October 2013 – Page 3 – derrickjknight

Trish

Among the many boxes of books now temporarily stored in the garage are hundreds of photograph albums. I plucked up courage to begin a search for the picture mentioned in The Tempest post of 14th June last year. Although I’m fairly sure I hit on the right container I was unable to find the photograph. During the late 80s and 90s Jessica, Sam, Louisa, and I shared a number of Lakeland holidays with Ali, Steve, and James. The missing photo was almost certainly taken during the holiday in one of Hugh Lowther‘s cottages in Watenlath. Never mind, I reminisced about those times and found some happy shots of our friends.

This afternoon Jackie drove us to Higher Bockhampton in Dorset where we visited Hardy’s Cottage. Some of his American Admirers explained its significance thus:

From the car park we were offered a choice of routes to the building. We could try the woodland walk or use the lane. We opted for the stony, steep, uphill, buttock-straining, path lined with sweet chestnut copses. The more gentle lane sufficed for our return.

I had forgotten my National Trust membership card. The very helpful young woman staffing the entrance made a phone call to check my credentials, so it didn’t cost me anything.

On walking up the garden path I noticed two elements that were to be explained on entry. The first was that the chimney was smoking. The second was a woman who looked as if she belonged in a period drama based on a Hardy novel.

The garden itself; although we were told that in Hardy’s day it would have been filled with the stock in trade of his master mason father; looked stunning, even so late in the year.

As suggested by the smoke, the house was heated by log fires alone. There was no artificial light. Candles lit the darker corners of the snug in which the National Trust representative invited us to sit and absorb the ambience.

The kitchen also had a fire over which a kettle was perched. Natural light from the windows brightened the bedrooms.

The back staircase was truly scary. It was little more than a fixed step-ladder. The bedroom door at the top of it warned visitors to descend backwards, and to remember that there was a side step at the bottom.

The cottage itself was very cramped. Doorways were so low as to cause the custodian trepidation every time anyone over about 5′ 9″ entered the building. I was a bit of a nightmare. We learned that during Hardy’s childhood it had been much smaller. What we now see is the merging of his childhood home with the adjacent one of his grandmother’s.

The bench seat in the snug, unoccupied in the above photograph, was soon filled, as were all the other chairs in the room. In a window seat in the corner sat the woman who had just preceded us into the cottage. The custodian and bearer of the history.

She was Trish, an avid Hardy adherent, who stimulated conversation about the man as an author and as a human being. We discussed the relative merits of Hardy’s novels and his poetry. She was able to answer questions about his marriages; his personality; where he went to school; and to enlighten us about his father’s occupation, eventually taken on by his brother Henry who was eventually to build Max Gate to the author’s design. This most engaging woman with a beautiful voice and an intelligent, expressive, face had us all captivated.

On our return journey home, we realised, as we sniffed the woodsmoke that pervaded the air in the car, that it was not only the ambience of the snug that we had absorbed.

Given that Trish really was the teacher today, it was something of a role reversal when she gave Jackie an apple from the garden. My lady added it to the poky pork paprika that she provided for this evening’s meal. The food was delicious. I finished the Veluti which was equally palatable. Carte d’Or rum and raisin ice-cream was to follow.

The Banana Skin

I travelled by my usual means to Waterloo this morning, and from there took the Westminster Bridge route to Green Park. There was a long queue on the M27, making my arrival at Southampton Parkway a little late. Obligingly, the train was also tardy, but reached the London terminal on time.

Bright sunshine coursing through the passing trees and the carriage windows caused rapidly flickering strobe lights to dance across the pages of my book. Dull clouds and a biting wind swirled across and over the Thames in significant contrast as I walked across it.

There are about fifteen ticket outlets at Waterloo station where, on arrival, I now buy my return tickets. From half way along the row a shrill shriek of ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ shattered the calm. An otherwise elegant young woman kept up a similarly tongued tirade at the teller. I’m not sure quite what had distressed her, but she demanded the return of a ticket for which she had paid. She momentarily claimed the attention of all those serving behind the other counters. This rather disconcerted people in a hurry to buy their admission to the trains. She disappeared before I had reached the front of the queue.

