September 2013 – Page 3 – derrickjknight

Nomansland

When I posted The Magnificent Seven, I was in France, and not carrying my archived photos from 2008. I was therefore unable to illustrate it suitably. This morning, having stored them on the new iMac, I picked a few at random and added a postscript. It wasn’t quite a straightforward operation because I had to change the original formats to JPEG in order to upload them. It took a wee while to work it out. I don’t fancy my chances of remembering how to do it next time.

In 1995 the B3078, Godshill Road, was named Roger Penny Way after a much respected local highway official sensitive to the forest. We have often driven along it from the Cadnam roundabout towards Godshill or Fordingbridge. Jackie has sometimes dropped me off along there for a walk across the heathland to meet her at Frogham. Our latest investigation into a possible new abode led us to take a turning to the right along this road. About three miles from the Cadnam roundabout lies Lyburn Cottage in Lyburn Road, Nomansland. This is actually in Wiltshire but still in the New Forest National Park, although the forest itself stops at the cattle grid on the hill at the top of the road. The now familiar ponies and their droppings trails are directly opposite this. Just around the corner stands the Lamb Inn with an interesting looking French restaurant, Mirabelle, next door. As I read the bilingual menu affixed to a post outside, a French family were leaving, and in conversation with a man I took to be the proprietor. The restaurant separates the pub from the methodist chapel.

The current owner of Lyburn Cottage was painting the outside of the garage, so we expressed our interest and had a good conversation. Not yet in possession of our money, we explained we were not ready for viewing. He said we were welcome to walk around the outside and take photographs. I had a very good feel about this one. The gardens are an attraction, as are the rose covering the frontage, and the vine over the carport.

We enjoyed a drink and a snack in the pub. The nearest shop, not far away is in Landford. This is run by an escapee from south west London who told Jackie some months ago that this was the best move she had ever made. The publican told me there was a cash machine in the Landford Post Office. Indeed there was. The woman serving summoned a man who was eating his dinner inside, and he came into the store to operate it for me. We took a slow drive back through the forest to Roger Penny Way and home.

When I got soaked a couple of days ago, so must have my camera, for today’s pictures have a kind of woolly effect on the far right of the frame. On inspection I discovered a smear on the lens. Hopefully, cleaning it will have done the trick.

This afternoon I finished reading Peter Roberts’ ‘Minstead: Life in seventeenth century New Forest Community’, lent to us by David Watson. Clearly, not much has been written on the subject in the past. A small forest village has probably not engendered a huge amount of interest and according to Roberts there wasn’t a great deal of local literacy at that time. The author has therefore relied heavily on such records as court rolls, wills, and inventories. We have a picture of people without full employment living off the forest as best they may. For me the book suffers from a certain adherence to facts and figures gleaned from the records with less attention to interpretation. It is, however, fascinating. And it offered an interesting addition to the possibilities of the origin of the word Seamans. Peter Roberts writes: “The name may originate with J. Seman, a forest officer in the reign of Henry VI. Whilst this could be thought to dispel the old story of the lane being used by the press gang, an item in the churchwardens accounts of 1666 for two shillings paid to ‘….8 sholgers in the conveying of prest men two Portmuth’ leaves room for thought as to how such tales start’.

Jackie’s juicy jalfrezi and scrumptious savoury rice, followed by New Forest strawberry ice cream, provided our dinner tonight. I drank Torretta di Mondelli Nero d’Avola 2011, and Jackie her usual Hoegaarden.

‘The Birds’

What began as a trip to Hordle to look at another house seen on a website turned into an enjoyable day out. We had been promised white cloud all day, but the weather was much more pleasantly changeable than that.

Oak Tree Cottage in Woodcock Lane looks a serious contender. As we were nearby we had another look at the house in Frys Lane in Everton, then set off north west to Matchams to see North Lodge again. Frys Lane, which has been under offer for a long time and now back on the market, still appeals. North Lodge is a very attractive house indeed, but somewhat isolated and subject to traffic noise.

Between these two houses we spent a most pleasant couple of hours in Mudeford, the beach huts of which we had seen from the sea on 30th August. Jackie told me Matthew had loved crabbing when he was small.

