July 2013 – Page 2 – derrickjknight

A Severed Thread

I learned something new this morning. Some of Jackie’s marigolds are covered in blackfly. Underneath the next pot is an ants’ nest. She tells me the ants plant the flies onto the flowers. The farmed slaves then produce a sugary substance for the industrious insects’ sustenance.

Beautiful scented lilies are now in bloom, blending their aroma with others such as nicotiana and petunias. I always wondered why we had the phrase ‘smelling like a petunia’ until I was educated by my lady. Most petunias we see have had the scent bred out of them. Older varieties have not, and well deserve the description.

The nicotiana, being particularly fragrant at night, are greatly appreciated by our neighbour Vanessa as she walks her dog around our corner before retiring to bed.

Three sunflowers are forcing their way to the top of the pots. They were not planted by us, so we assume we have the birds to thank.

I have previously mentioned on-line Scrabble, during the playing of which I have found a number of good corresponding friends in all parts of the globe. One of the most delightful of these is Heather. The added bonus of this relationship is that she lives near enough for us to meet. Today Jackie and I joined her and her husband Brian for lunch in The Plough Inn at Tiptoe, where we spent all afternoon without noticing the time. We all had plentiful Sunday roast meals after excellent starters. The ladies and I followed this with cremes brûlées. Various beers and pear cider were drunk.

I have been worrying at something for several weeks now. It was during my roast lamb dinner that I was at last relieved of my burden. On 19th June I wrote of my loose wisdom tooth ‘hanging by a thread’. Today, almost painlessly, it cast off its moorings. It was easy enough to extract this from my masticated mouthful.

About thirty years ago in my Social Services Area Office in Westminster, I was completely unaware of another extraneous object in a mouthful of food. In those days I wore hard contact lenses. Sometimes if I’d got a bit of grit under one I would take it out and put it somewhere safe until I could get to the solution I needed to apply when reinserting it. The safest place, it seemed to me, was between my bottom lip and the gum of one of my front teeth. It was a perfect fit. Like Queen Elizabeth I, I was wont to go on a progress around the building, so that the staff could bask in my presence. On one of these occasions, I believe it was Tom who gave me a cheese roll.

There was once an old joke that went the rounds. Maybe it still does. It went like this: ‘What’s worse than finding a maggot in an apple you are eating?’ The answer was: ‘Finding half a maggot’. My own personal version could appropriately begin with the question: ‘What’s worse than finding a contact lens in a cheese roll you are eating?’. I believe my readers will be able to provide the punchline. I never did find the other half.

After leaving our friends we chose to drive home through Burley. Passing Clough Lane Jackie remembered she had seen a house there for sale on the internet. We had a peek through the roses climbing over the front gate and looked it up when we returned to the Lodge. Unfortunately it is too small for us.

Hearts

This morning I stepped straight across Lower Drive into the forest, half clambered, half slid down the steep wooded flanks of Running Hill, and eventually came to the gate through which I had passed to reach the wide gravelled track discovered on 10th of this month. No longer did I have to seek out a path through the undergrowth set with bracken, grasses, and other wild plants.

Often, especially along country roads, when there is building development work being undertaken, you will see a notice warning of ‘heavy plant crossing’. Some of this had cut a swathe through the forest floor as wide as the gravelled roadway it led to. The boggier parts had been made even more treacherous by the deeply pitted lengths of wheel tracks.

Before reaching the gravel there is a crosspaths on this track. (I am ignoring the remonstrations of my computer’s dictionary at this point. If you can have a crossroads I don’t see why you can’t have a crosspaths – would you believe it, the computer has just attempted to control me by splitting up the word?).

I turned right, trusting that I would emerge somewhere near Shave Wood or, better still. Suters Cottage. I soon came to a pedestrian gate which looked promising. I went through it and continued. After a short time the terrain became unfamiliar enough to cause some trepidation. You know, clambering up one leaf and log strewn rocky slope after another, whilst being feasted on by small fat winged beasts, can become a bit dispiriting. Just as I was beginning to feel this I saw the fish beckoning. This creature protruded from half way up a tree trunk. I’m pretty sure it was indicating the correct route with its flipper.

