September 2013 – Page 2 – derrickjknight

Hook Tandoori

When I began taking digital photographs specifically for this blog I did not know how to give a picture a title and a location. Now I have more than 2000 images stored in my iMac. I have learned how to label the photographs appropriately, but have not backtracked to the beginning. There is a wonderful search facility on the machine that enables me to type in a title, for example, The Raven Hotel, and watch the building appear, in a flash, on the screen. Those pictures that predate my brilliant technical progress are not so easy to find. This is because they are all called IMAGE followed by a number. If I know roughly when I took the photo I seek I can scroll to the approximate date and look for the picture among all those that surround it. If I don’t know this, I have a long search ahead of me.

There is, therefore, nothing for it but to go back to the start of my great adventure into the wonders of modern technology and label all the pictures. I made a start on this today. One slight additional complication is that in those early days of grappling with this, I managed, I’ve no idea how, to save two copies of everything, unedited and edited; or simply two unedited. This means that I am also needing to send one of each picture to the trash. Never mind, I managed a couple of months worth.

The very first blog picture was number 24 in the ‘Derrick through the ages’ series. It was taken by Elizabeth on 24th June last year as I proudly clutched the box containing my Canon S100. It had taken some time that afternoon to choose the equipment. Whilst Elizabeth and I were doing so, a tigress roamed around Jessops photographic store.

This post is being written at the aforementioned Raven Hotel, but anyone wishing to see a photograph of it, or any more today for that matter, will be disappointed. The accomodation is in Hook, roughly midway between home and Hurley, where tomorrow we will visit Wolf and Luci. I am therefore using my laptop, having just had my first experience of connecting to The Cloud. I can therefore send my missive, and illustrate it from the above picture which is in my WordPress Media Library because I have used it before. It is a good thing I have an excuse for the repetition, because it is in the ‘through the ages’ collection. You see, I forgot my card reader and I cannot use the memory card with my laptop. When we get home tomorrow night I will be able to rectify the omission.

Jackie drove us as usual. There was an oppressive cloud of smoke and a caustic smell of burning rubber coming from the M27 just after we turned off onto the M3. We considered ourselves fortunate that we were leaving that road as the traffic ahead slowed considerably. For miles along the other side of the M3, as we sailed along, the traffic was almost at a standstill.

Emma, on reception at the hotel, was a very amusing and cheerful young woman who gave me our registration documentation and keys, with the announcement that the booking was in the name of Mrs J. Knight. I wondered how that had happened, given that I had made the reservation, and that Jackie does not actually bear my surname. When I looked at the paperwork I saw it was in the name of Mrs J. Wright. The J could have been Jackie, but the Wright meant it was not really likely to be us. It wasn’t.

Our receptionist had recommended the Hook Tandoori opposite. This was just as well, because, on my wander around the village, I discovered no other option.

It was just as well, also, that I discovered no other option. Hook Tandoori, recommended by the Raven receptionist, warrants rave reviews. The service was friendly, efficient, and unobstrusive; the ambience comfortable; the music gentle and interesting; the food superb. We both had prawn puree starters. My main meal was beef naga, and Jackie’s chicken Bengal. The portions were large, and the cooking exquisite, with artistic presentation. Jackie drank Bangla, whilst I imbibed Cobra.

Britain’s Leading Ladies

Jackie delivered me to Southampton Parkway in plenty of time for the Waterloo train for my visits to my London friends; and the service was subject to delay because of electrical supply problems. I therefore occupied myself with an idle amble.

Readers will know that I am a Victor Meldrew when it comes to grammar and punctuation. I am grateful to Jessie for likening me to that loveable public spirited sitcom character. I have probably done the apostrophe to death. The unnecessary ‘of’, of course, I have not previously mentioned. The parking warning notice outside the station gave me an opportunity to focus on this.

I then wandered along the taxi rank peering into the windows. This possibly disappointed a couple of drivers standing by their cabs. If so, they didn’t show it, as we had a friendly chat after I explained that I didn’t need a ride, but was looking for my brother in case he was there. Joe, you see, drives a taxi for a living. He works out of Southampton, which these Eastleigh men say is much more lucrative.

