March 2014 – Page 3 – derrickjknight

The Dappled Trunk

This morning I could no longer put off changing the lightbulbs bought yesterday. The picture light which I can reach with the aid of our small stepladder was done then. Three more at ceiling height were a different proposition.
A major task ensued, not the least for the photographer who had to get down on the floor whilst I was scaling the ladder. But first things first. The larger ladder, once discovered in the hall of the other side of the house where reside the unreachable electricity meters, had to be obtained, carried across the front of the building, and negotiated into our flat and through the hall corridor.
Then came the scary bit. The spots in the bay and the kitchen are the highest, but the bayonet fitting bulb in the sitting room is actually the most daunting. This is because two hands are required. The first time I replaced this one the old article was very stiff and tended to throw me off balance when it yielded. That was managed from the platform of our smaller ladder. No way was I trying that again.
There is a lot of internal illumination in our flat, and it tends to fail with some regularity. So you see, if, to quote someone I once met, ‘all I ever [did] around here [was] change lightbulbs’, I’d be kept quite busy.
Before a salad lunch based on a Ferndene Farm shop pork pie, I walked through the underpass and along Malwood Farm and the stream. I had intended to cross the sandbagged ford, but this proved to be far too muddy, so I carried on along the watercourse, eventually returning the way I had come.
The recent terrible arboreal toll necessitated searching out new footpaths not blocked by fallen trees.
It has been reported that three main areas of The New Forest have lost 300 memorable trees. If all we see around us have not been included the losses must be considerably greater.
Tradition has it that in England the month of March ‘comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb’. This March has come in like a lamb. The lion’s visit was in February.
This is why I ventured this way today. Apart from the ford mentioned above the terrain is less boggy and the stream not so full as often.
Sunlight finds its way through the deciduous trees and sparkles in the tinkling water, dappling the surfaces around. My feet rustled the dried leaves. A helicopter chugged overhead. The farm dogs barked. A flapping in some bushes was followed by the splendid flash of a male pheasant as it flew off at my approach.

Ponies, as always, have found their way past obstacles.

One particular trunk took me back to the early 1970s. Page 13 of Becky’s Book features a similar dappled effect on a tree and the fence beside it. I was inspired to make this drawing when gazing out of a children’s home window during a child care review. I was of course fully concentrating on the matter in hand, but took the memory home with me.
Later in the afternoon, idling on my laptop, I looked up Bing images for Castle Malwood Lodge. To my amazement, I discovered that 63, the vast majority of the photographs shown, were taken from my WordPress posts. They were of the house and garden; of Minstead and the forest around; of Elizabeth’s house in West End; even shots from the plane on the way back from Sigoules. Google’s tally was rather less, but it did include a photograph of Regent Street lights from fifty years ago, and Becky’s profile picture from her childhood. Jackie drew up a different Google set which also included my mug shot.
Yesterday’s liver and bacon casserole (recipe) provided our dinner this evening. A casserole surely does improve the next day. Even the Bergerac after three days was unblemished.