A figure astride a plinth set high up on the wall of the former County Hall was either giving birth to or supported on the shoulders of a young Hercules.

Near the London Eye a cheery oriental gentleman representing Lion Travel held up a flag which brought his compatriots flocking to him.

Around the corner the London Dungeon was decorated in season. The pumpkins, like the exhibits inside, were probably made of wax.

Gulls swooped down on a glutinous white substance, perhaps emanating from McDonald’s opposite, smeared on the coping of the Embankment wall. When they had sufficiently sated themselves and gummed up their beaks, starlings eagerly scraped up the residue.

The lines William Wordsworth composed on Westminster Bridge have stood the test of time. The picture can be enlarged by clicking on it to facilitate reading this famous work which is often obscured by the sheer volume of visitors passing by.

A painter has begun the task of applying a long-handled roller to boards screening works outside the Houses of Parliament.

In St. James’s Park a young squirrel disguised as a flattened teasel chewed a tourist’s tempting lure.

The window display of the wine merchants Justerini & Brooks in St. James’s Street suggested that, in Iberia and Italy at least, vintners still stop their bottles with corks.

Because he always opens the bottle before I arrive for lunch, I do not know whether the excellent St Emilion Norman served with our roast chicken was blessed with a cork or a screw top. Sainsbury’s apple strudel was to follow.

On the Victoria Line tube en route to Carol’s a pleasantly and persistently smiling young man, reading the Evening Standard whilst plugged into an electronic device, sat next to a fresh banana skin. When an elderly Chinese woman expressed interest in occupying the otherwise empty seat, he picked up the discard; nursed it carefully, whilst still managing to turn the pages of his newspaper; and carried it away when he left the train.

My normal journey from Carol’s to Southampton was uneventful, but poor Jackie, driving to meet me, had a reprise of this morning’s delay, because of an accident on the road ahead.

A Birthday Present

I spent this morning posting the delayed entry from yesterday. Jackie then drove us to Bournemouth for a visit to the Russell-Cotes Art Gallery & Museum. Along the sea front on the way there I was fascinated by a sculpture that carried no caption but seemed to represent three of the famous Red Arrows. Up on the railed-off high cliff top above the town’s pier, outside the Art Gallery proper, there was mounted a modern display of motifs representing the seaside. A gentleman I was to see inside the Russell-Cotes building photographing many individual exhibits, worked his way along the railings doing the same thing. Whilst tempted to photograph numerous wonderful paintings, ceramic, or sculptures full frame, I was fascinated by the pieces in their sumptuous, splendidly opulent setting, which is what I concentrated on. One iconic painting was, however, worthy of its own photograph. Dante Gabriel Rossetti’s Venus Verticordia is probably the most famous picture in the entire collection, but that is not the reason it warrants our attention. The Pre-Raphaelite painters’ female subjects mostly bear some resemblance to each other. Their particular coiffure is shared by Flo. She is not red-haired, like Alexa Wilding, this model of Rossetti’s, and perhaps therefore has more similarity to the dark-haired Janie Morris. We were both attracted to a sculpture of a male reader, possibly an author, but are not sure who he is. The Henry Irving sector has a warning stencilled on the glass. I wondered how many foreheads had sported bruising before this precaution was taken. The bust of a Moor seems to stand guard over his eponymous Alcove. In one room a marble female sculpture exchanges gazes with a wistful young lady. Or maybe she simply covets the ceramics in the stylishly inlaid cabinet. The gorgeous galleried landing, lined with splendid paintings, contains several well-filled niches. Access to the conservatory was denied. The tiles in this room, which could be seen through the glass door, although rather duller than those at Lindum House, seem to be very similar in design. Perhaps a sun-room floor is more exposed to fading than that of the entrance hall in our former Newark home. In 1901 Sir Merton Russell-Cotes gave his wife Annie this dream house on the cliff-top overlooking the sea, as a birthday present which they filled with beautiful objects from their travels across the world. Six years later, they donated the house, named East Cliff Hall and the art collection to the people of Bournemouth. Mrs. Russell-Cotes’s dress remains on display for us all to see.