She said all anyone had to do was to drop a line into the water, and masses of crustaceans would be clinging to it when it was drawn up. That is exactly what we watched. So did the gulls who wheeled and swooped whenever they spotted the quivering claws. Especially when a group knocked over their bucket and the catch sidled as fast as they could in order to throw themselves off the quayside like a troop of lemmings off a cliff face.

Sometimes the sky was filled with gulls; sometimes the sea and sky scape together contained both gulls and buoys.

The quayside contained much paraphernalia of more professional catching of crabs. Pots were piled up in an orderly fashion. Coiled ropes and folded nets were of various bright colours. Starlings flocked everywhere. Some camouflaged themselves on the lids of the crab pots, their iridescent speckled plumage blending well with the containers’ mesh and turquoise thread.

These vociferous and gregarious birds rivalled the gulls for perches on the roof tiles, as they performed their swan song before setting off for warmer climes. A quieter congregation on the roof of the Haven House Inn listened attentively to a grandee seeming to prepare them for their journey. Noticing what the building was, we were tempted inside for cod and chips each, a pint of Ringwood best for me, and a half of Kronenberg for Jackie. Whilst we were enjoying our meals, two women we later learned were sisters, entered and debated whether they should eat inside or out. Each option was preferred by a different sister. Eventually the lover of the outdoors appeared to win the day, and out they went. ‘I’ll give them five minutes and they’ll be back’, said Jackie. She was nearly right. One came inside, where we were snugly ensconced, within about three. Well, it was brewing up for rain.

The slimmer woman sat beside us waiting for her meal. Both lunches were brought to her table and she sent her sister’s bowl of cheesy chips outside. When we finished and left,

the woman outside was absolutely surrounded by shimmering, silent, starlings. Starlings to the right of us; starlings to the left of us; starlings in front of us.

They perched on the rails surrounding the dining area; they perched on the chairs; they perched on the paving stones. Occasionally a courageous member of the flock alighted on the table.

Alfred Hitchcock’s ‘The Birds’ was nothing to this invasion and raid on the poor woman’s meal. She took it all in good part and occasionally offered a chip.

She expressed the thought that she would go inside soon.

After our substantial lunch, we dined later than usual on cheese omelette, baked beans and toast. Apparently there are baked beans that are not Heinz. The tins bear the Branston logo, and they are obtainable in Lidl. They are just as good.

Having taken far more pictures than appear in this post, with the young lady’s permission, I just had to go back inside and show them to the other sister. She, naturally thought the situation hilarious, and told me her sibling was equally attractive to wasps.

‘Have You Had A Fall Or Something?’

We have found Rufuston on the agent’s website. It is still intriguing. Were we to pursue it, us oldies would need to install a lift; more double glazing; and at least one more loo. The house is on four floors, with stunning views across the forest at the back, but the noisy A31 at the front.

I passed the building whilst taking the Matthew and Oddie walk this morning. When I set out light rain was falling, causing everything to glitter in the sunshine. By the time I reached what I have been calling Bournemouth Road, but which Jackie’s research has revealed to be Forest Road, the rain was becoming steadier, until it became a torrent well before I approached the bottle bank. I could not summon a lift home because I had left my phone on charge.

Diving for shelter into the trees, I managed to spear my forehead on a dead holly branch. I regard this as serendipity, because had I not dropped my head a little I would not have noticed what I take to be ponies’ teeth marks on the bark. These reminded me of some mediaeval paving stones I bought in an architectural salvage store in Carlisle in the late 1980s. Hiring a van, I transported them to Lindum House, around which I made a footpath. These stones, some of which were so worn as to be concave, contained hand-made chisel marks on the undersides. Turning the concave ones upside down and filling the sockets with sand, a reasonably level path was produced, leaving the chisel marks in full view.

My attempt to photograph the holly bark wasn’t completely in focus, but that of the branch was completely hopeless. Maybe I wasn’t seeing straight.

Tramping along the wide Forest Road, I was greeted by a young man who stopped his car on the other side of the road. He wondered whether I was ok. I must have looked a bit puzzled, because, when I said I was, he asked: ‘Have you had a fall, or something?’. I smiled and said: ‘Oh, I just walked into a tree’. I’m not sure this was any less of an alarming prospect for my good Samaritan, for he persisted. Eventually he was satisfied I was unharmed.