Chris and Elizabeth are both advanced mathematicians, and tell me that our younger sibling is the best of them all. He chooses not to use this talent, being happier in his chosen role. Apart from the war years, when he worked with army vehicles, Dad drove a furniture van all his adult life. Perhaps driving is in the genes. Maths certainly is. Our father was also very good at sums. I’m not.

On the train, two crying babies set each other off, and we settled down to an ear-shattering journey. Fortunately one of the infants disembarked at Winchester and silence suddenly ensued.

I walked the Westminster Bridge route to Green Park where I boarded a Jubilee Line train to Neasden, and continued on foot to Norman’s.

In its spider’s hawsers the London Eye caught an extended erection I have not noticed before.

The flora in the poster of Millais’ Ophelia at Neasden station has been embellished by the ubiquitous buddleia.

Ace Waste Skips in Neasden Lane has been imaginatively advertised high above the eight foot fence that surrounds their depot. Or is it an installation by Tracy Emin, who M & S now include in our leading ladies? (I swear I thought of the artist before I passed the retailer’s hoarding. Such is sometimes the luck of this blogger.)

Further along, I spotted a gentleman measuring a mature plane tree. He knew all about the Ancient Tree project, but he was employed to protect from development those at risk from the bulldozer. He said he had been born in Clapham but had moved to Woking which was ‘becoming like Clapham now’. Clapham is, of course, far more upmarket in the present than in his day.

Norman produced an exceedingly fine lamb shank first course followed by an apricot and almond sponge flan. Fortunately the barolo we drank was superb, because I had given it to him.

I took my usual route to Carol’s and afterwards back to Southampton where my carriage awaited. We were tracked all the way home by a magnificent harvest moon.

‘You Don’t Put Metal On Metal’

Before rounding the morning off with a Totton Lidl shop, we had an almost fruitless search for a house in Romsey. We knew it was close behind the famous Abbey; we knew there was a river and a park nearby; we knew there was a ‘Greenfield View’. But negotiating the centre of this historic town is not particularly easy by car. And the map was all in Jackie’s head. She sought Little Meads, or The Meads. Round and round we went. Just before giving up, she drove us down Church Lane which didn’t look much of a road. This became The Abbey. Turning right, we found Little Meads. There was something of a blockage in Little Meads, caused by Highway Maintenance and Electricity company vehicles. With a screeching of bushes on the passenger side window, our driver managed to reach the end. Which didn’t go anywhere, and didn’t contain the missing house. Unfortunately the angles were all wrong for her to drive back out again. This could only be achieved with the cooperation of the Highway Maintenance driver who was loading his truck. He gave a thumbs up sign, but continued his task. A postman who had left his cart at the entrance to this cul-de-sac, gave Jackie an encouraging smile as he made his deliveries on foot.

We decided that the place we were looking for must be in The Meads. Leaving Little Meads, one could turn left or right into The Meads. My regular readers will not need to be told that I turned left and that it was the wrong way. To the right there was a bridge over the River Test, so I thought that was the end of the road. I walked back down Little Meads to the car. It wasn’t there. So, back to The Meads. Peering through the railings of the bridge, I spied a familiar number plate. Jackie was waiting there, from where she had established we would soon find Blackbridge House. We did.

The house was surprising. Although it is correctly described as an end of terrace property, the cunning photographer had displayed what seemed like a detached one. Its front porch and door is on the end of the row; something I have not seen before. Much of the back garden is given over to hard-standing for a car. Given the paucity of parking in the area, this is a necessity, and there is an adequate front garden facing fields and a green hill. We were pleased we had had one last attempt to find it.

Had I remembered that I had walked this area on 11th March, and even taken photographs in The Meads, it might have helped.

We are now into the season of soups and warming cauldrons. Lunch was Jackie’s compost, sausage, and chicken broth with lovely crusty bread from Sainsbury’s.