Averting A Disaster

Daffodil buds Jackie bought at Ferndene Farm Shop opened out beautifully overnight, and looked resplendent in the morning sunshine. The Belleek vase was given to us by Elizabeth a couple of Christmases ago. As one of the television commentators on the England versus Wales rugby match said this afternoon: ‘the sky couldn’t be bluer’. As it was at Twickenham, where the game took place, so it was in the New Forest all day. This contest was by far the most intriguing of the weekend’s internationals. Not just because England won by a comfortable margin, but because one always felt their opponents could catch them up, particularly if the home side continued to give away penalties. Both kickers had an afternoon of 100% success. Leigh Halfpenny scored all Wales’s points with his six attempts, and was later found to have dislocated his shoulder making a try-saving tackle on Luther Burrell. I won’t explain the points system, for rugby fanatics will know it, and those not interested can easily skip this bit. Incidentally, a number of international rugby players are now sporting full beards, vying with each other in length. One of the Irish players yesterday, had he been quite a lot smaller, could have passed for a leprechaun. Jackie tells me this is because ‘real men wear beards’. We needed to replace a few light bulbs which don’t seem to last very long here, so, well in time for the kick-off, we decided to visit the New Milton Tesco, where we bought some. Well, it was a good excuse for Jackie to drive us past the house that will be ours at the end of the month. It is still in situ. Continuing to Milford on Sea we had another look at that. As we emerged from Newtown to turn left into Forest Road, we encountered some congestion caused by a car parked up on the verge. The vehicle was surrounded by ponies. The driver and passenger had their windows open and were feeding the animals, which were displaying an unusual amount of energy as they imitated customers on the first day of a Harrod’s sale. The more patient ones stood back, no doubt awaiting their turn. Never having been one to enter such a free-for-all, I identified with these three. At children’s parties I would always wait until the gannets had had their fill. It’s so undignified not to. In the supermarket I went in search of the bulbs whilst Jackie picked up a few other items. For one young lady it is probably just as well I did. In order fully to understand the scene that met my eyes as I turned one corner, it is necessary to study this photograph of the shelves. Note that, after the event, the blue drink containers labelled KX have one missing from their pack. Note also the gap between the Indian tonic water and the Roses lime juice on the very top shelf. When these shelves came into my view an elderly woman making her uncertain way towards them was pointing up at the KX drinks that occupied the now empty space, in an endeavour to engage the assistance of a younger female. Had the more aged person had a straighter posture she would have been a bit taller. Even with an upright back, her helper was not as tall as the lady in need of help. She was very short. And very rotund. So much so that when she mounted the packs of Coca Cola on the pallet she had to stretch her arms up to their full length to slide her fingertips under her quarry. She teetered on the edge of the cokes, like a stunt person in a thriller movie making her way along a ledge outside a high building. She struggled to gain purchase on the slippery plastic that wrapped the consignment. She drew them towards herself. She rocked on the Cokes. The batch of KX slid forward on the edge of the shelf. Aiming, it seemed, for a dive. Approaching from behind, I reached over her shoulder and relieved her of her burden. She most certainly was relieved. Meeting her further on in the store, she gave me a pleasant smile. I thought it politic to explain to Jackie how I’d earned it. This evening’s dinner was a delectable liver and bacon casserole with which I drank a little more of the Bergerac. As with most of Jackie’s meals they are always variable in production. We therefore present today’s version, to which, once the method has been understood, you will no doubt make your own amendments. Method: Slices of lamb’s liver, including any blood in the packaging, from the Ferndene Farm Shop are ideal. If you cannot get to that outlet that is your misfortune, but I am sure you will find another good source. To that is added Sainsbury’s cooking bacon. Both, with a Knorr lamb stock cube and enough water to cover them are cooked for about five minutes in a pressure cooker. If you don’t possess such an implement, cook them in the casserole until tender. Quantities are up to you, as is the balance between liver and bacon. Fry four medium onions in the casserole dish. Jackie didn’t use garlic today, but it is an option. A sprig of dried rosemary, and a couple of bay leaves, with the meat and its fluid are then added. We had supplementary red peppers and carrots because they match the dish they were cooked in. There are endless such variations according to the colour of your pot, or just to your taste. Slosh in enough red wine to cover everything and simmer gently until tender. Half an hour whilst you prepare the veg should be enough.

It looks pretty good on the plate, and is very flavoursome.

Sold By Spencers Of The New Forest

On a glorious spring morning Jackie drove us to Ferndene Farm Shop in Bashley Cross Road. The ground is drying up and many pools on the roads and heathland receding.
I have before photographed the shelves inside this shop which has the best produce of its kind I have sampled. The produce outside would grace any good garden centre. Like everything else they sell, all the merchandise is in tip-top condition.
A good range of garden plants and wonderfully colourful cut flowers glowed in the sunshine.

Brightly hued primulas were much in evidence.

Daffodils, violets, and hyacinths were arrayed in trays.

Less flamboyant shrubs, heathers, and grasses displayed pastel hues.

The most vibrant palettes had provided pigments for the roses, carnations, and chrysanthemums in the various bouquets. There were also bunches of tulips and narcissi.

Even the compost bags are attractively packaged.