Jackie’s juicy chicken jalfrezi with mushroom fried rice graced our dinner plates this evening. I drank a glass of Veluti primitivo.

‘Bound For [Western] Australia’

8th October 2013

It was too late, and I was too tired, to post this entry on our return from Clutton yesterday, so I am doing it this morning.

Puddingstone Cottage in Clutton in Somerset is the home of our friends Ali and Steve. This is where Sam, Holly, Malachi, and Orlaith are spending a few days house and dog sitting before making their last farewells in England. Jackie and I arrived a couple of hours before Ali and Steve set off to visit their son James in Ukraine.

Next Tuesday my son and his family board a plane for Perth, where they will begin their life in Australia, starting at the home of Holly’s delightful parents.

Given that the children have spent their last six months living on a boat in the Mediterranean, I was not surprised that Orlaith wasn’t sure about me, but I was delighted at Malachi’s greeting. Stretched out on the sofa, he was so engrossed in the TV that he didn’t hear our arrival. I gently scratched the crown of his head; he gave an excited cry of ‘Grandpa’; leapt to his feet and wrapped all four of his tentacles around me; said ‘I’m just watching ‘The Rhymer’; and resumed his position. Fair enough, really. He soon climbed on to my lap to give me the pleasure of watching it with him, before giving Jackie a similar opportunity. He was, however, most displeased with her for not bringing her laptop on which he has enjoyed playing games.

Orlaith did us the honour of standing unaided for the first time in our presence. She scampers around everywhere, and demonstrated a skill in climbing that possibly will rival her brother’s, as she clambered up his armchair in an endeavour to steal his chocolate biscuit.

Malachi impressed me with his reading, then we did some jigsaw puzzles. Whilst Sam drove Ali and Steve to the railway station the plan was that Jackie and I should take Malachi to the children’s playground, down a footpath to the side of the house and past Clutton Primary School. Because of a certain confusion about left and right in Sam’s directions, it was a good thing that Malachi knew the way. We passed the school just at the time the children were all being released to their parents. A school crossing keeper held up the traffic for us and many other parental figures, some of whom pushed the next generation of pupils in buggies. Our next marker was what had been correctly described as a path that looked like someone’s drive, leading past well tended allotments with a country church in the distance. Then we were in business.

Rain drizzled down all the time, but we enjoyed ourselves anyway, and my grandson had a dry pair of trousers at home. It only took one trip on the slide to demonstrate that he would need them. Steve’s waterproof jacket was a bit tight for me, so I left off my own casual one.

There are several entertaining structures on which to climb. One takes the form of a boat. Malachi, of course, knows all about steering and turning the motor on and off. He recognised the galley stove on which he cooked some stones and bark chippings. Unfortunately, my pleas that I was too big to enter the craft cut no ice. I was forced to get up there. It was in fact more difficult to disembark because I had to turn around to apply my feet to the metallic steps.

Another climbing frame takes the form of a large wooden arachnid. It was this that was responsible for metamorphosing me into a monster, for it gave Malachi the bright idea that I should pretend to be one. So, all the way back to the house, as a cross between Boris Karloff’s Frankenstein and Geoffrey Rush’s Davy Jones, I stumbled along, breathing like blasts from a pair of bellows, and waving my own tentacles about. Sometimes Mal would hide behind Jackie and I would have to pretend to look for him. At one point this charade took place alongside a garden in which an elderly woman was working. There was nothing for it but to ask her in monster speak if she had seen a little boy. Fortunately she had her back to me and appeared hard of hearing. I didn’t persist. A variation on the game gave me minimal respite. Malachi, by shooting me with his snorkel was able to transform me from monster to Grandpa and vice versa at the squeeze of a trigger. Back at the house, Holly informed me that Malachi’s maternal grandfather had always played the monster. Mick O’Neill, you have a lot to answer for.