As always, whoever cooks makes enough for more than one meal. Tonight we enjoyed a reprise of Jackie’s superb sausage casserole (recipe). But not before it had suffered a minor mishap. In a magnanimous gesture designed to allow Jackie to take it easy this evening, I volunteered to heat up her magnificent concoction and take care of the vegetables. This turned out to be somewhat counterproductive.

Jackie told me afterwards that you don’t put metal on metal. I did just that when I placed the metal casserole pot on a metal trivet on the tea trolley we use to transport meals from the kitchen to the dining room at the far end of the flat. The result was that the casserole slid onto the floor. Not very gently, and with disastrous consequences. Happily, enough remained in the pot for our sustenance.

After the first course, my lady insisted on doing the clearing up, at which I have to confess she is the more competent. I believe there is a bit left for me to do, but I haven’t dared look at it yet. So we didn’t have our sweet of lemon drizzle cake and vanilla ice cream until some time later. She will deal with my trousers tomorrow.

Fortunately, the superb Chateau de Ballon bordeaux 2009, that John had brought yesterday, was on hand for me, whilst there was more Pedro Jimenez for Jackie.

P.S. In her Facebook comment Emily speaks of fond memories of The Gite From Hell, where another pair of trousers suffered a similar besmirching. The casserole-soaked pair are, after two washes the next day, as good as new.

The Diabolo

It was time for another haircut today. Donna-Marie being on holiday, I was attended to by another pink lady. It is now clear that to work in this delightful hairdressers one has to be dressed in a magenta smock-like garment clashing or, according to taste, blending nicely with the pink decor, and have a champagne personality. Victoria, although a long-standing friend of Donna’s, has only been working for her for eight weeks, and is clearly enjoying it.

Victoria’s teenaged lookalike son visited his Mum whilst I was in the chair. Great fun then ensued, with lots of banter following my joking ‘I’d never have guessed’, when informed that Elliott was her son. She then held up a bulky envelope addressed to him. They live across the road from the establishment. The envelope would not fit into their letterbox. The postman knew where Victoria worked. He delivered the parcel to her. That is what I call service, and comes from a good knowledge of one’s customers, and probably some continuity of employment, possibly more likely to be encountered in a country town than in a city. Elliott was delighted.

Elliott was asked to open the envelope to show me the contents. The young man was now the proud possessor of two kendamas. He is apparently very skilled in manipulating this Japanese toy. Like the diabolo of my youth, the kendama is a variation on the yo-yo. Apparently the fundamental idea is to toss the ball in the air and catch it in one of the wooden cups, or skewer it on the spike. It seems a little more physical than the average computer game.

I must have been somewhere around ten or eleven when our maternal grandparents brought Chris and me each a diabolo from one of their holidays abroad. Two long hand-held poles are linked by a length of string on which one balances, spins, and tosses an object shaped like a wasp-waisted tube, as shown in the accompanying illustration from 1812. This is the diabolo. Modern diabolos are, I believe, made of some plastic substances that are stronger, more rigid, and less prone to deterioration than our rubber ones. We two boys spent at least one 1950s summer obsessed with improving our skill. The requisite long dress made for somewhat restricted movement, but we managed well enough.

Jackie had driven me to my appointment and gone on to Ringwood. I walked to the car park to meet her, arriving just as torrential rain hit the town. Either it tracked us all the way home, or it had struck Minstead simultaneously.

Jackie produced an excellent sausage casserole this evening. It was followed by lemon drizzle cake and ice-cream. She had a glass of yesterday’s Pedro Jimenes wine. I drank a First Cape cabernet sauvignon 2012.

Mo and John, who will be spending some time in Sigoules came over for a drink and helped me finish my bottle. I showed them some photographs of numero 6, and Jackie took them on a Google maps tour around the village.

A Silent Stand-Off

This morning Jackie drove us to Ringwood where we had a successful shop. We even secured a parking space quite near Sainsbury’s. The place is very busy, so we usually have to leave the car some distance away. The encased poster welcoming visitors to this historic market town, wore an earring. A helpful finder had tucked it between the wooden frame and the perspex covering. If you click on the image to enlarge it, you will be able to read about the town and check whether it is your earring.