From the farm shop we drove to Milford on Sea and wandered around there for a bit, then checked out Everton Nurseries. You see, Spencers’ sign in the garden of the house on which we have recently exchanged contracts to purchase, confirms that Ferndene Farm Shop, Milford on Sea, and Everton Nurseries will soon be our local resources.

It announces:

The farm shop’s superb smoked ham provided the meat for our salad lunch.
This afternoon I watched two Six Nations rugby matches on television. Ireland beat Italy by a lot and France beat Scotland by a little. Neither game was very inspiring, although Brian O’Driscoll enlivened the Irish performance by profitable flashes of brilliance, and Yoann Huget scored a ninety metre interception try for the French.
This evening we dined on battered cod and chips, gherkins, pickled onions and mushy peas, with which I drank a glass of Bergerac Grande Reserve Cabernet Sauvignon Merlot 2012.

The Kiss

Today I invite you to take the perimeter walk with me. When I did this three days ago, I undertook to repeat it in a photo shoot. This is it:

At first the path looks wide and safe enough.

The house can be seen through the occasional gap in the fence on our left.

To the right we can look down further into the forest.

Soon we reach the more precarious sections, where the fence makes a handy grab rail.

The animal tracks largely follow the contour lines.

Whilst clinging to the fence don’t forget to enjoy the forest views in the sunlight.

We have long shadows,

dappled fallen trees,

animal tracks,

and leafy banks.

We are getting near the dicey bit,

and managing to pass the slope I slid down until I reached that tree on the left.

That bird flitting about is a robin. It has come to rest. Can you see it now?

As we take a left bend alongside Running Hill, Eleanor’s abandoned den comes into view,

as does the house itself, seen through the rhododendrons in which she built it. Backtracking, I see there is a section of the fallen fence that we can step over.

So, taking a last look at the downward sloping bank outside,

let’s go inside, and grapple with the the ancient rhododendrons

until we return to the garden via John’s compost heaps.

After bidding you farewell the day continued with a drive to Nomansland , around which Jackie and I wandered for a while.

Wagtails waded in the car park puddles. What is it with wagtails and car parks? Even town car parks often host them. Certainly the one in Ringwood does.

Stretched out on the ground, breathing strongly, a possibly pregnant mare alarmed me a little. It is not a position in which ponies are often seen. We are supposed to report sick or injured animals. Was this one in trouble, or was she just having a siesta? How would I know? She had a companion who stood in the usual motionless stance not batting an eyelid. Until she, maybe the midwife, turned, bent her head, and nuzzled the prone animal. By the time Jackie and I had returned up the slope from the edge of the green, both creatures had disappeared. Their places had been taken by donkeys.

This evening Jackie fed us on lamb steaks with crisp vegetables, including cauliflower and broccoli in a gentle cheese sauce. I finished the Languedoc.

Housing Exchange

Norman has moved house. From Waterloo, my journey to visit him has changed. Jackie, as always, first drove me to Southampton Parkway. I then took the Jubilee Line to Finchley Road, and the Metropolitan Line to Preston Road.

On leaving the underground station it was immediately apparent that this area, between Wembley and Harrow on the Hill, was, with its wide, well kept roads, and 1930s style buildings, a very different part of Greater London than Neasden.

Young families from different ethnic groupings wandered comfortably about their business in the spring sunshine. One toddler sat at table; another, with reins attached, tottered towards one more on a trike.
Hairdressers, opticians, estate agents, eating places, and coffee houses such as Costa, shared the high street with a large Co-op and a betting shop.
A well-used designated bicycle park on the pavement opposite the station was considered safe enough for one cyclist to have left his helmet slung over his bike.
WordPress efficiently weed out a large quantity of spam from comments on this blog. Much of it purports to come from Michael Kors Handbags. I was therefore intrigued to see an optician’s window sporting his specs.
My friend met me at Preston Road where, because his new cooker has not yet been fitted we dined at The Preston, a friendly and pleasant Ember Inns pub, whose mixed grill rivals that of The Plough Inn at Tiptoe. The plum, apple, and blackberry crumble with custard was pretty good too, as was the bottle of minimally marked-up rioja we shared. The double espressos were perfect.
Whilst we were eating a call came from our solicitors to say that contracts on our house purchase have at last been exchanged. Readers will know that we have been on tenterhooks for the last eight days during which I haven’t bored you with blow by blow accounts. You may remember that we had originally agreed a completion date of our seller’s choosing and were told last week that had to be changed to the end of the month. Because we had acted upon that date I objected. We have had to accept that the original day has not been restored. But at least the deal is done.
After our meal Norman led me to his new light, airy, and comfortable home. After continuing our conversation for a while, I returned to my current abode the same way I had come.