Especially as I came upon an unpleasantly boggy stretch I began to wonder about the wisdom of my finny faith. You can usually tell when a road is about to come into view because there will be a prolonged gap in the trees, where a bit more sunlight is in evidence. So when I did espy what I thought must be the Shave Wood end of Seamans Lane, I was somewhat relieved.

You will be as surprised as I was to learn that I had emerged more than halfway up Running Hill and had only a few more yards to travel. I am quite used to getting to the wrong place by going the wrong way. To get to the right place by going the wrong way is so unusual it is worth printing out this post and framing it.

Our old friend Tony joined us for a salad lunch and evening meal of Jackie’s smoked haddock and cauliflower cheese (recipe). The latter was accompanied by an excellent Prosecco Tony had brought. Although I have always retained a friendship with this man I first met on our Social Work training course in 1969, Jacke had not met him for about forty years. As she prepared to receive him she quipped that if the meal she planned was not ready for consumption she could always use the pigs’ hearts she had in the freezer. I didn’t register the point of the joke until she reminded me that she had given him hearts in shredded form to supplement the minced meat she had cooked for the first dinner she ever gave him 43 years ago. When Tony sat down to his lunch he spoke of that meal. The poor chap had been enjoying his shepherds pie until informed it contained that particular ingredient which he could not tolerate. They each had the event which I had forgotten burned in their memories. The tale of my own never to be forgotten culinary memory involving stuffed hearts was told in my post of 3rd August last year.

The Gun

Having got home rather late last night, this morning I produced yesterday’s post, half a day late.

Butterflies appear to be rare in the New Forest. Jackie’s flowers are, however, attracting them. They even manage to get over the anti-deer net.

When visiting Milford on Sea and its environs we have noticed a grand entrance to a long drive bearing the sign: New Forest Water Gardens. Today, Jackie drove us there. We were to be doubly disappointed. This was no stately home offering sightseers a glimpse of a world of which they can only dream. It was a supplier of ready made ponds with water features, plants, and no doubt frogs and newts to order. For £6,995 you could have a Jack and Jill. The second disappointment would have been more relevant had we been hoping to buy. Today is Friday. New Forest Water Gardens is closed on Fridays.

Continuing on to Keyhaven we decided to drown our sorrows in The Gun Inn. I will let an extract from one of the menu cards tell a little of its history:

We further gleaned the information that in days gone by the landlord had the responsibility for fishing the bodies of drowned sailors out of the seawater below. No doubt this led to the mortuary function.

Today the premises house a multitude of collections, such as clay pipes, cigarette cards, matchboxes, horse brasses and many others. You must look everywhere for these. The matchboxes, for example, are fixed to the ceiling. There are lots of cosy, linked, rooms and a large sheltered garden at the rear, with a small one at the front.

While we sat with our drinks we absorbed the atmosphere created by the locals in the bar discussing sailing, boats, and barnacles. One of them most certainly looked the part. We were intrigued by the 240 different whiskies on offer.

Had Rob Keenan not been my brother-in-law, and had he not had a penchant for unusual mechanical artefacts, I may not have known that the canon portrayed on the pub sign was incompatible with the history on the menus. I would never have heard of a punt gun, let alone recognised one. But Rob was the proud owner of one of these contraptions that goes off with an enormous, startling, bang fit to bring out the fire brigade. In its day, that is the nineteenth and early twentieth century, mounted on a punt, it could bring down 50 waterfowl with one eruption. A man allowing it to be fired from his shoulder would certainly need his head looking at, preferably before the trigger was released.

Jackie made tandoori chicken with pilau rice for our dinner. I opened a bottle of Chilano cabernet sauvignon 2011, and drank some of it.

Back To The Akash

18.7.13

For the third heat-wave day in succession, Jackie drove me to and from Southampton for a London trip. First port of call was Carol’s, to whose home I struggled over Westminster Bridge and down Victoria Street. This time it was mid-afternoon in 30+ degrees.