There is a very car user friendly system of charging for parking in the New Forest towns. You can buy a very reasonably priced cardboard adjustable clock, and have fun turning the dial to indicate your arrival time. You then display it on your windscreen. It gives you three hours parking in all but the most frequented beach settings. The idea is to enable shoppers to shop, rather than offer a cheap option to those who have come for a day at the seaside.

Back home, the idyllic nature of our environment was slightly dented. Waste disposal and vandalism seem somewhat problematic. We have a well-made fenced and gated area where we are to place our bin bags. These are black for normal refuse, and clear for recyclable material. To the left as you enter the enclosure is a sign on the wall stating that that side is for black bags. To the right, one for clear bags. Someone in this building is regularly using clear bags for household refuse and placing it with other people’s black ones. We run out of the council-supplied black ones sooner than the clear ones. We then buy our own black ones and use those. Presumably the miscreants have also run out of black bags and not thought of buying their own. The bin men are not having any of it. They only remove the black ones, leaving the clear ones to accumulate. There seems to be a silent stand-off in progress.

A little more difficult to comprehend is the matter of dog refuse. Outside the bin enclosure this morning lay a small plastic bag most likely containing animal excreta, two heaps of which currently lie, unbagged, on our immaculately tended lawns.

The aforementioned shit looks more like that of a canine than a cervine variety. There are currently no obvious deer droppings in the garden, although it appears that our tamer grown up Bambi has indulged in a little wanton vandalism. Jackie’s favourite fuchsia – photographed in its splendour on 10th August – on our return, lay broken on the ground outside the kitchen. Since the table on which it stands was beside it, it is unlikely that wind was the culprit. Jackie has fingered the deer.

As I sat drafting this post, I could hear a dull banging. It was a windy day, so I went in search of an open window, and found a splendid one on the mezzanine landing above our bathroom. The securing bolt was loose, so I tightened it. Soon after that I had to change a light bulb, which in our main room involves climbing to the top of a set of steps, standing on the platform thereon, and praying the defunct bulb will come out without too much resistance. I was lucky. If I’d had to have used any sort of two- handed force, precariously perched as I was, the offending article would have become dislodged all of a sudden and I would have spun round and wobbled all over the place. Possibly with disastrous consequences.

For our evening meal I stuck battered haddock and chips in the oven for the required lengths of time; the contents of a tin of mushy peas in the microwave for rather fewer minutes; extracted three different jars of cornichons and one of pickled onions from the cupboard; wheeled it all to the dining table and served it up. I drank Cimarosa Pedro Jimenez 2012. Jackie didn’t feel like it, which was a shame, because it was a little on the sweet side for me and I think she would have enjoyed it.

Symbols Of England

Jackie and I began the day by driving Matthew to Nomansland to show him Lyburn Cottage. We wandered around the green on the edge of the forest before having a drink in The Lamb Inn. A cricket pitch is chained off on this edge of the forest. Keeping the outfield grass down is clearly taken care of by the ponies. Also on the site is a war memorial such as I have never seen before. Not only are the names of those who died in the first and second world wars listed, but also those who served. Those men who did not have to make the ultimate sacrifice, which was often a matter of luck, but took the risk, are also remembered. On the edge of the green stands a rather dilapidated red telephone box. It carries a plea:

The organisation responsible for this is attempting to rescue these largely obsolete symbols of England. They have, for example those at Oak Tree Farm, occasionally featured in my posts. I read on Daniel and Claire’s Walking Blog that a local group at Emery Down bought their box from BT for £1.

Someone has left a saw on the floor of the Nomansland box. I have seen worse objects deposited in such places.

Before taking Matthew back to Becky, Flo and Ian’s new home we had drinks in The Lamb. Jackie had coffee; I drank Doom Bar; and Matthew was given a very charming tea tray with his chosen beverage. It contained a dinky little antique milk jug which was, to the embarrassment of the staff, empty. This was soon rectified. We had a chance to ogle the food of those who were eating. This confirmed our view that this is really the best pub for food that we have sampled locally.