Norman’s Parrot

This morning, after very early delivery of my NatWest Your Points vouchers, Jackie drove us to Curry/PC World in Christchurch where I bought a new laptop and collected my older cleaned-up one. This time I have a Hewlett Packard Pavilion. Never having used Air Miles or Your Points before, I was rather amazed to learn that we could obtain cash vouchers for them. So that was very handy.
From Emery Down to a long way along the A35 we followed an open-topped Triumph convertible from a previous era, driven by a white-haired gentleman with a blonde hoodie passenger. For most of the time this car exceeded the speed limits, occasionally emitting blackish clouds from its exhaust pipe. As Jackie said, turning off the switch which allowed our car to inhale ‘fresh’ air from outside, ‘It reminds us of what cars used to smell like’.
We were in the store for a very long time, firstly because they were short-staffed, and secondly because the explanation of the pros and cons of the various machines was doing my head in. For example, Mike, who was the very patient salesperson who helped me, said Curry’s recommended one security system that I had once used but changed when told it was no good. Towards the end of the process Jackie took part in a customer survey. She said, on my behalf, that the absence of a customer toilet was a serious omission. I had already pointed out that this lack seriously affected my concentration, and was therefore escorted to the staff facilities. Otherwise, we had no complaints.
Taking a stroll round the grounds after lunch I investigated Eleanor’s abandoned den. Until late last year this young lady and her friend Henry spent many happy hours building a home of their own, somewhat appropriately within the branches of a vast rhododendron. Jessica and Imogen had enjoyed playing in it last May. When Eleanor moved away with her family the abode fell into disuse.
My friend Norman, now unable to perform his priestly activities, is possessed of a beautiful Welsh singing voice which he used in expected and unexpected ways. With a great sense of pageant Norman is a brilliant writer and deliverer of sermons. He would on occasion burst into song from the pulpit. He would also, when it seemed helpful, bring along a prop, such as the parrot a mutual friend Janice once gave him. As he mounted the pulpit steps and gradually emerged into his own delivery perch, the congregation was treated to the sight of this bird upon Father Norman’s shoulder.

When preparing for a down-sizing house move Norman asked me if I could find a home for his parrot. I was sure Eleanor would love it to join all her other embellishments to her den. That is where it ended up. Today it still guards Eleanor’s discarded wind chimes. When we change our own dwelling place we will take it with us.
I needed that little diversion before wrestling with the new laptop this afternoon. The first hour or so seemed quite smooth. Then I came to installing Microsoft Office. I can’t bear to detail the problems on the way. Suffice it to say I forgot a password I’d given at the beginning and had to reset it, which brought its own complications. Then I couldn’t find it in the pc. How was I to know I wouldn’t get an automatic icon on the screen? After all there are ones for things like e-bay and Wild Tangent Games which I will never use. All in all the Office installation took about two neck and shoulders stiffening hours, and I’m afraid I did utter the odd expletive.
I seem to be secure; am in a Cloud somewhere; and if I am not very careful I’m on a webcam, looking extremely perplexed.
Five year old Malachi, where are you? I need your guidance and assistance.
When I eventually tore myself away from the new laptop, on which I am finishing this post, last night’s superb jalfrezi meal was reprised. As always, this involved additions to the time-improved base, in this case supplementary freshly cooked chicken and chickpeas, which seemed quite a pleasing choice. I finished the cabernet sauvignon. Jackie abstained.

Confusing Exchange

Here is one I made earlier.

I forgot to post this Upper Drive shot yesterday. Trees in the New Forest don’t just fall down. They grow into all kinds of unusual shapes, such as this one forming a perfect arch through which one can glimpse the A31.