When you think about it, it was quite reasonable for the couple, with a toddler in a car seat at the back, to have stopped. I may well have done the same had I seen an elderly gent in an open-necked short-sleeved shirt, summer trousers, and sandals sans socks, striding through the heather by the side of an unpopulated road, in the pouring rain, with blood seeping into his right eyebrow.

I hadn’t realised I was bleeding until I returned home and dripped (water) into the flat. Soon after I had dried out and changed my clothing the sun came out and beamed at me. Probably at everyone else as well, but it did seem to be rather amused.

Imperial China in Lyndhurst High Street provided our evening repast, and very good it was too. We chose their set meal B, which, as usual, was plentiful, varied, and crisply cooked. We both drank Tsing Tao beer. The waiting staff there are all amazing. Remaining friendly, and sometimes humorous, they work at a rate of knots. Seeing the young men in particular glide through the restaurant propelling trays of steaming sizzling options, deftly avoiding any customers taking their places, reminded me of Jeremy Guscott, England’s finest rugby centre of the 1980s and ’90s, and perhaps of any age.

Every One A Winner

I photographed on commission this morning. Jackie would like to make a card depicting a trio of Morning Glories. She has several plants, but just one produced the required threesome today.

Cottagers Lane in Hordle is a gorgeous tree-lined road, today dappled in the sunlight. A house we had seen on a website led us there. Still in the forest, at a pinch this thatched beauty could be affordable. Our usual external viewing didn’t disappoint. In tip-top condition, with a newly thatched roof, as evidenced by the still golden decoy pheasant up above, this was an attractive prospect, with additional (library) accommodation in the garden. That side of the road backs onto open fields. As I took a selection of photographs, a female group, with horse, and dog in tow, ambled past.

The Frys Lane house in Everton, previously under offer, is back on the market, so we had another look at that too.

After an errant drive back we visited the Minstead Flowers, Fruit, and Vegetables Show at the Village Hall. According to Oz, whom we met there, the event was a major success, having attracted far more entries than for many years. Every kind of produce imaginable was carefully and artistically displayed with explanatory labels, some indicating the award of prizes. We didn’t stay for the presentation of these latter, but there was a vast assembly of silver trophies shinily filling a table on the stage.

When paying our 50p each for admission we were enjoined to assist in the final judging. If I understood Steve Cattel correctly this was the selection of some kind of Victor Ludorum for the floral displays. I suggested getting us to do this was a cop out. He said it was. We had to place our ticket in the tumbler of our choice. Mine had already won first prize as a novice exhibit. There weren’t many other tickets in the cup.

As well as the eponymous flowers, fruit, and vegetables, a table was laid with preserves and cakes to make your mouth water; another of cracked eggshells alongside their contents; models made by children; and novelties like the weirdest vegetables. One pair of prize-winning vegetables also looked pretty weird to me. That is why I photographed the turnips. As I raised the camera, a hand slid across the image in the viewfinder and was abruptly withdrawn. Its owner apologised for spoiling the shot. ‘I didn’t take it’, I said. ‘Please put your hand there again. It will make the picture. It looks as if you are snaffling the turnips’. Who knows? Maybe that is what she had been doing. She was happy to humour me, but was inevitably somewhat tentative, and looked a little less like a child grasping for sweets.

I was particularly intrigued by the ‘Tray for a Royal Christening’ displays. These required baking and flower arranging skills; a suitable choice of tray, china and cutlery; and an artistic presentation. As Jackie pointed out, the bootees on the winning fairy cakes perhaps influenced the judges’ choice of number one, but they were all noteworthy entries. Personally, I think anyone who has the courage to enter such a potentially disappointing competition, relying on the somewhat arbitrary judgement of others, deserves a prize. Jackie was incensed that the vase of roses she had thought best hadn’t even been placed. Unfortunately that’s not how life works.