At the new flat Jackie and I, guided and assisted by Flo, assembled the family’s sofa bed. We couldn’t get the telly to work. From 27 North Road, Emsworth we all walked to the Driftwood Cafe where we were served the most splendid soups with chunks of fresh bread and tasty butter; plentifully filled sandwiches served with salad and crisps; and homemade cakes, one slice of which was the equivalent of a whole cake elsewhere. Flo had recovered enough to join us, but couldn’t eat all her huge cube of bread pudding. Our server happily provided a box in which to take the rest home.

Thus temporarily satisfied we made our way, in pouring rain, back home. Jackie’s scrambled egg on toast was a feast later on.

Through The Window

Another day of steady rain

washing windswept windows;

greasing patio paving;

puddling paths;

pearling maple branches;

glazing garden views;

dowsing patient sparrows;

refreshing colourful camellias,

and pink prunus Autumnalis,

ensured a day of Hardy reading and through-the-window photography.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy chicken curry and savoury rice followed by baklavas with which I drank more of the Cabernet Sauvignon.

The Chiropractors Could Come In Useful

This morning Jackie drove us to Emsworth, near Chichester, to help Becky in the first stages of moving into their new flat. She was collecting the keys at mid-day and taking in ‘a few boxes’ before the main move tomorrow. I became slightly concerned when I knew that Matthew was involved. This would surely expand the ‘few’. It did.

It didn’t really surprise us that we arrived some way in advance of our two offspring. We had coffee in the Cafe Moka, virtually next door, before ringing the doorbell at the appointed time, whereupon we were admitted by the estate agent, who herself, admitted that we were not who she was expecting. However, by the time she needed to attend to her car parking meter, she had grown to trust us enough to leave Becky’s parents alone in the apartment.

The cafe can be seen from the small balcony, euphemistically termed ‘garden’ by the estate agent, as can the fish and chip shop and various other restaurants opposite.

I was delighted to see that the Chinese takeaway, the:

had used an apostrophe in one grammatically correct way. It is a pity about the comma underneath.

I was right in my assumption that Matthew would stuff all he could into his little Able Assignments van. And on top of it. The stairs up to the third floor of the building were not as elegant as those that had so intrigued us at Athelhampton Hall two days ago, but I was to get to know them quite well over the next hour, during the unloading of the vehicle. (I could have stumbled upon an intriguing staircase photographic theme here).

On the ground floor of this building, there is a chiropractic clinic. This was somewhat reassuring, for if we did our backs in during the process, we wouldn’t have far to go for treatment. A dentist’s is on the opposite corner; a hairdresser’s across the road from, and a Tesco alongside, the Moka. As Becky said, she’d never have to go out.

Mat and I got pretty hot and sticky. Becky got very dry. At one point Jackie and Becky had repeatedly cried ‘sit!’ in stereo. Once I had realised Scooby wasn’t present, it dawned on me that I was being addressed by the two ladies concerned for my health and safety. It must have been the heavy breathing that caught their attention. Or maybe what Matthew termed the light patches on my dark blue shirt.

So it stood to reason we needed a drink. This was obtained at the Blue something or other that ‘I disremember’. I’m sure I will have a chance to reinforce my memory before much time has elapsed. The staff there were extremely friendly. As the barman offered me a tray and I thanked him, saying ‘I was wondering how I was going to get the drinks outside in one’, he responded with a smile and: ‘I was going to help you myself, but I thought I couldn’t be bothered, I’ll give you a tray’. I might get to like him.

Before arriving at the pub we went to check out a choice of Indian restaurants for tomorrow night. ‘A Taste of India’ stands next to ‘The Spice Village’. What could have been a problematic decision was made easier by Matthew, whose report on the first of these, where he had once eaten, was that it rivalled Mitcham’s ‘The Raj’. We booked at ‘The Spice Village’. The man who took our booking, noticing Becky cavorting to the rhythm of the music that was playing, told her he would try to have it on when we arrived to eat, and to remind him if he forgot.