Between them, Holly and Sam produced a flavoursome fish pie followed by cheese and biscuits and fruit cake. Before this, we had a game of cards, in which Orlaith insisted on joining.

There was an hiatus before cheese whilst bedtime duties were carried out. Sam ingratiatingly sidled out of the bedtime story by informing his son that I would be very good at it. Now, as a grandparent, you can never be exactly sure about parents’ discipline and routines. So, it wasn’t until my shoulders began to ache a little, that I came to the conclusion that it was less than reasonable to be expected to read a précis version of ‘The Lion The Witch And The Wardrobe’ with a four-year-old perched upon them, his legs joined around your windpipe, and his feet pummelling your sternum. I had to get a bit stern. When I had finished it was Mal’s turn to read to me. He does this very well, but has a penchant for deliberately changing the order of the words. Have we, I wondered, a budding Mordred here?

The four adults had a relaxed couple of hours before Jackie drove me back to Minstead.

It was the 1961 Clancy Brothers and Tommy Makem version of ‘Bound For South Australia’, that reverberated in my ears this morning. The Pogues have covered it more recently. Sam and Holly and their family are not going by boat, and Perth is not quite the destination of the shanty song, but perhaps the rousing refrain is pertinent.

Anansi

This afternoon I walked the two underpasses route via the Sir Walter Tyrrell.

The wall of Yew Tree Cottage at Stoney Cross bore evidence of the season on which I had focussed last week in France, as did the row of logs laid out to keep cars at their distance.

I was to see many more mushrooms on my walk across the North side of the A31. The heathland felt and sounded as if I were walking across a thick-piled Wilton carpet.

Although still warm, it was a dull day on which holly and rowan berries provided the occasional welcome gleam.

As I tramped downhill towards the above-mentioned pub, I encountered two Eastern European gentlemen who didn’t have much English, but did know their mushrooms.

I think at least the man with the basket did understand when I told them about Jessica’s avid interest in the foraging that they were undertaking.

This meeting reminded me of Anansi. Sometime in the late 1980s I was facilitating a series of team building days with a staff group of residential social workers at varying levels in the hierarchy. I very soon realised I had my work cut out because most of these people only met during handover periods; no two individuals shared the same nationality, gender, racial characteristics or sexual orientation; and there were 17 of them.

By the end of the first day it was all in danger of going horribly wrong. Racking my brains overnight, I came up with the idea of the West African mythical storyteller, and Little Miss Muffet.

Abandoning the programme I had prepared earlier, I took a flip-chart and drew a spider hanging from a web on the large sheet of paper. I asked the group members to tell us what they thought and felt when seeing this drawing. As always, it took a minute or two for the first volunteer to tell us about her thoughts. Slowly, people began to rush to tell theirs. And eventually fear or reverence could be expressed. Anansi, the spider, is loved for his storytelling; whereas it was a spider who ‘frightened Miss Muffet away’.

On another sheet of paper I portrayed a set of cricket stumps with a West Indian male wicket-keeper crouching behind them. I went on to tell of Tony Pinder, the best keeper who ever received my bowling, and how he and his brother Winston, who, when I began playing club cricket in 1957 had been the first black people I had ever met. I spoke of their influence on me, and, in particular, the father figure that Winston, known as Bunny, had struck.

I had their interest. This waned momentarily when I invited them to take their turns at drawing anything relevant to their culture or history that they would like to tell us about. That was scary. However, the floodgates soon opened. At the end of the day many people had not had time for a turn, but all wanted to spend the following, last, day finishing the task. Many brought their own art materials.

Then came what, to me, was the greatest, and most satisfying, surprise. A white Central European woman and a black African man both described mushroom gathering from their childhoods. They realised that they had, after all, something in common. I have always hoped that the team continued to build on the discoveries that emerged from these exercises. Once we accept our differences and look beyond them, we are quite similar, really.

Helen sent me her pig pictures, one of which I inserted into yesterday’s post.

This evening Jackie fed us on her classic chicken jalfrezi with mushroom rice and Kingfisher beer.