Last night I began reading Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel ‘The House of the Seven Gables’.

After an early lunch today Jackie drove me to Donna-Marie’s in Poulner where I was given my quarterly haircut. Fortunately the weather is a little warmer at the moment. We then went on to Lidl in Totton for a shop. As is not unusual, although we had only gone there for milk, a trolley was requested. We managed to fill it.

As is well known a coin is required to free the supermarket trolley from its chain of companions. Inserting your £1 into the slot pushes out the locking key and you may take your wheeled contraption into the store. Having made your purchases and loaded your car you push your key into the last trolley in the line, out pops your £1, and the key remains in the other basket on wheels until someone else inserts another £1, and so on ad infinitum. Until, that is, one customer has difficulty understanding what he must do to obtain his trolley, consequently holds up the proceedings, and the person waiting to return his and collect £1, decides to confuse the issue even more, by suggesting that he swaps his trolley for the other gentleman’s £1.

Today, I was that helpful stranger. It seemed quite straightforward to me. But not to the struggling newcomer. He grasped my trolley, clearly wondering what was in the transaction for my benefit. Perhaps this was because he was more than reluctant to hand over his coin. There he was, one fist wrapped around the trolley handle, and the fingers and thumb of his other hand gripping £1 as if he had a wrench attached to his arm.

His companion, who had readily agreed to the exchange, tactfully informed me that he would not be happy until I tried to put the £1 he had given me into the slot occupied by my original coin. Of course it wouldn’t budge. I think it then became clear to him that what we were actually doing was swapping coins and when he had finished shopping, he would be able to receive his part of the bargain and collect my £1. Whether or not this was so, he released the coin he had been hanging on to, and allowed me to dash off with it before he changed his mind.

Just writing this out is doing my head in. Goodness knows what the encounter did to his. Or the reading to yours.

On our return down Upper Drive we witnessed the unusual sight of three donkeys foraging where I had wandered yesterday. Even ponies and deer are rare visitors to this small section of forest, so it was quite a surprise to see donkeys there.

Early this evening I took a clamber around the outside perimeter of the grounds. I have written before that the garden is surrounded by its own trees and shrubbery merged into the forest and bounded by a strong wire fence. The house having been built high up on the site of an Iron Age hill fort, the land beyond the fence drops sharply. I followed a path trodden by surer footed creatures than me, who did not have to travel hand over hand clinging to the fence on the left or leaning on a tree to the right taking a clockwise direction. Only once did I slither, slide, and career down the bank coming to an abrupt halt as my outstretched palms eagerly slapped into a welcome forest giant.

Reaching a point from which I could progress no further, I discovered where the deer gain ingress and egress. Overgrown rhododendrons and fallen trees have brought the boundary wire down to a level which perhaps I could, in my distant days as a second row forward, have leapt. When we next enjoy a clear morning light, I will make a photo shoot. Finishing by circumperambulating the lawns I watched the sun sink behind the building. The first daffodils are coming into bloom.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious chicken jalfrezi (recipe), with spicy wild rice (turmeric, green cardamoms, cloves, cinnamon and garam masala added to the boiled version). I drank Wolf Blass cabernet sauvignon 2013 and the chef didn’t.

After The Deluge 2

Yesterday evening Bill drove Helen, Jackie, and me to the Fuchi Chinese fusion restaurant in Totton. One of their favourites, this establishment is rather more up-market than Family House, which remains one of ours. The food was first class, and the service excellent, once we had struggled through the accent of our beautiful waitress with her very strong accent. This young lady understood us very well and spoke very good English once you could get your ears adjusted. It was quite fun really.
There was something of a pause between dishes, obviously the result of everything being freshly cooked. Helen chose a dish served in a hot stone pot with a fried egg on top of it. The man I took to be the young proprietor tossed this, mixing in the egg, and served it to Helen, informing her that it was enough for three people. We all had a share. It was good.
The highlight came at the end of the meal. This was Helen’s jasmine tea. The hand-made clear glass teapot was perched on a stand of the same material. Now I know why tea lights, one of which was placed under the pot, are so called. A rounded teabag was undone. It contained what looked like a small walnut. This was dropped into the hot water, and we watched, fascinated, as a beautiful flower unfolded in the gradually darkening liquid reflected in the shiny black composite table. I don’t know what the tea tasted like.