The international teeming throng offered neither let-up nor pavement space. Wherever possible, leaders of groups held up all kinds of devices for their followers to keep in their sights. The journey from Waterloo to the comparative freedom of Victoria Street probably took twice as long as normal. I considered myself fortunate that I wasn’t a tourist or a sightseer intent on visiting places of interest.

On South Bank various entertainers, such as the jester exchanging high fives with little boys, set up pitches. Before reaching the concourse Charlie Chaplin strode by on his way to his performance venue. The artists must have been sweltering under their costumes.

The Thames is, of course, a tidal river. As I fought my way through the pulsating populace I wondered about descending to join the gulls clambering on the rocks and silt below. There was no way down, which was probably a blessing.

After I had finally made it up the steps to Westminster Bridge it was a male hand that thrust the camera into mine. In vain did I attempt to explain to the three young Italians that, because of the height and angle of the sun, they would be backlit in their determination to have the famous clock face featured in their group portrait. I had a go in French which was just as alien to them as was English. They did understand my comment that my Italian was non-existent, but pointing at the sun and swivelling myself around didn’t cut much ice.

At Parliament Square a silent demonstration pleaded for the closure of Guantanamo detention centre.

There were several ice-cream vendors about. Two men in their thirties were debating where they could find shade to sit and eat the treats. I suggested a park a short way down Victoria Street. This didn’t interest them as they had to attend a meeting at Guildhall. Mind you, the cooling delicacy would probably have run all the way down their forearms and dripped off their elbows onto their trousers long before they reached the oasis. They wouldn’t then have cut very impressive figures at the discussion.

Quite a few people, risking poking others in the face, were using umbrellas as parasols. One gentleman used his as a beacon for his followers.

From Carol’s I walked along Broadway to St. James’s Park underground station where I boarded the Circle Line tube to Edgware Road, along which I walked to the Akash (see post of 31st October last year) for a meal with Jessie. There is no air-conditioning on the packed tube trains. On the Circle Line the temperature was 34.2 degrees.

I enjoyed the usual delightful meal with my very good friend Jessie. Majid, Zaman, and Shafiq gave me their customary warm welcome and once again produced my favourite repast without my having to order. It was as if I’d never been away.

We took our coffee outside, where Majid was happy to serve it. As he placed the pot on the table, I asked him to return to the doorway for a photo. He had his back to the Akash. The Christmas tree alongside him is probably one of those he always sets up for the Christian festive season.

Jessie drove me to King’s Cross whence I took the underground to Waterloo and thence to home.

‘That Was Worth Fighting For’.

Jackie provided her usual chauffeuse driven service to and from Southampton for today’s journey for lunch with Norman. Why should I have been surprised that, after last night, the train was only five coaches long, with seats at a premium? In fact I only obtained one by tapping on the shoulder of a young woman, plugged into earphones and thumbing her way through pictures in her mobile phone, and point to her bag which occupied the only available space. My expression probably helped get the message across. She wouldn’t have heard anything I said. The price paid by those too tactful to interrupt such self-absorbed multitasking was to stand all the way to Waterloo.

From the London terminal I took my Westminster Bridge route to the Jubilee Line at Green Park. The concourse leading to The London Eye is now densely populated. As I weaved my way through the crowd my path began diagonally to converge with that of a man pushing a Henry hoover on a hand truck. What little room there was between us was suddenly bisected by a cyclist. As he shot through I asked him, in less than dulcet tones, ‘What the Hell are you doing?’. Having proceeded to a safe distance, he turned, smiled superciliously, and said: ‘Relax’. I didn’t. He sped away as I got as far as: ‘You…’

As the unpleasant velocipedist vanished into the throng, Henry’s bearer apologised to me. I told him it wasn’t his fault. That relaxed me.