The tide was out in the harbour, and the day rather changeable, but it was easy to see why it was such a tourist attraction. Later, Elizabeth told us it was one of Mum’s favourite walks.

Our return journey took us close to The Firs, so we dropped in on Elizabeth and took her off to Eastern Nights for the usual excellent curries, Bangla, and Cobra. Jackie drove us home in the dark amidst heavy rain.

‘You Haven’t Closed The Door’

Jackie Ryder, who is, I gather, something of an expert, recommended the Cuckoo Inn, lying near the far end of Lyburn Road, as the perfect country pub. We therefore decided to try it out today. Before arriving at Nomansland, we took a trip to Burley Street to have a look at a house. The owner kindly invited me into the back garden to photograph what she said was the best view. It just happened that she was outside with the estate agent as I wandered down the gravel lane.

You never know, we may need to be looking elsewhere than at our few favourite possible abodes.

The barman at the Cuckoo Inn told us it was an alcohol based pub, which meant they weren’t serving food other than Wiltshire pasties, but a chippy visited on Friday nights. The pub was attractive, with its multiple small, snug, rooms. It served a range of beers and ciders. The barman, who recommended The King’s Head at Redlynch for the meal we were seeking, was very open and friendly. He confirmed what we had read on website reviews, that they were seeking renegotiation of the lease from ‘the estate’. The reviewer had, last November regretted the death of the previous landlord. Jackie found the strong lingering scent of last night’s beer more attractive than I did. We had determined to make lunch our main meal of the day, so didn’t stay, but went on to Redlynch. On our return, the sun had put in an appearance and there was a troop of cyclists drinking in the garden. All this made the establishment, originally virtually empty, look more inviting. We passed a number of posters informing us that the famous Cuckoo Inn was to host a forthcoming beer festival.

The Kings Head was very well cared for; large, clean, and very friendly, with carefully tended hanging baskets and window boxes. The food was fairly standard pub fare, reasonably cooked. I had the pie of the day, being chicken, ham, and mushroom. The herbs, which were the dominant taste, were not mentioned on the board. It, and the accompanying vegetables, were perfectly well cooked. Jackie’s choice was macaroni cheese, which she enjoyed, as she did her small creme brûlée that followed. Only one other couple was dining when we arrived. Our main course took three quarters of an hour, and Jackie’s sweet, fifteen minutes, to reach our table.

The same diminutive elderly gentleman delivered small barrels of beer, two at a time, stacked on his sack barrow, from his open-sided van, to each of these hostelries. He could just about see over the top of what he was pushing. He certainly seemed fit enough for the task.

Jackie chose our table because it was near a door kept open by a doorstop, and she sought the breeze. A couple with two young children entered. The woman bent down, removed the doorstop, ordered at the bar, and, closing the door behind her, led the family into the garden where they settled down at a picnic table. After a decent interval the barmaid reopened the door, and replaced its stopper. Some time later, the woman and child came back into the bar. After placing another order they left for the garden again. The little girl said: ‘You haven’t closed the door’. This led us to speculate about who actually made the decisions in this, probably grandparent, relationship.

Jackie drove us East, directly across the forest from The Lamb Inn. On this brief trip the pleasant lanes were frequented by pigs, cattle, ponies, and donkeys. The snuffling and gobbling pigs do make a row in comparison with the other silent herbivores. Beyond Newbridge, we discovered a road running under the M27, which could be useful access for anywhere north of it. We were stopped at temporary traffic lights because men were working on underside of the bridge. This struck me as a rather ear-shattering occupation.

A crisp salad with firm, delicious Huntsman’s Pie from Ferndene Farm Shop sufficed for our evening repast.

Marevna

On learning of my penchant for history, our friend Margery lent me ‘The Crusades’ by Thomas Asbridge. I began reading it yesterday evening.

As I took a series of photographs in January 1965, at the ripe old age of 22, I thought: ‘these will be an historical record one day’. Now, nigh on 49 years later, they are. I did not start illustrating these posts until June last year, so when I mentioned on 22nd May that I still had the colour slides I took of the queues for the lying in state of Sir Winston Churchill, I did not add them to the post. I rectified that this morning, by adding five.