Snatching sunshine between showers after another night of heavy rain, risking losing a shoe to the suction of the bog it now is, I wandered around the small section of forest that lies between our Upper Drive and the A31. It has taken a heavy toll in recent months. One huge branch has been ripped from its trunk. Deep pits, once dug for gravel, not yet filled by autumn leaves and other detritus, are now small lakes reflecting such surrounding trees that are still standing, and aiding the erosion of those that have fallen. Ponies visit for a drink and a meal of lichen and holly, now much more easily accessible.

As I walked out, raindrops from a recent shower, still sliding from branches overhead, dripped pattering onto last October’s leaves and forming ripples on the lakelets.
Bright emerald green moss contrasted with the soggy russet leaves on which the sun radiated long, strong, shadows.
The telephone cable brought down by the toppling, large, lichen-covered tree on 11th February still trails along the verge. It is itself undamaged.

Much of the area is completely waterlogged.

Reflections seen against the light of the sun penetrating the trees are seen in silhouette.
On 28th February I observed that the evolution of what starts out as compost soup can be very varied. For today’s lunch this became chicken stoup (stew/soup). Added to the soup of that date was the remaining rich liquid from the evening’s sausage casserole and some freshly cooked further chunks of chicken. Superb.
Smoked cod, baked beans and chips accompanied by Roc Saint Vincent Sauvignon blanc 2012 provided our evening sustenance.

All Part Of The Process

The annual O’Connell/Rivett family attendance at the Godalming Operatic Society’s Leatherhead Theatre production of a work by Gilbert & Sullivan directed by Pat O’Connell follows a carefully choreographed process. Taking advantage of the close proximity of each point in the proceedings, arriving in very good time to dine before the performance, we all stay at the Travel Lodge hotel in the town, walk around the corner to dine at an Italian restaurant, and across the road to the theatre. Afterwards we enjoy a drink in the company of the cast, spend the night at the staging post, and breakfast at Annie’s cafe before making our ways home.
The outing was yesterday. The operetta Princess Ida.
All part of the process is that Helen and Bill will have parked in the more expensive car park a bit further away. Ron will then offer to go and collect their car and move it to the one that is free after 6 p.m. and over the weekend, about 100 yards away. He will do this just in time for us to take possession of our seats before the prompt start of the overture.
There is one popular restaurant near enough and willing to feed the entire cast and guests in good time to facilitate the promptness. This year, having changed ownership, it was undergoing refurbishment. It was not yet officially open, but the new proprietor offered to provide a restricted menu for us all, provided we placed our orders in advance. We did so. The orders were placed in a relay of mobile phones. This meant that there was some confusion about my pizza, but this was rectified with good humour. I am not sure what the original name of this establishment was. It is now Rialto, and is to be recommended. There were no complaints about the previous one, but all were agreed that this reincarnation is a general improvement. If they live up to their first night, they should do well.