Long queues stretched and swelled outside every South Bank attraction, none larger than that for The London Eye. When told how many hours she would have to wait for admission, a woman remonstrated with her polite young informant, complaining that the little boy she was pushing in a buggy was only three years old. There was quite a bit of food for thought there, it seemed to me. As I walked away from this, I overheard Dan’s quip. He amused me more than he did his companion with: ‘That’s the I.Q.’. I told him I loved it. He was ‘more than somewhat’ pleased. He was happy to be photographed for the blog. His friend declined to share the honours.

When he was very young Sam once delighted Matthew with his phrase for an unwonted involuntary activity. ‘I’ve been and gone and done it’, he said. Well, now I have. I’ve been and gone and photographed a smiling group against the backdrop of Big Ben. As I fought my way across Westminster Bridge a mobile phone and a small camera were thrust into my hands by slender feminine ones. I was asked, in attractive Iberian accents, to photograph a quintet of beautiful women. Big Ben had to be in the shot. Once I got the hang of the i-Pod it was no hardship really.

On Birdcage Walk the tinkling of old-fashioned bicycle bells scattered other pedestrians. A pair of Boris’s Bikers (see post of 19th June last year), seemed to think they enjoyed the priority of New Forest ponies. I don’t suppose my glower enlightened them much.

The air-conditioning of the M & S shop by Green Park station where I bought Norman’s wine was a welcome relief from the sauna outside.

At the bottom of the Jubilee Line escalator, facing the descending mechanism, head down; arms flailing; left foot frantically sliding across the toothed grill of the track disappearing into the nether regions; balancing precariously on his other leg, struggled a young man. He was attempting to release a silver coin that repeatedly bounced on the teeth and fell back. As it finally flew up onto firm ground and he bent, red-faced, to retrieve his 5p piece, I said: ‘Well done. That was worth fighting for.’ He enjoyed the joke. The redness was brought about by effort, not embarrassment.

Pouring sweat, I walked back to Neasden to board the Jubilee Line to Waterloo, after Norman’s cooling salad lunch followed by summer pudding accompanied by an excellent Georges Dubeuf beaujolais. Noticing a lost dog in Roundwood Road, prostrate and gasping for water, I knew just how he felt.

There was a faint smell of vomit flavouring the air-conditioned atmosphere in the train to Southampton. I did my best not to imagine it emanated from the late lunch a man opposite me was eating. Perhaps it was released by the tattooed gentleman in the row behind who chewed gum, picked his nose, and pressed the bogies into what he was masticating.

Not deterred by this experience I enjoyed Jackie’s chicken jalfrezi this evening. The beverage was sparkling water.

This Train Is Not Stopping At…….

In my post of 18th June I wrote of Alex Schneideman’s gift of a photographic portrait of me. This was reproduced as number 21 in the ‘through the ages’ series. Behind me are some of the thousands of books I am in the process of moving from 29 Sutherland Place where I was living at the time. The task of packing these up was begun today.

To enable this, Jackie drove me to and from Southampton Parkway station for the Waterloo train. On the outward journey I began reading ‘Storm of Steel’ by Ernst Junger.

From Waterloo I took the Bakerloo Line tube to Edgware Road which was the nearest station to Paddington Green where the local Safestore outlet was situated. This was where I hoped to buy the storage boxes and, if possible, have them delivered. As we left Marylebone, the penultimate stop, the fact that the train was not stopping at Edgware Road was announced. I had to go on to Paddington and walk from there. I bought the boxes and the staff member phoned a man with a van who could deliver the boxes by 2 p.m. The driver was independent of Safestore so I had a separate arrangement with him.

So far, so good. I now had plenty of time to walk from Paddington Green to Sutherland Place and await delivery. Safestore itself occupies part of what had been a children’s hospital when I had worked in the area in the decades before the current millennium. Other buildings have been demolished.

Something like a dozen years ago the statue of Sarah Siddons that stands on the green itself underwent a facelift involving a nasal prosthesis. The cosmetic surgery the great thespian received has dropped off.

A little further on the A40 rises above Harrow Road. Between the two can be seen a roundabout enhanced by mature trees that I saw planted as saplings.

