visitors to the fair enjoyed the luxury of sitting on grassy banks eating roast pork baps, sandwiches, cakes and ice creams ; or just contemplating the scenery. Families with children, and enthusiasts of all ages milled about everywhere. Such fairs are a feature of English life, but I doubt that there are any settings more beautiful than the garden of this large stately home.

Plant stalls boasted excellent examples of the owners’ produce; garden ornaments, bric-a-brac, and hand-made gifts were also to be found. These latter were mostly situated inside the marquee where sandwiches, cakes, and hot drinks were also available. For those who had the patience to queue, a hog roast was in place outside. Many people, including me, soon became impatient, and went inside for a sandwich. I doubt that the organisers could possibly have estimated how many people would flock there today, and the two person staff offering the baps filled with pork and crackling, for which debit and credit card payments were accepted, were clearly overwhelmed. Their red faces were not simply due to their proximity to the spit. They were working flat out.

Entertainment was provided by the Cuff Billett New Europa Jazz Band whose original stage beneath the spreading branches of an ancient tree against the backdrop of a colourful Japanese maple, was an example of the magnificent setting. After a while they went walkabout and performed amongst the stalls, some of which also had backdrops of flowering trees and shrubs.

A question time service was relayed throughout the grounds. Gardeners presented the speaker with their questions and he gave very knowledgeable answers, on one occasion disagreeing with a very well-known but un-named expert who had provided a different solution.

On 13th September last year the post ‘Moving The Eucalyptus’ described just that. There were a number of reasons why Matthew, the tree surgeon who had felled the dying tree, had been asked, instead of sawing it up and taking it away, to leave it by the pond. Firstly it provided an interesting photographic project for my artistic sister; then it was to become the basis for a wildlife garden. The site of this section of the grounds took some time to establish before it was finally forgotten. This meant two more moves of the heavy corpse; the first by the tree men, the second by Jackie and me. The third reason was that it might come in useful sometime. When we returned her to her home this afternoon Elizabeth proudly showed us that, through the good services of her friend Geoff, it has indeed become useful. Geoff has made from it an excellent fence between The Firs and the chapel next door. It has a rustic appeal and reflects the pointed arches of the neighbouring building.

Danni and Andy are to attend a Charity Ball partly in aid of her Jubilee Sailing Trust. This meant a frock had to be bought. We were all asked to witness a two ball gown fashion parade in the kitchen during which we were to help Danni make a choice. Since she looked stunning in either, this was not easy. Nevertheless we all agreed on my niece’s own preference, which was also quite handy.

Back home we dined on Jackie’s sublime chicken curry and pilau rice such as any Bangladeshi chef would be proud of. I drank some more of the Carta Roja.

Itching To Be Off

The lower lawns at Castle Malwood Lodge have the appearance of scuffed up snooker table beize laid on a rocky outcrop. A game of bowls on the surface would be impossible; a game of croquet interesting. The rabbits, therefore, who attempted to burrow into it overnight were undoubtedly disappointed.

The only aim I had in mind when I set out on today’s walk, was to traverse the A31 via the Stoney Cross underpass. The hedges of Minstead are now thick with hawthorn and various prunus blossom. So, if you adhere to the ‘May’ in the ancient adage being the blossom, you may ‘cast a clout’. If you believe the reference is to the month, you must stay wrapped up until 1st June.

The far side of the forest looked pretty dry now, so I set off on a diagonal through the trees, which I thought would take me to Rufus Stone (see 19th November 2012 post). I was pleased to find that I was spot on, as I saw a crowd of backpackers gathered around the monument. They had moved on by the time I reached it. I then remembered that Berry had told me it was possible to walk to The Sir Walter Tyrrell Inn (see the same post) from behind Castle Malwood Farm. I therefore went on to the inn, walked around it, and took a punt. I am sure that there have been times during the last waterlogged year, when a punt would have come in handy. There wasn’t a beaten path, but my by now unerring sense of direction suggested another diagonal. I am pleased to inform all my doubters that this was successful too.