A Wedding

Quite early on this glorious morning, fit for a wedding, Jackie drove us out to Sandleheath to have a look at a house that turned out to be a non-contender. All along Roger Penny Way, turning off only just before Fordingbridge, a mass cycling event was taking place. This often meant that we drove at the pace of the slowest competitor. There were signs advising them to cycle in single file, but these were often ignored. Marshals occasionally leapt up and down and waved their arms about.

When we finally arrived at our goal we did not have a warm feeling about it. The fact that the front garden was a car park could be dealt with, but The Glen was on a main road with a factory estate behind it.

Then it was back home to prepare for the wedding. We attended the marriage ceremony of Jackie’s nephew, the handsome, personable, and talented John Eales, with the beautiful, kind, and talented Stephanie Warner in the East Close Country House Hotel. It was a delightful occasion.

The weather remained perfect for such an event. Photographs were taken before, during, and after the service by a professional friend. Another played delightful music throughout. Helen had reflected Stephanie’s table decoration theme of old books in the cake she had made in the form of a pile of them. We each had a phial of liquid bearing a ‘Drink Me’ label, which turned out to be vodka laced with a fruit drink.

The meal was quite superb. The young staff team worked non-stop and remained efficient and friendly. A tangy tomato soup was followed by delicious roast chicken with crisp vegetables and a flavoursome sauce. The sweet was a fine fruit flan with strawberry ice cream. Tea or coffee was served according to choice, and everyone had a glass of wine with the meal and champagne for the toasts, all of which were entertaining.

Martin, Stephanie’s father, gave us particularly insightful pen pictures of the new man and wife. Neil, the best man, did the usual job of embarrassing his cousin in a positive way. Somehow, when his laptop failed initially to project his pictures, this added to the general hilarity. John’s reply was most amusing, and he covered everything he was meant to.

I particularly liked the moment as we entered the reception when Bill introduced the bride’s father to the groom’s paternal uncle with the splendidly succinct phrase; ‘Bob – Martin’.

Although occasionally flagging a bit, the young children present bore up very well.

At the end of the meal there was an invasion of the lawn by a very large family of Gloucester Old Spots. These pigs had come in to hoover the liberally spread dropped beech nuts and apple windfalls. I went out to join the myriad of other photographers. Unfortunately I tried to get too close and they all scampered off, snorting. My shots were consequently out of focus. Helen was much more successful.

P.S. Helen has sent me her pictures, the best of which I am now adding.

Making Connections

The O2 signal problem at Castle Malwood Lodge continues. I still had no connection at all this morning. Jackie’s Nokia, also on O2, had very fluctuating signals. Buoyed up by a bucket of coffee I decided to ring the provider again. I was again advised to take the various parts out of my Blackberry. I said I’d done that yesterday and it didn’t make any difference. Dean, the very helpful adviser, then told me that according to the system there was no mast in our area. When I pointed out that I had not experienced this problem before, he suggested that maybe O2’s contract with whoever was carrying the mast had expired. I wasn’t convinced by this, so he placed me on hold so that I could listen to music such as to put me into dire straits, whilst he discussed the problem with the network connection team. Periodically he interrupted the cacaphony to check that I was still content to hold. Eventually he said the other team wanted to speak to me directly, and would call me within twenty minutes. That should have given me time for a pee. As I made for the bathroom the phone rang. So I had to wait whilst I enjoyed a meaningful relationship with the lovely Joanne.

Like Dean, this patient and thorough young lady had a pronounced Northern accent. There being both Lancastrian and Yorkist blood in my veins, they made me feel at home. Joanne, however, spoke in a language that, as I told her, I understood less than that of the natives of the country from which I had just returned. Especially when she started talking about connecting the Blackberry to the WiFi hub, which meant discovering yet another password. She soon realised that when navigating my device, I was happier being led to icons, like spanners, rather than the actual terms they represent, such as Options. So keen was she that I should fully understand what was going on that she explained everything in great technical detail, none of which I had any hope of retaining. And repeated it. And again. Even when I said ‘you lost me twenty minutes ago’. That was a big mistake because iteration ensued. And reiteration.