An underpass leads to the canal and Little Venice. I ran many miles alongside this stretch of water. The Canal & River Trust narrowboat is all that is left of the charity that was Beauchamp Lodge settlement that has featured in various posts and that I chaired for so many years.

Some years after the building was sold to a Counselling agency I returned to rent space there for my own practice.

On the cobblestones around the basin, in the shadow of Beauchamp Lodge, a painter was reproducing the scene which had entranced me on a daily basis. Many a time have I passed under or over the blue bridge.

Lord Hills Bridge, outside Royal Oak tube station, still presents a colourful series of geometric shapes to the viewer.

The Alinea Bindery in Porchester Road once repaired some of my original volumes of the Dictionary of National Biography that Jessica had found in a second-hand bookshop and given me for my birthday.

St. Stephen’s Church on Talbot Road was one venue for AGMs of the Westbourne Neighbourhood Association on whose committee I served whilst living in Sutherland Place.

Andrew, the man with the van, arrived an hour late. As he bounded empty-handed up the steps, asking ‘what have we got?’, I had that sinking feeling. Through gritted teeth I said: ‘You are supposed to be bringing the boxes’. He fled, announcing that he would go and get them, and came back twenty minutes later.

The packing was somewhat delayed. However, after walking to Notting Hill Gate and returning to Waterloo by underground, I did manage to board a train slightly earlier than expected. I should have smelt a rat really. The doors of the train, which was meant to have already left, were closed to the multitude on the platform. This was because it had, for some reason, proved impossible to link the two halves of this ten coach train that normally divides at Southampton Central, the station after Southampton Parkway. The front half would therefore set off first, the second following five minutes later. The driver, whom I asked, didn’t know where the two halves were going, but this shouldn’t have mattered because my station was before the dividing one.

Once the doors opened I happily boarded the rear half. As we set off at a crawl, the guard announced that there would be an additional stop at Basingstoke, but no normal one at Parkway. Those needing Southampton Parkway were advised to alight at Winchester and wait for another train. He gave its time. We arrived after that time, but it didn’t matter because that train was twenty minutes late. I reflected that this had rounded off the day nicely.

A delicious, cooling salad provided our dinner on such a sweltering day. Jackie drank Budweiser and I drank sparkling water.

Tour Guides

Today was another Sheila day. We drove to Sway to collect her and drive her around the unspoilt forest villages to the North of the A31. To some extent we followed in reverse the route along Roger Penny Way that we had taken yesterday evening.

Sheila had been fascinated by the animals loose in the forest, so it was pleasing that there were so many on display. The ponies in particular tended to be clustered under trees, gathering what shade they could on another blisteringly hot day. Cattle and donkeys were also in evidence.

The bloated corpse of a large cow, its softer elements covered in flies, still lay where it had been last night. A large label printed in red with the words AGISTER AWARE remained attached to it. As we are bound to report such a dead animal, the notice prevents us doing so when its removal is already in hand. It certainly needed to be shifted soon.

As usual, the road tended to be blocked by the living creatures, none for a longer time than the foal that stood gazing into our windscreen for what seemed an eternity until it was persuaded to move. I made Sheila a print of this young animal which she christened Millie.

In the vicinity of Frogham we revisited Roy to offer to prune his rose for him. Whilst he was most touched, he said he had a long handled cutter with which he would be able to do it himself. The donkeys hung about outside hoping for a taste of Camperdown elm (see yesterday’s post).

Roy directed me to what he said was the best view in the forest. When he named it I realised it was from the Abbot’s Well car park where Jackie waits for me when I walk across the heath from Roger Penny Way (see, for example ‘A Damsel In Distress’ posted on 25th April). She can see me approaching from quite some distance. We drove up there to show Sheila the scene.

We returned to Castle Malwood Lodge for lunch.

Jackie’s garden pots now total 83. Those to the western side of the house, added a bit later, now rival the original collection. As reported in ‘Merton In Bloom’ on 9th July last year, Sheila, as Mayor of the Borough, had presented Jackie with one of her winner’s certificates. It was therefore most appropriate that our friend should see the current display.