Indeed, en route, I was even able to put an antipodean couple on the right track for the stone, and to prepare them for what they would actually see. While we were talking we were joined by an Englishman who knew all about Australia, which is where the visitors lived; roads; history; and no doubt much else. Was it my imagination that their walking boots seemed to want to take off of their own accord while they politely listened to the story of the Norman invasion? The historian’s terrier, attached to the end of an expanding lead, was certainly itching to be off, as it progressively made its owner look like the central post of a game of swing ball that has gone wrong. For those who are unfamiliar with this analogy, unless both contestants in this game successfully hit the ball, the string attached to both ball and post becomes shorter and shorter as it winds around the post. This has invariably been the case when I have tried it.

Our visitors would not tell the other man where they came from. This may have been because he had such forthright views about their country, and had already told them that they should, like his Australian wife, ‘get rid of that accent’. They remained pleasant, however, and when I explained why I wanted to know, told me they hailed from Sidney. I naturally told them about Sam, Holly, their children, and the O’Neills. The other Englishman was not impressed when I said I had liked Melbourne best. He said it was too full of Poms and Irish. I resisted the obvious temptation. Sorry, O’Neills, it was only a fleeting visit to Perth, and too hot and humid to get out of the air conditioned car.

By now, we were all itching to be off. I felt it incumbent on me to break up the party, so I did. Berry had warned me that the area near my goal was likely to be muddy. When I encountered masses of dried craters gouged out by ponies’ hooves on the approach to a pedestrian ford, I thought that was what she had meant. I confidently crossed this, mounted a slope, and felt the familiar pull of the suction of mud. My left shoe bravely clung to my foot, I pulled up the legs of my trousers, and eventually reached dry land.

We finished the day with tasty ox heart casserole followed by vibrant plum crumble, with, in my case, a glass of Carta Roja gran reserva 2005.

You Could Say I’d Be Stumped

The encouragement Jackie has received from our neighbours about her garden at the Lodge has inspired her to aspire to new heights. This meant we had to visit Cadnam Garden Centre, ostensibly for more netting for the rabbit proofing. I set off a little earlier than Jackie, so she could drive there and have a coffee and read whilst waiting for me to arrive. What I hadn’t been aware of was her plan to add a Gardman Gothic Arch to her little plot which measures 86 inches (220 cm) by 18 inches (46 cm). So we bought one. And the netting. And a couple of terra cotta pots to block a hole between the steps and the end of the building through which a rabbit, capable of breaching a three inch gap, might wriggle. There also had to be a couple of hanging baskets. I was attracted to a display containing a wheelbarrow beautifully coordinated with the plants in front of it. Jackie pointed out that it reflected garden centres’ realisation that most gardeners are women.

The afternoon was devoted to the assembly of the arch. With all our IKEA experience we are dab hands at this now. However, should you ever think of allowing yourself to be diverted whilst stretching out a measuring tape, into letting go the far end without locking the spool, it is not to be recommended. Later, we returned just before closing time for the necessary compost. My right hand wasn’t too comfortable with the Elastoplasted knuckle of its third finger being slid under the compost bags to lift them.

After lunch we had another trip by car to the Acres Down Farm Shop where we bought vegetables for the bank holiday weekend, not fancying braving one of the supermarkets on such a day. It is a distinct feature of country life that trips to buy standard items become outings worth recording. No longer can we obtain anything just around the corner or after a trip on an underground line.

The walk that split the shopping and construction periods was most pleasant. The blooms of an ornamental cherry of a Japanese flavour at the back of the house gleamed in the sunshine or sheltered in the shade of a neighbouring trunk. Running Hill becomes leafier by the day, and shadows were cast everywhere. Ponies, whose numbers were to increase as the day went on, were out in force.