Finally Joanne fully explained the report she was sending to the technical team, and what I could then expect. Given that I now had a fluctuating signal, and had become fairly desperate for that pee, she didn’t fully hold my attention. Joanne said she was happy to wait if I wanted to go to the toilet, but I said I couldn’t because Jackie was in there now. Fortunately I spotted that the battery was almost exhausted and gently mentioned that. My adviser promised to send me a reference number in a text, and we said goodbye. This was an hour after I had first called Dean. And the loo was free.

I received the text whilst my head was still spinning. To settle it a bit I walked down to the village shop and back. On the way I met Jill, who lives at Seamans Corner. She has retired from a similar profession to mine. We had met before at the History Group on 8th January, but each had forgotten the other’s name. Having reached the age when one can own up to such lapses, we did.

This afternoon Jackie drove us to West End to visit Mum. Reminiscing, as always, was in order. This time my mother reminded me of a visit I had made to her with Michael and his friend Eddie. I don’t remember this, but I have every faith in my mother’s recollection. No doubt we had been in search of Sunday lunch. This was in the 1970s, when Mum had been custodian of Vivien and my wedding album. Michael would have been around the age he was in photograph number 49 in the ‘through the ages’ series, taken by Jessica at Carole’s home in Ipswich. I had been persuaded to mount our friend’s horse, April. This was, as Mum said, in my long hair and kaftan days.

Mum asked Michael if he would like the album. Of course, he was delighted. He and Eddie, however, took some convincing that the man marrying his mother, who then looked far more like the subject of number 3 of the series, was actually his father. In the above picture his expression possibly displays some discomfort with touching the horse, but it could equally suggest the difficulty in connecting the two ages of his Dad. Possibly an even greater problem than grappling with a phone supplier. Mum demonstrated acting skills I didn’t know she had when she reproduced the two boys’ expressions.

On the way back from West End we stopped off at Morrison’s superstore. This isn’t really a very good idea on a Saturday afternoon when entire families are doing their week’s shop. And they didn’t have the coriander which was our main reason for being there. Jackie’s excellent chicken jalfrezi and pilau rice, on which we later dined, could not therefore receive its usual garnish. Morrison’s did, however, provide the Kingfisher with which we slaked our thirst.

Peterson’s Folly

There is no O2 signal at Castle Malwood Lodge today. After the period in France I began to worry. I rang O2. The French and English experiences are allegedly coincidental. The man I spoke to, from our landline, of course, told me that O2 had had a complete shutdown yesterday, but all should be back to normal now. He advised me to take out both battery and SIM card, wipe the card with a dry cloth, and reinsert both the card and the battery. He didn’t await the outcome. I did what he said. There was no difference. I rang again. A machine told me that they were inundated with phone calls and couldn’t take mine, so I would have to try later.

Along the A31, on the way to do some banking in Ringwood, I had a signal. I guess I will just have to be patient at home. Or I could just chuck the phone through the window.

The earring still adorns the information board in Ringwood car park. It has now been hooked over a metal staple and sways seductively in the breeze.

Our business concluded, Jackie drove us to Sway, on the other side of the forest. Today’s objective was the Sway Tower, which our friend Sheila had sought on her last visit. As thorough as ever, Jackie had Googled the landmark and walked the walk on the internet. Able to retain such information, she took us straight there. This Grade 11 listed building is 66m or 200 ft tall. Fashioned from concrete made of Portland cement, it is the tallest non-reinforced concrete structure in the world. It was built by Judge Andrew Thomas Turton Peterson on his private estate from 1879 to 1885, and is, unsurprisingly, known as Peterson’s folly. Originally intended as a mausoleum and advertisement for the material from which it was made, it is now a private house. Despite having been, except for the window supports, constructed entirely of concrete, this is rather an attractive edifice.