Athletics at school wasn’t my thing. I always wanted at least a ball, if not a bat, and I was no sprinter or jumper. And if I were going to be a sweater, I wanted it to be in a game. We had an annual sports day and everyone was expected to enter three events. I wasn’t going to enter the hundred yards race; and I hadn’t developed my Fosbury flop. What could I do? Well there was a javelin, a discus, and a shot. It didn’t seem to require much effort to stand there and chuck them, especially as no-one else fancied their chances and there were never more than three entrants, so I was assured of at least bronze. I have to admit to being rather dangerous for any peripheral spectators when it came to the javelin. It would also have helped my points rating had I thrown it straight.

I’m not sure if I mentioned at home that a gold medal gained in the discus one year required less than even my normal desultory effort, for there were no other competitors.

Jackie once went to a show similar to today’s at Minstead. She admired a cake that had won second prize. Searching for the winner of the gold, she realised there wasn’t one. There had only been one entry not adjudged good enough for the prime accolade. When she told me this I considered myself fortunate that my schoolmasters had not been inclined to take the same stance.

No matter how many entries there had been for tonight’s chicken jalfrezi contest, Jackie, with her delicious offering, would have won hands down. Any self-respecting Bangladeshi chef would have been proud of it. Particularly appreciated were the delicate aromas of her pilau rice garnished with toasted almonds. Although the meal didn’t really need it, I spiced mine up with Naga relish given to me either by Danni or Shelly. I finished the Ogio merlot, myself.

History Comes At A Price

When the whole row of checkouts in a supermarket begins to reject any credit or debit cards that are inserted into the machines at the counters, chaos ensues. We know, because we shopped in Totton’s Lidl this morning. Our prospective purchases were all laid out on the conveyor belt. The man in front only had a few items to buy. His card was rejected. He fished around about his person for another. That was rejected. The young lady who had only just opened up our escape route, leant back, turned round, and asked the young man operating the one alongside for help. He said none of the machines were working. That wasn’t a lot of help. Were the machines to be believed, no-one had any money in their accounts.

A lot of buzzing of buttons took place. Along came a technical looking gentleman with a special looking key which he inserted into the end checkout machine. Nothing much happened. A man in a white shirt accompanied him. The technician had another go. ‘Will that work?’ asked our young lady of the official looking gent. ‘It might’, he replied. I don’t think that was the answer she was hoping for.

Customers were being very patient, but the queues were mounting up. The man at the head of ours paid in cash. We didn’t have enough. We were informed that the nearest cash machine was some distance away. Oh for Sainsbury’s, which always has its own ATM. Eventually a new till was opened and seemed to work. Our checkout person decided she would enter our purchases into a ‘lay away’. This meant the details could be transferred to the till of young woman newly brought in as reinforcements. ‘Good thinking, Batwoman’, said I, and Jackie walked across to the next till. The card being used at that moment was rejected. Fortunately the ‘lay away’ worked, and we were able to get away, and drive to Ringwood Brewery.

The stationary object just off-centre of the middle of the road at Seamans Corner, appeared to be a new central refuge. When we returned en route to Ringwood, it had gone.

The purpose of the brewery trip was to have a look at a wonderful looking eighteenth century house we had seen on a website. It was bang opposite the brewery on the busy road to Christchurch. Never mind, if it is still for sale when we have the opportunity to look in earnest, we will be back. Ostlers Keep is packed with original features.

Bisterne is on this same road, so we continued along it in order to have another look at the house by the Village Hall photographed on 30th August. We wanted to see how far the garden extended at the back. This involved entering the hall car park. As I peered over the 6′ fence, the owner, Rod, approached. I explained what we were doing. He had no objection. I said we didn’t want to disturb people until we had the necessary money, but acknowledged that we had rather disturbed him today.

Monmouth House in West Street bears a plaque detailing the story of its name:

This has been for sale as long as we have been in Minstead, but we haven’t seen it on any website. Taking the name of the agent and investigating the window of Spencers of The New Forest, we discovered why not. It is way beyond our possible price range. Given that it leads straight onto the busy town road, we had thought it may not be too expensive. Wrong. History comes at a price.

P.S. I pressed the wrong button earlier on and published this post a little too soon. There will be a P.P.S.

P.P.S. Jackie fed us this evening on steak and vegetable ragout with dumplings. I drank Ogio merlot 2012. I didn’t give Jackie any. She preferred sparkling water.