After lunch and a short rest during which Sheila was entertained by an i-Mac slide-show, we visited All Saint’s Church, where we met

another couple who were also taking friends on a tour of the area, in particular visiting the grave of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his wife.

The next venue was Ringwood where we walked along the High Street until it was time to enter the Curry Garden restaurant where we enjoyed excellent meals, Kingfisher, and sparkling water. Following the failure of the car’s engine cooling system of 12th, we should not have been surprised at the failure of the restaurant’s air conditioning.

Finally, we took Sheila back to her hotel in Sway, drank coffee, and returned home.

The Camperdown Elm

I have before mentioned the small bridge over the stream at the bottom of Running Hill.

Today I decided to follow the stream. As it reached the side of Hungerford Cottage, it tracked the side of the garden and continued along the back of it and the other houses at Seamans Corner, thence alongside the fences to the fields behind the houses on Seamans Lane, eventually running through the field that is home to the mare and foal beside Suters Cottage. It took quite a few ducks, and a number of trips, to learn this fact. I made my way home through London Minstead.

Just as I arrived at the Corner, a driver asked me the way to the New Forest Inn. This, of course, is in Emery Down. You can imagine the confidence boost it gave me to be able to give her precise directions.

At the tree seat on the green a mother was photographing her family. I offered to take one with her in it, and, naturally, asked if I could also use my own camera, explaining why. As, camera raised, I prepared to frame my shot, ‘are you local?’ was yelled from a stationary car with another behind it. That familiar queue was forming. ‘Yes’, I replied, turning round. ‘Wait a minute’. They didn’t, but they did disturb the family group, so I had to take another picture to do the father justice. I allowed myself to hope the vehicles stayed lost.

This afternoon Jackie drove us to Poulner and Bill’s 80th birthday party. Helen and Bill put on a splendid spread in the garden where Ron was on excellent barbecue duty. Friends and relatives flocked to their home. Many of these brought contributions of food and drink. When we left soon after seven, the host and hostess were still going strong.

As the A31 was fairly slow-moving, it being a Sunday evening with holidaymakers returning home from the West country, we took a leisurely drive through the lanes, villages, forest, and heathland of this northern section of our National Park. The evening light lent a russet glow and dappled contrasts to the landscape. Various animals, even more leisurely than us, sometimes held up the traffic. These jams were shorter-lived and more pleasant than those we had just left.

A mare and her colt were eventually persuaded to the roadside. The foal looked back at us as if wondering what we were doing on his road. He had already learned to use his fly whisk.

Further on, the road was completely blocked by a string of donkeys seeming to congregate at one cottage.

This was the home of Roy who explained that they were hoping for something to eat. I expressed the view that this was not likely to be in vain. The very friendly and fit-looking 83 year old then told me about the Camperdown elm. I would not have known this tree, and neither had Roy until an arboreal expert had recognised it. It was the creatures’ favourite delicacy.

Roy showed me the umbrella shape that his assinine friends had chomped out of the tree. He had his own private topiarists. The donkeys pruned his tree, but he wasn’t sure, at his age, whether he would be able to get up to do the same for the rose on the side of his house this year. He took me inside. The Camperdown became a parasol, and Roy broke off branches to feed to the animals.

While I was being thus entertained, Jackie waited patiently a little further down the road, where she had to wind up the car windows to keep errant asses’ noses out.

Already amply fed, we relaxed for the rest of the evening.

The Siren Deer

I’d really rather not mention this morning’s walk, but my innate honesty determines that I must. Actually, although that wasn’t quite the intention, it extended well into the afternoon of this scorchingly hot day.

My plan was to walk the two underpasses loop via the Sir Walter Tyrrell Inn. Somehow it went horribly wrong. I blame the siren deer.

I reached Sir Walter in good time with no mishap. As I passed The Rufus Stone I saw a small family trailing after Dad who was clearly aiming for a picnic spot. It was almost two hours later before I met anyone else not in a car. This was a young couple, the man in shorts, and the woman in a bikini, settling down on a blanket with their little toddler in the shade provided by the forest near Suters Cottage. They were local people, and so knew their way there.