There was, however, one part of the process that was maintained by the new staff. Traditionally, one of our group goes without something until the waiting staff are eventually alerted to its absence. It may be an entire meal, a drink, or simply a glass with which to imbibe a share of a bottle of wine. Until now, Shelly has been the victim of all these omissions. Perhaps it served me right for speculating about what she would miss out on last night, for it was I who went without my pizza. Drinking my share of the house red wine, I watched the others enjoying their various dishes accompanied by red or white wine. Eventually I got my own back, and they all watched me consume mine, which was excellent.
The Leatherhead Theatre is an excellent venue. This morning, during a wander around the town, I noticed it was occupied by a group engaged in a religious service of some denomination, so it is perhaps as versatile as the Regent Centre at Christchurch. I also noticed a plaque on the wall, part of the information provided by Leatherhead Heritage Trail, giving a history of the building:
The theatre was very full, as warranted by the usual accomplished performance. Familiar faces included Simon Cakebread, bravely surmounting a chest infection, as King Gama; Richard Arthur as King Hildebrand; and Richard Hales as Hilarion. The Society is fortunate in having a leading lady lady, Jen Sanders, who, being tall and elegant, has a beautiful and powerful voice belied by the slenderness of her frame. Many of the actors and singers have most expressive faces, bodies, and hands, none more so than the entertaining Nora Price who, this time, played Lady Blanche. I found myself transfixed by her hands in particular.
The costumes were splendid and the choreography faultless. Pat explained to us later that one joke that brought the house down had been created at the last minute by members of the orchestra. When Ida claimed to be able to play a number of instruments at once, these players rose from the pit and offered her their various pieces.
Early this morning I finished reading The Folio Society’s edition of ‘Good Behaviour’ by Molly Keane. This is a clever. well-written novel, surprisingly first published in 1981. My surprise is that it skilfully describes a past privileged age, depicting mostly unlikeable characters. On the other hand we do like our period television dramas such as ‘Downton Abbey’. Jane Gardam, in her introduction, tells us that the books was originally turned down by two publishers as being ‘too dark’.
I can see those publishers’ point of view, although the darkness that strikes me is perhaps a different one than theirs. I find the heartrending despair of the naive yet nevertheless spirited narrator Aroon rather less than amusing. Debra McFarlane’s exquisite illustrations, one of which decorates the boards of the cover, perfectly depict the young lady. The family culture of denial is stifling. However, I have to admit that the writing sparkles with wit and the characters are only too credible.
After this, still too early to meet the others for breakfast, I walked around the small Surrey town, spotting another Heritage plaque, this time giving us the tale of a former post office the demise of which must have been repeated throughout the land: A possibly less imaginative title is borne by The Old Post Office public house in Newark.
Breakfast at Annie’s continued two parts of the process. The first was the encounter with Michael, a regular customer there. This is a very homely little place with just a few small tables. It offers wholesome food, and every Sabbath some of the residents of an establishment for people who are at least partially sighted attend for their Sunday roast dinner. One of these is the septuagenarian Michael. He is so politely gregarious and able to communicate with the use of his other senses, that the first time we met him we had not realised he was unable to see us. Today, Jackie and I arrived before our companions, so we had Michael to ourselves. We come but once a year, yet he does seem to remember us.
The next part was not usually attached to Annie’s. Perhaps it was because there were eight of us, two more than usual, that two of us went short of a meal for a while. Shelly distracted herself with the ‘i’ crossword, and I entertained myself by watching the others scoffing. I won the race to be served by a short head.
Back home in Hampshire Helen and Bill will collect us this evening for a visit to Totton’s Fuchi restaurant, to complete a pleasant weekend. I will report on that tomorrow.

Reviewing The Situation

This morning Jackie drove the two of us back to Hordle Cliff Beach, the excuse being to check on the photograph I had left for Richard yesterday. She stayed in the car park overlooking the sea whilst I continued my exploration.

The photograph was secure and intact, which is more than can be said of many of the huts and steps down to them and the beach. The lower treads of some of the wooden steps leading from the top level of huts along the centre of the cliffside had been simply torn away. Even those with their struts set in concrete had been uprooted. Scattered along the piles of shingle were numerous kitchen implements with no way of knowing where they had come from. An elderly couple, more fortunate than many, surveyed the undamaged yet wet inside of their beach hut on the higher level.

Richard had expressed concern at the recent replacement of concrete steps by wooden ones. This was because people like his elderly mother could not manage the pitch of the new ones and would no longer be able to come down to the hut. What has happened to these, albeit older, structures would seem to make another case for solid concrete.

Still throwing up spray from the more powerful waves, the sea was a little milder today. The sun shone; a solitary crow flew overhead; and a yacht sauntered along The Solent and past The Needles.

Walkers surveyed the damage. Dogs scampered and frolicked. One black and white creature thoroughly enjoyed playing in the creeping tide, and racing it up the banks of pebbles. This delighted a group of children.

On this journey we pass Wootton Heath, which has been littered with misshapen mirrors putting me in mind of ‘Skyfall’, James Bond’s birthplace.

This afternoon we are driving to Leatherhead for the performance by Godalming Operatic Society of Jackie’s cousin Pat O’Connell’s direction of Princess Ida. I will report on that tomorrow.