Carthage

We are currently basking in an Indian summer, so it is quite appropriate that Jackie is so proud of her Star of India clematis that, at a cost of £1.99 she rescued from Morrison’s shelves. Baby Bio, regular watering, and plentiful sunshine have done the trick.

Late this morning, I walked down to the village shop and back, for New Forest ice cream. In tubs for the freezer, of course. I wouldn’t have got very far with cones, in a temperature in the high twenties.

Blackberries in various stages of ripening now festoon the late summer hedgerows grasped by their thorny stems. We’ll probably have to pick some sometime.

Against the background thrum of the ride-on lawn mower shaving the grass of a house labelled Yew Tree, those not to be ridden-on taking care of the frontage of Bay Tree Cottage opposite, were positively silent as they cropped away.

This afternoon I finished reading Serge Lancel’s tome, ‘Carthage: A History’. The writer himself, I understand, simply called the book ‘Carthage’. To my mind it really represents a search for the great pre-Christian African city state. An endeavour to find the meeting points between archaelogical research and the classic authors’ annals. The difficulties beset by the historian working with early texts and largely vanished remains are as painstakingly confronted by Lancel, as if he himself were digging in the sand.

Carthage was completely destroyed by the Romans in 146 BC. The victors used the stones of the original city to build their new one. There wasn’t much left for the early archaeologists, who, in a less carefully regulated age, plundered the tombs. There was even less for the modern ones. Nevertheless the story is slowly being pieced together.

Although the book’s later writing demonstrates that Lancel, no doubt assisted by Antonia Nevill’s translation from the French, can write elegant prose, I found the bulk of the earlier chapters somewhat difficult to absorb. I am never entranced by figures and careful measurements which were used to explain conclusions. There were lots of these. The author is also committed to examining in detail other possible alternatives. I struggle not to skip these sections.

My Folio Society edition contains many detailed drawings and informative photographs. These aided my understanding of what is known about a place that was just a name to me before reading this work.

Elizabeth came to visit and share our evening meal. Jackie placed the bottle of La Patrie Cahors 2011 malbec in the sunshine. After a very short time the bottle became very hot with the wine erupting through the cork. A lengthy period in the fridge was then required. Readers who feel inclined to read ‘The Village Shop Revisited’ of 20th October last year, will discover that I am quite practiced in this method of acquiring the correct temperature.

Whilst we enjoyed Jackie’s wonderful beef stew, with a smattering of carrots, we got talking about a trip to The Hampshire Bowman. This was because they served feather blade steak, which is often used for beef stew. None of us could remember what we had eaten on our visit there. The solution was simple. Across the room on my Apple, was all the information required. Should you be interested, you can do what we did, which is look up the Renovations post. The malbec was the drink for Elizabeth and me, whilst Jackie’s was Blue Moon. Dessert was the New Forest Dairy Oriental Ginger ice cream I had bought this morning.

Anticipating The Shot

A rather splendid, slightly ageing, Petunia has finally thrust itself through the massed flora concealing the pots in which Jackie planted them. I had to stand on a chair to photograph it.

Today we took a trip to one of our favourite areas, around Sway. We were to combine a visit to Ferndene Farm Shop in Bashley with a recce of two houses, one in Pennington, the other in Hordle. Both had attracted us on the internet.

It was a spectacularly sunny day, the roads all bespeckled with light and shade wherever the sun’s rays penetrated the forest foliage. Once we left the A35 the route consisted almost entirely of winding lanes. Ponies were much in evidence, but the only actual hold-ups were caused by young women leading their mounts.

The Pennington house is the one that grabbed our interest. Wondering why such a large house with such extensive gardens would be within our price range, we thought an external viewing may provide the answer. Indeed it did. It consists of two originally adjoining cottages, their front doors onto the street, on a very busy crossroads. None of this deters us, so it has gone onto our favourites list. Mind you, this is probably due extensive autumn pruning. Having photographed the front view, with the front doors no longer in use, I wanted to take a picture showing the situation at the crossroads. Crossing over to the Wheel Inn opposite, I aimed the camera at a moment when there was no traffic in shot. Then, the eyes I had wheeling in my head spotted, along the side of the building, an approaching farm vehicle; to my left a car towing a container for New Forest Classic Cars, which my fleeting glance took to be a caravan; and to my right, a woman leading a horse, with a man in tow. This was an exciting opportunity to portray the flavour of a country crossroads. But these differently paced subjects were all required to arrive at a suitable moment. I always used to skip those IQ questions that have trains or suchlike leaving stations at different times and different speeds and asking you to estimate how long it would be before they crashed, on the grounds that they would take too much time. I leave an assessment of the result, based on the eye and immense good fortune, to your judgement.