Everything went swimmingly until I reached the now rather dried up stream, and was able to cross it at a hitherto impassible point. Had I stayed on the other side I would probably not have followed the Brook tributary and been distracted by the sirens. They played hide and seek with me in the trees.

I managed ultimately to catch them with my lens. If you zoom the picture by clicking on it, and look very, very, carefully, you, too will glimpse some of them, in this cervine version of Where’s Wally? (or Waldo if you are in USA). I believe the ancient sailors who were tempted by the sirens’ calls became somewhat disorientated by toxic influences. I shared their fate, because once the deer finally disappeared I had no idea in which direction I should proceed.

It was the unusual sound of the animals trooping through the trees that had alerted me to their presence, and, as so often on clear, warm days, the A31 noise was very loud. I headed for it. I was confronted by a stout wooden fence, lots of undergrowth, and a ditch, providing a pretty insurmountable barrier to this major road. Not recognising the point at which I reached it, I had a choice of turning right or left and following the fence as closely as I could. I always go left and it is always the wrong option. Well, I couldn’t break my rule, could I? Sod’s law would be bound to kick in.

Today was no exception. Sparing a thought for the walkers I had directed to the Sir Walter Tyrrell on the 11th, I tramped on. Eventually, above the bracken, I spied a road sign that informed me I was going in the wrong direction. I didn’t really want to go to either London, Southampton, or Winchester. So what next? Well, if I continued I would come to the Cadnam roundabout which was just a little bit out of my way. If I turned around I’d be retracing my steps, and would eventually reach the underpass. But that wasn’t very adventurous was it?

I continued heading for the M27, London, and all points East.

The next A31 motorists’ guidance was to non-motorway traffic. I must, I thought, be near the roundabout. I was. Soon the traffic sign confirmed it. The motorway barriers were to my right. When I was faced with a fence in front of me, I realised I was looking at Roger Penny Way which would take me to the

roundabout. There was no gate, and no cattle grid. There was nothing else for it. I was going to have to climb. At least I could be confident I would have no audience for the ungainly performance of scaling the stout timber construction. I thought it rather unsportspersonlike of the biting insect that took the opportunity to sink its fangs into my right knee as I straddled the top bar of the fence. In fact I made a better job of the assault than I had of leaping the gymnasium horse in my schooldays. That was a sight to behold. I never did get over it without a certain amount of crawling.

Cadnam roundabout should strictly be given in the plural, because there are in fact two, each of which has to be negotiated before reaching the comparative safety of the rather dangerous A337. The exercise is not to be recommended at any time, let alone the height of summer. I did it. Only two drivers called me rude names and one little boy was rather impressed.

Not far along the A337 I noticed a gate on my left that appeared to be padlocked but wasn’t. I went through it and walked into the forest keeping the road on my left. There wasn’t any real footpath and I had to cross a number of dried-up streams, but suddenly…….. Eureka!…….. I came to the gravel road I had discovered on the 10th.

I had a result at last. I now knew a safe route from the home side to Cadnam roundabout.

It was a straight line from this wide track, through a narrow, partially obscured, partly soggy, footpath to the gate into the forest that flanked Running Hill. It was on this stretch that I met the couple mentioned above. From the gate I improved on my uphill diagonal so much that I emerged onto the Hill just a few yards from our Lower Drive. Dave’s path had been totally obscured by bracken that I walked through to my goal.

The rest of the afternoon was for drinking water and recuperation. Jackie produced her marvellous chilli con carne (recipe) and wild rice, with which we shared a bottle of Setley Ridge New Forest rose she had given me for my birthday. I finished with rhubarb crumble and custard, from which Jackie abstained.

The Good Samaritans

Jackie and I set off bright and early this morning to collect Sheila from her hotel in Sway and take her back to Castle Malwood Lodge for lunch.