I have already mentioned (on 24th April) the number of fallen trees that litter the forest. As a newcomer to the environment I could only presume that the fact that they appear to be left in situ for the benefit of the ecosystem. During our ancient tree hunt on 1st May, I asked Berry about this. She explained that a comparatively recent policy had changed traditional practices. It was once the case that one third of the fallen tree should be left on the ground whilst two thirds could be removed by local people for firewood. This age-old right of neighbouring residents has now been removed; the forest now looks untidy; and footpaths are blocked. But what do I know about it? Undoubtedly these fallen giants, in various stages of decay, do provide great benefits for a variety of flora and fauna. Jackie pointed out that there must have been a need for a way of establishing when two thirds of a tree had been removed. ‘Suppose’, she said ‘one family took away two thirds; then another took away two thirds of what was left, and so on. You would wind up with nothing’. Well, I hadn’t got an answer for that. Masquerading as Mother Christmas, she had included a Mensa calendar in my stocking. This has a puzzle challenge on a tear-off pad each day. I wonder if there is such a conundrum in there? If so, I’d have to pass on it. You could say I’d be stumped.

On my walk I had taken a diversion through Shave Wood. It was quite difficult to negotiate a way through this, because of the fallen trees.

Ox heart casserole was Jackie’s offering this evening. It was tender and tasty. Plum crumble was for afters. I finished the Piccini.

Rabbit-Proof Fence

As I dug out the trench this morning for Jackie’s protective netting, and she was planting seedlings in pots, I noticed that blossom has indeed come to the Lodge garden. By mid afternoon the sun has always moved across to the other side of the garden. Today John’s lawn mowing looked splendid in its light. The natural landscaping, presenting different sweeping levels, with a distinct slope down to the East, reminds us that the building occupies the site of an Iron Age hill fort. Unfortunately my enjoyment of the sunshine was somewhat curtailed by my spending much of the day on administration, too boring to record, most of which should have been done months ago. I just managed to get to the village shop in time to post ten letters and collect my dry cleaning.

It was still a glorious day. The slow clip-clop of the wild ponies’ hooves as they strolled down and across the road, their haunches undulating awkwardly and their heads imitating car drivers’ nodding dogs, was almost all the sound I heard. There was also the occasionally purring of the engine of a car brought to a standstill when one or all of the animals decided to take a diagonal amble. When they are headed straight for you it is still a bit disconcerting. It is best to convince yourself they are not going to bite you. A snorting I heard came from two magnificent farm horses, which must be a particular breed, now occupying a field across the road from Minstead Hall. I don’t think the ponies have the energy for blowing air through their noses. By the time I returned home, Jackie had almost completed her little garden fence.

When preparing the ground for this rabbit and deer proof structure, I was thinking of ‘Rabbit-Proof Fence’. This is a marvellous Australian film drama from 2002 directed by Philip Noyce, adapted from ‘Follow the rabbit-proof fence’, the book by Doris Pilkington Garimara. It tells the story of the author’s mother and two other dual heritage Aboriginal girls who ran away from Moore River Native Settlement situated to the north of Perth, Western Australia, where they had been forcibly placed in 1931. They knew that if they followed the 1,500 mile (2,400 km) fence it would take them to their families in their homes in Jigalong. They covered this ground in nine weeks, all the while being pursued by a white authority figure and an Aboriginal tracker.

It is some years since I saw this film, but it is not one I am likely to forget. The terribly mistaken policy that separated so many families; the cruelty to which the children were subjected; the pain of the bereft parents; and the magnificent fortitude shown by the escapees burns in one’s memory like the searing heat which they endured.

The tasteful symphony in white and cream with an intro of orange that Jackie served up for our evening meal was smoked haddock, cauliflower cheese (recipe), mashed potatoes, and carrots. Accompanied by a 2012 Bordeaux sauvignon blanc, it was followed by a delicious plum crumble.