I didn’t photograph the Hordle abode.

On our way home, on Wootton Heath, passing the trough discovered on 27th February, we noticed ponies drinking from it. Naturally Jackie had to park up and I had to wander across to photograph the animals. Unfortunately, as I approached, they peeled off, one by one, whinnying. The only decent picture I got was of a white pony lifting its head and preparing to disappear. ‘Ah, well’, I thought, ‘never mind’. As Jackie drove towards The Rising Sun in order to turn round, I noticed several more equine creatures crossing the road in the direction of the trough. We drove on ahead; I got out and ambled across the heath; and my subjects, too thirsty to worry about me, got stuck in.

The ponies were all waving their fly whisks. I felt sympathetic to these patient creatures who have nothing with which to flap the flies from their eyes, mouths, and noses.

Jessica, moving into year 2 at school in Mapperley, guided her younger sister Imogen to her reception class. The verdict this afternoon was ‘I looooove school’.

I amused myself making a small print from Louisa’s Facebook post, and fitting it into a circular 3″ diameter silver frame made in 1919, that Jackie had given me for my birthday. The picture was perfect for the frame which had been just waiting for it.

While we sat in the garden before our delicious dinner of Jackie’s roast lamb with all the trimmings, including roast potatoes, we had a pleasant conversation, as always, with David, staying with his mother Jean. He was out walking Nevis, their Coton de Tulear, who is considerably calmer now. Indeed, I had forgotten that he always barked at us before.

I finished the La Piedra Leon with my meal.

The Crown Tap

I was delighted to learn that, soon after my furniture had been unloaded at Graham Road yesterday, Emily and Alice had come ‘snaffling’. Em had departed with a table lamp; Alice had a set of hanging shelves and a framed photograph. I am particularly pleased that my granddaughter had the good taste to choose one of my best photographs, taken at Covent Garden in 1983. I spent the morning searching for the original colour slide, but it remained elusive. So Alice, you have the only one. Treasure it.

After this Jackie drove us to Ringwood, where we had some banking to do. I also took in my Longines watch to have a new battery fitted. Mostly, now, I wear the beautiful Tissot timepiece that Jessie bought me, so I hadn’t even been aware that the Longines needed more juice.

Whilst waiting for the watch we popped into The Crown Tap in Southampton Road. We were both thirsty on this very hot day. Jackie caused great amusement by asking for a ‘diet thingy’. We knew it was a coke that was required, but some other suggestions were made.

The building is a very old part of a terrace, and had probably once been someone’s small cottage. We thought the later brick fireplace had originally been the site of a kitchen range. In the background, on the wall, England were in the process of being thrashed by Ireland in a limited overs cricket match. It was as if the English batsmen had been put off their stroke by the sight of Marilyn Monroe. Goodness knows what she made of the modern version of a game that was so very different in her era. (I am reliably informed by Ian Steele that I have no faith. The game resulting in a comfortable win for England, Morgan and Bopara each making centuries. Miss Monroe must have been beyond their range of vision).

Frank Sinatra sang on the music system. Elvis curled his lip on the wall opposite at the sound of it. All this made me suggest to the barman that this was a nostalgia pub. He kind of agreed, although I suspect he may not have been quite with me. He was quite young. Another, older, customer said it used to be spit and sawdust but now they had a carpet. Anyway, they serve Ringwood’s best which was my choice. The customers all seemed well known to the bartender and others. One man came in leading a mongrel on the end of a piece of string. He said the dog wasn’t his, but regularly came and sat in his garden, so he thought he’d bring it out for a drink today.

The narrow corridor leading to the toilets seem to have confused some gent’s (sic). A sign informs them that they have to move next door.

This evening Jackie made a roast chicken meal complete with stuffing. So we ate it. It was delicious. I also drank some La Piedra Leon reserva malbec 2011. Jackie didn’t.