On the way we had a look at the outside of a little semi in Manchester Road that had seemed interesting on the website. Sheila came with us to Ferndene Farm Shop to gather supplies. She discovered three pigs kept in a clean and comfortable pen beside the shop, making her question, very fleetingly, whether she should ever eat pork again.

I wandered across to have another recce of the house that had brought us here in the first place (see post of 2nd of this month).

It still looks good.

Everything had gone smoothly. We had found our way to Sway via Brockenhurst and were confident of the route from Ferndene. The A35 was flowing freely. So was the car. Until it went berserk. Two sudden beeps, repeated, seemed to be requiring attention. A red light came on, illuminating the legend STOP. So Jackie did. The engine was reported to be overheating.

Then it was jacket off, sleeves rolled up, search for the lever to open the bonnet, stare at the contents. There was a semi-transparent container that looked significant, especially as it bore a warning icon indicating that scalding was a possibility. Tentatively, very gingerly, I unscrewed the cap and stood back as if I had just lit the blue touch-paper on Guy Fawkes night. There was no steam, which wasn’t surprising because there was no fluid inside. Jackie then found the instruction manual which confirmed we were looking at the engine cooling system. Okay. We needed to ring the RAC, membership of which came with her Barclays Bank account. Check that out.

Ah! No signal. Well,that meant we had to find one.

Before that, it seemed it would be helpful to know where we were. Which we didn’t. At that moment, a group of very hot girl hikers complete with backpacks appeared bearing an Ordnance Survey map. They were able to tell me they had just passed Blackwater Bridge. I was unable to reciprocate by showing them how to enter the underpass on their chart. The water looked brown, but I dare say it is sometimes darker in hue.

Clearly, as I was the one most likely to be able to walk back to the car, I had to go in search of the signal. Then, suddenly, a small black car swooped past and skidded to a halt in front of us. Out stepped Chris Hunt. He had been driving in the opposite direction and noticed our plight. Carrie Smith, his delightful companion, had lost the signal on her mobile phone and realised we wouldn’t have one either. They turned around and sped back to us.

Chris drove me back up the road to find a signal. When he found one, I didn’t, so he began to use his own device. I think this was an i-Pod, but it was hard to tell because it had a shattered windscreen. They decided Carrie’s was the best bet. She entered the number and handed it to me. The call was successful and they drove me back to Jackie’s car. Carrie even proffered their water bottle because we were going to have to wait an hour and a half or so.

The RAC had asked for a phone number, so I had to walk back to a signal anyway. When I reported back Jackie brought the now somewhat cooler car up to that spot and I phoned again to report the new position. Soon afterwards an RAC van sped past us. Another call was made. The man turned around and came back. He had been told the silver Modus was red. Anyway, he fixed it, and followed us home to ensure we got there without further mishap.

Lunch was a little late but we all enjoyed the Ferndene provisions and after a bit of a break set off again for a tour across country to the coastline, there to take in Milford and Barton on Sea and Highcliffe before returning to the Sway Manor Hotel where Sheila had booked a table for our evening meal. At Barton we were entertained by a group of people hang gliding. So engrossed was I in photographing the adventures that I only just avoided walking off the cliff. Which would have been somewhat messy.

We had ice cream and coffee in the garden of the Beachcomber cafe, where the low tone of a black labrador’s complaint startled a starling that had the temerity to drink from one of the dog bowls so considerately kept filled by the staff.

The cooling system in the hotel dining room was also rather problematic. It took some time for the staff to work out how to turn off the fan which kept us in a draft. Even after they managed this we had to ask for a French door to be closed. Sheila then enjoyed a large dinner of excellent chicken and a variety of vegetables and potatoes; Jackie’s ravioli was good; my lasagna was of adequate quality with plentiful well cooked chips and a reasonable salad. Jackie drank Beck’s, I appreciated a very good merlot, and Sheila consumed sparkling water. We soon found the room rather too hot and dared each other to ask for the fan to be set going again. No-one took up the challenge. Good coffee was taken in the lounge. After a chat we left Sheila there and returned home where I got down to writing this.