As I mounted the steps up to the gate leading to the house next door on the right, I coughed, alerting a most friendly young woman who was pegging out her washing. She was almost eager to come out and tell us what she knew of the building, including its reincarnation as a private dwelling. There is another house to the left. The ruined folly was virtually in the garden of that property. These neighbours sold their own house, bought the tower, and refurbished it. Fire regulations do not allow residence above the fourth floor, because there is no passing space on the narrow staircase. This information had not surprised Jackie too much because she had clocked the curtains.

A plentiful salad provided our evening sustenance with which I drank some Belle Tour Merlot 2012 from the Pays d’Oc.

How Different His Life Will Be

Work could not continue yesterday because Benoit had a raging toothache with one side of his face like that of a chipmunk. Saufiene came to tell me this, and stayed chatting for a couple of hours after he tracked me down in Le Code Bar. Having recently read a history of Carthage, and knowing that Saufiene’s home in Tunis is very close to that city with such ancient origins, I opened a conversation on the subject. This very intelligent young man then revealed a considerable knowledge of world history. We spoke ‘of many things’, excluding, unlike Lewis Carroll’s Walrus, ‘cabbages and kings’.

Having taken antibiotics, Benoit was recovered today, and work continued apace, before I returned home to Minstead by the usual route. Sandrine drove me to Bergerac airport, and Jackie collected me from Southampton.

As is sometimes the way, a toddler stole the show on the plane trip from Bergerac. He had come to France to visit his Grandpa who, having a hearing aid, had the option of turning off the vociferous tantrums emanating from this little chap who can’t have learned to walk too long ago. These were unleashed when he insisted on pushing, unaided, his Mum’s large wheeled bag. Across the carpark. Through the airport lounge. And onto the plane. I am not sure how he got through customs security, but I’d like to have seen anyone attempt to search him.

The plane itself was probably less than half full. The child enjoyed himself wandering up and down the aisles with complete freedom.

Back home in Minstead, as has become traditional, Jackie and I celebrated our reunion with a curry. Off we went to Ringwood where we enjoyed Chicken Shaslick; Lamb Hatkora, etc., and Kingfisher beer. Before the meal we diverted to look at a large Victorian house at a very low price. Only when we arrived did we see a notice announcing that it was for sale by private tender. This we understand to mean a virtual auction, which means it will probably go to a builder who will work on it and eventually sell it for much more. Even if we did have money available, we would have no chance.

The little boy mentioned above can have been no more that six months older than I was when picture number 27 of the ‘through the ages series’ was taken by my grandfather as one of those mentioned on 13th August. How different his life will be.

Keats’s Season

Yesterday the loft insulation was carried out. A damp beam betrays the broken tiles which need replacing on the roof. The back hall was prepared for specialised papering.

Maggie and Mike collected me in the evening and drove me to their home at Eymet where we enjoyed a meal focussing on a Russian fish pie, followed by cheese and melon; with some red wine and an evening’s convivial conversation.

Once the morning mist had cleared, a fine autumn day revealed the poet’s ‘mellow fruitfulness’. I walked the loop centring on the Thenac road, up along the main route through Sigoules and down the narrow winding track to the Cuneges road. Although it dulled over before I had returned the day began bright and sunny, and continued to be so after I had returned.

High on the vine-covered slopes a proliferation of butterflies flitted here and there. Bright yellow ones in particular chased each other around, reminding me of yesterday night’s courting couple. Up and down, round and round they yo-yoed, never settling for the camera.

Some grapes seem to be allowed to fester on the stems. I gather this is a necessary process of viniculture.

The sunflowers also looked rather past their best, until one remembers that it is their oil that is harvested.

What must have been a seasonal bonfire sent up spirals of smoke in the far distance.

Max’s lunchtime offerings in Le Code Bar began with noodles and a variety of vegetables soup; then a soft, dressed, avocado at its peak, served with salami, coarse pate, a green salad and a cornichon; next the usual daunting, perfectly cooked succulent steak plentifully garnished with garlic, pepper and onions, accompanied by crisp, glistening, freshly fried chips; and finally a pear tart with chocolate sauce. And it bears repeating that all this comes at a price of 13 euros.