Full Marks To Globe Removals

Phew! The move from Sutherland Place has been completed. Tomas and Roland, two very personable Lithuanian born young men did an amazing job and were excellent company. How they managed to carry all the book-filled boxes up from the basement I could only marvel at. My Dad was an excellent van-packer. He would have been very proud of the way Tomas masterminded this process. The original plan had been to work two trips, one to Michael’s Wimbledon House with the furniture, return to Sutherland Place, and then take the books to Minstead. They wanted to do it in one. This needed very tight work. It was done.

I ran out of boxes. Tomas brought two from the van. I ran out of tape. I bought some more in Westbourne Grove. On the way I saw a three-legged cat deftly avoiding one of the multitude of doggie bags that litter the streets of W2. These, you must understand, are not filled with food people couldn’t eat in restaurants. They contain scooped up dog shit which local canine owners consider is acceptable to chuck in the gutter for roadsweepers to clear up.

With the van loaded and number 29 locked up I duly delivered the keys Roger Berwick had brought me on Saturday to Vera Williams in Talbot Street. The men invited me to ride in the van, which was a great help to me and meant they didn’t have to wait in Minstead for my arrival.

The only hitch in all this process was caused by the cash machines. I walked round to Sainsbury’s in Westbourne Grove. Their ATM was out of order. That didn’t particularly bother me, because there were lots of banks in Wimbledon. Having introduced my removers to Michael and Matthew, I left them to unload, saying I would be back in a few minutes with the cash. Santander was the nearest. Intending to give these stalwarts a generous tip I needed £500. Their machine showed a top figure of £400. They also offered an additional transaction. So I elected to follow the £400 withdrawal with one for £100. It seemed logical. I got £100 and a receipt which informed me I could have £200 more. I went inside and reported this to the help desk. I was told their machines only supplied £300. ‘But there is an option for £400’, I said. ‘That’s for special customers’, was the reply.

I then visited NatWest’s cash dispenser. This one gave me a slip that bore the message that I could only have £200. There was nothing for it but to join a lengthy queue. No-one attaches themselves to the end of one of those unless they have a problem. So it took a rather long time. One exasperated young woman lost patience and left, so that moved me up one. There was, of course, no problem at the counter. The cashier offered to increase my ATM withdrawal limit to a ridiculously high sum. He persisted in his offer, suggesting it would save me queueing. He had a point so I reduced his proposed figure and accepted his generosity. This also took more than a little time.

On the way back to the house a small boy dropped a letter. His mother didn’t notice and seemed not to hear him telling her of this. I bent to pick it up. That is a very simple sentence. The manoeuvre was not. At the best of times getting down there is a somewhat painful business these days. After a weekend spent packing it is less than easy. And envelopes lie flat on the pavement so you have to get your fingers underneath them. In Wimbledon Broadway this procedure has to be carried out while most of the world is streaming past you in haste, and is made more hazardous when you don’t have brake lights attached to your backside. Anyway, I did it. The boy was most grateful. I’m not sure his mother was exactly delighted at its return.

I arrived back just in time to move on to Minstead. Tomas completed the journey in an hour and a half, including stopping for petrol. I thought that quite impressive. They unloaded at admirable speed and were soon off back to where they had come from.

Andy Bricks, of Globe Removals had moved us from Morden on 11th November last year. It was on the strength of that experience I chose to use them again. They are to be highly recommended, as being punctual, efficient, reliable, and very reasonably priced.

Falling asleep at the end of the day, I just about managed this piece of work. Jackie had driven us to Ringford where we had a look at the outside of a house. Excellent curries were consumed.

As I staggered to bed I realised I hadn’t mentioned that we visited the Curry Garden, so I opened up the computer again to put that right. The bit about the outside of a house is rubbish, as is Ringford – it should be Ringwood. I must have been actually dreaming when I wrote that. At least I got the curry bit right. Well, I have been up for eighteen hours, and had quite a busy day, finished off with two pints of cobra with the meal. I’m going back to sleep now.

‘Time To Go’

This morning I was surprised to hear a very satisfied male woodpigeon joyfully waking the residents of Westbourne Grove. I am spending the weekend in Sutherland Place, which is not where there is a great deal of evidence of avian life. Much as it may try, it doesn’t match up to the night owls and morning cocks of the new forest and nearby farmyards.