After this a deer made its quite slow, elegant, way across the lawn, until, disturbed by our attention, it fled into its bolt hole.

I then walked the two underpasses route, starting at the Malwood Farm end. A summer’s usage by pedestrians and ponies has produced such reasonably clear footpaths as to make my earlier errant efforts at this trip during the waterlogged spring seem somewhat meandering. The farm’s gravel heap is higher, harmonising even better with the pipes upon, and logs beside, it. I reached the Rufus Stone car park in very quick time, just as Bob and Lyndon were preparing to move on. These two friendly men were volunteers for the Forestry Commission, engaged in litter picking. I wondered if the family decanting from a car behind them might render some of their work in vain. I spoke with them for a while, and told them I had seen their equivalent in Morden Hall Park last year. They knew of the National Trust’s similar system.

Outside Shovel Cottage in Minstead four apples placed on the verge of the road seemed to be harbingers of the season when local residents put out food for the struggling ponies.

At mid-day we set off, Jackie driving, to Athelhampton Hall in Dorset to visit the privately owned house and gardens. It was a dull day and late in the year, but we saw enough of the splendidly designed gardens to know that they will look stunning in spring and summer, when we vowed to return. First built in 1485, the house has undergone various embellishments over the centuries, yet remains beautifully integrated.

The garden has been so well designed that wherever you are positioned, as in an open plan house, you are led to another living area. There almost seem to be more rooms in the garden than in the grand house, each one offering an invitation to another. There are more walls than in an open plan house, though. Fountains abound. Through one you can usually see another. Dahlias, Rudbeckia, sunflowers, Hydrangea were blooming. Some roses were still at their best, usually with their companions’ petals carpeting the earth beneath them. Sweet chestnut shells are developing to protect the nuts they nurture.

A thirty year old eucalyptus, in gentle pastel colours, sheds its bark and its leaves onto the brick paths around its base, two long roots stretching out like symmetrical tentacles. There are a number of pleached lime colonnades.

The delightful boy with his dog was just one of the many sculptures enjoying the flowers.

A bridge in the grounds crosses the River Piddle. (That just had to be done, didn’t it?)

At the entrance to the house I was intrigued by the dates of some of the graffiti. Once inside, we were permitted to take photographs; could roam freely without having to follow a prescribed route; and could, it seemed, sit anywhere.

There were bathrooms of different periods, one containing a magnificent polished copper bath. It had me wondering about the term ‘copper’ for a tub for washing clothes. The state bedroom had what must have been a rather early en suite.

Staircases were from very different periods, and always intriguing. One, an Elizabethan ammonite, led to the gallery where I discovered Marevna. Marevna was a Russian painter who lived in the house from 1948 -1957. She worked with all the great earlier twentieth century painters, her style embracing various forms, such as cubism and pointillism, to name just two I recognised. Obviously a favourite model, her daughter Marika, was her child with Mexican artist Diego Rivera who, incidentally, numbered the brilliant Frida Kahlo among his many lovers. At the top of the spiral staircase lies the entrance to the gallery, through the door of which can be seen part of her ‘Homage to Friends from Montparnasse’ of 1961. Her painting of The Great Court hangs on a wall adjacent to one framing a window through which can be seen the real thing.

When, like father bear, I tested a very comfortable chair, and Jackie decided to photograph me in situ, she found herself at the head of a queue of would-be David Baileys.

After an uneventful drive back Jackie produced a meal of lamb and mint sausages, potato croquettes, onions, mushrooms, cauliflower, cabbage and peas. It only needs a second’s power cut, to which we are prone, for the electric cooker to be thrown out. By this, I mean, its operation is upset. Mind you, it sometimes is at serious risk of being ejected through the kitchen window. The instruction manual has to be consulted, and much fiddling undergone if the food is ever to burn. We had one a couple of days ago. However, it was sorted, otherwise we wouldn’t have had our sausages. Mine went down well with the rest of yesterday’s Sicilian wine, and Jackie’s with her Belgian beer.