Around the corner, in Artesian Road, are sited two large black domestic rubbish bins. I made several sad trips to them. Clearing out the bedroom cupboard revealed the sorry state of much of my artwork, both photographic and drawing. Some of the drawings were by children. Collected over the years these had suffered from the various moves since 2006, and a burglary inflicted on my landlords some months ago. There were framed pictures with broken glass. I didn’t really have the heart to trawl through them all to see what was recoverable. Particularly regrettable were some very large black and white unmounted, and therefore the most vulnerable, prints I had made with chemicals and an enlarger during the 1980s. I rationalised that I still have the negatives, should I wish to replace them. Unfortunately nothing can replace the clarity of those images made in the old-fashioned way. C’est la vie. It was also sad to lose the original drawings I had done for the covers of a magazine dedicated to work with elderly people during my last years as a Social Services Area Manager in Westminster. I had ditched the printed copies when I left Lindum House.

I laid the battered folder on the ground and had one last look. A kind and helpful woman asked if she could help me put them in the Paper and Card bin. There is a green flap at the top, that must be lifted to insert the discards, so assistance is advantageous. I couldn’t dither forever, so I accepted her offer. I explained what I was doing, and she said: ‘Time to go’. And in they went. But not before I had retrieved a portrait of Louisa I had signed and dated on 8th March 1991. That I will iron out. Ouise, you are getting it for Christmas.

The broken framed work went in the Household Rubbish container. It took me some time to lift my spirits for the last of the packing.

Until mid-afternoon I was taking down and packing up pictures; Sam’s oar also came down, but the enormous great thing, one of two won in the Wadham eight in 2001, defied packing. I do hope the removal men bring a suitable screwdriver to dismantle it tomorrow. Anything, like table lamps, for example, that has wires attached had the flex wound round it and taped up. Waste bins were useful for containing old telephones, such as the beautiful Belgian relic (not you, Anne) bought in Newark Old Chapel antiques centre in the late ’80s.

The oldest family portrait I possess is one of Elizabeth Franks, my paternal great-grandmother. I have never disturbed the frame to examine it behind the glass, but it looks to me like a tinted photograph. Her unflinching expression, rather severe, even for a Victorian eighteen year old, and stiffness of pose, suggests a nineteenth century subject for the camera. I removed that from its wall, but it won’t fit into a box.

Deciding I could pack the last of the books whilst the men are taking the furniture to Michael’s house in Graham Road, Wimbledon, I thought I would pack it in for the day. In an attempt to make myself slightly more savoury for my friends in the Akash in Edgware Road, to which I repaired later, I visited the very small, but thriving, Sainsbury’s Local, in Westbourne Grove, to buy shampoo. As I stood in the checkout queue, I began to realise that the cacophany of dicordant sounds of messages and instructions all talking across each other was a string of self-checkout machines that have been installed since I was last here. Younger people used them. They can probably cope better with being told there is an alien object on the tray than the oldies who prefer to deal with a person.

This evening I walked to and from the Akash for my usual meal of hot haldi, special fried rice, onion bhajis to die for, and a plain parata, with Cobra to drink, all followed by a complimentary brandy. The first thing I noticed was the absence of Majid, Shafiq, and Zaman. Other faces I have grown accustomed to over the years were there, ably holding the fort. My regular friends were attending the wedding of Majid’s younger son, who, of course, I remember as a small boy. The manager has done a great job of bringing up his two boys and I congratulated him in a note. Majid’s nephew, Dean, was in charge this evening. Shafiq has trained his kitchen understudies well. He would have been pleased with the meal I was served. I had a long talk with Dean, who was intrigued to learn about this blog, and avidly, there and then, read a couple of posts featuring his family restaurant. He made me a present of my meal ‘on the house’.

My route took me past The Bridge House on the corner of Westbourne Terrace Road and Delamere Terrace, where, when staying overnight at Beauchamp Lodge, I spent many hours over one pint of beer and several pipes, setting crosswords; and where, on Wednesday evenings during his epic 2004 transatlantic trip I eagerly awaited Sam’s weekly call from a satellite phone in the middle of the ocean.