A tumultuous thunderstorm during the night had left pearls pendant on autumn fruits and sprinkled on roses and other flowers.
I took yesterday’s walk in reverse. There were no shafts of sunlight piercing the clouds this morning, but cliffs towards the West were picked out, and a lone boat sailed the sparkling Solent.
On the coast road, a bright green plastic drinks bottle seemed to be protecting the metal link gripping a hawser grasping a cable post. This put me in mind of our head gardener’s recycling of our mineral water containers. Jackie cuts the bottoms off these and embeds them into the earth to ensure that the roots of her plants, like this fuchsia Army Nurse, receive an adequate supply of the life-giving fluid.
A sweet young lady waited for a bus at the bottom of Downton Lane. She was pleased with the photograph, and said it was ‘fine’ for it to appear on my blog. Zooming on the portrait, which is already a crop, gives an idea of the quality of my Canon SX700 HS camera.
This evening Jackie drove us to The Firs where we joined up with Mum, Elizabeth, and Jacqueline and went on to Durley to dine at The Farmer’s Home. The meals were all very much enjoyed. Mine was a mixed grill followed by Durley Eton mess. I shared a carafe of Chilean merlot with Elizabeth. At 10.55 p.m. it is too late for me to bother about detailing other people’s refreshment, except to say that Mum, who is not supposed to eat very much, put away a steak and kidney pudding, new potatoes, and vegetables, followed by creme brûlée.
Month: October 2014
Sunshine And Showers
CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. REPEAT IF REQUIRED.
Knowing that we were to expect heavy rain all weekend, and that the first hour or two this morning would offer sunshine and showers, we drove out to Mudeford seeking what light there was.
This proved to be interesting. The sun came and went, offering dramatic cloudscapes over the sea;
over the beach huts;
over the harbour;
and over the small town.
Recent downpours had left pools for cars to drive though.
Moored boats bobbed on the choppy wavelets in the sheltered waters,
over which sped a powered vessel.
A number of little rowing boats had filled with water
or capsized.
One, overturned, provided a resting place for juvenile gulls.
We felt sympathy for holidaymakers wrapped in waterproofs, and even more for the intrepid stallholders setting up for the weekend’s Art and Craft Fair.
Almost oblivious of the industry going on around them, a jogger,
a pair of dog walkers,
and a loving couple, continued about their business.
A heap of bright red paddle boards awaited rental customers.
The usual fishing paraphernalia lined the quayside. This couple examined
crab pots;
ropes and lines;
fluttering flags;
and buoys reflecting sunlight
or themselves mirrored in pools,
as were visitors following the first young lady forming a queue for the ferry.
Around the side of the quay the couple I had just passed gazed out to sea.
The most dramatic light of the visit fell on a group beside the car park.
As we left Mudeford for a late breakfast at Friar’s Cliff’s Beach Hut Café, three sail boats set out to sea.
They had made it safely to Friar’s Cliff by the time we reached there.
On the cliff top at Steamer Point lie three very large circular concrete bases.
Their story is now explained on an engraved metal plate fixed to a rock.
This evening we dined on chicken tikka and boiled egg salad. Well, we had had a large, late, fried breakfast. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I drank more of the malbec.
Me, Irritated?
This morning we suffered from an excess of wind. I write not of flatulence, but of 35 miles 
(56 kilometres) per hour gusts tearing into our trees, tossing the tresses of the more slender ones like the weeping birch and the eucalyptus. For those of you in other parts of the world this may not seem very strong, but for us, especially after nurturing numerous window boxes and hanging baskets over the summer, it is a big deal.
I fought my way down my circular route to Hordle Cliff Beach, where the turbulent seas flinging spray over the shingle bank had me fearing once more for the beach huts.
Our already decrepit No Parking sign had been ripped from its board, and that of The Spinney had shed its phone number.
On this unseasonably warm day the sun shone and every cloud had a silver lining.
Roger was emerging from Hordle Manor Farm carrying a bale of hay, thus confirming our speculation that it had indeed been his family who had rescued Scooby when he wandered off and disappeared. He paused for the photograph and gave me a thumbs up sign.
Walking back through Shorefield, I fell in with another Londoner with whom I shared recollections of the Great Storm of 1987.
On my return Jackie was clearing the area around our patch of grass which she had mowed yesterday. I then removed the last of the cuttings we had left on the back drive, adding quite a bit to the log pile.
A very heavy thunderstorm having driven us inside we sat calmly over lunch. Listening to car horns in the street outside Jackie commented that strong winds make people irritated. The elements had not made me irritated. I repeat, with gritted teeth, I was not irritated. Not until we opened Jackie’s bill from BT.
BT then achieved what the heavens couldn’t. When their last shutdown left me without access to e-mails for four days, possibly for want of anything else positive to talk about, one of the advisers persuaded me to have on-line billing. I had already explained that Jackie was the account holder so I would have a bill of nil. If they wanted to implement that I had no objection. A day or so ago I received an on-line bill for £48.17 stating that it would be taken from my bank account on or after 14th October.
On our mat this afternoon appeared Jackie’s bill for the identical amount, the identical period, and the identical date of removal from her bank account. I was also told that from 1st December a surcharge of £1.59 will be added to paper bills. There is no such notification on Jackie’s invoice.
I phoned the telephone company and was greeted by the usual robot which had the usual problem understanding my choices from the varied options. One word the machine had difficulty in understanding was ‘other’. At the third attempt, the robot having a Scots accent, I tried rolling my r at the end of the word. That did the trick. Then, of course, I had to wait ten minutes listening to another voice, telling me that my call was important to them, before I reached a person. A gentleman with an Indian accent informed me that it was not possible to check my account because the system was down. Engineers were working on it. I should call again after four hours.
Me, irritated? You bet.
Later, Jackie drove us to Wroughton. I will report on that tomorrow.
Islington
Early this morning an engineer came to fix our Kenwood dishwasher. Apart from a minor gap in its intelligence, there was nothing wrong with it. The problem was a kink in the pipe letting out the water. The machine didn’t know how to tell us this, so it informed us that there was some loose wiring and we should unplug it and call in an expert. After what was probably the man’s easiest job of the day, Jackie drove us to Christchurch in search of a small lawnmower. We reconnoitred both Stewarts and B & Q. As is was pensioners 10% discount day at the DIY centre, they won. We bought a small Bosch model. On the way back my lady dropped me in New Milton where I deposited a jacket at Johnson’s cleaners, and walked back via Ashley.
On this day of sunshine and showers I was hit by a deluge in Lower Ashley Road.
As raindrops formed expanding circles in the pavement pools a group of road menders gleefully continued their work in the refreshing downpour.
By the time I was walking along Christchurch Road the rain had stopped and the sun shone. Jackie had stopped off at Tesco’s for some shopping, and passed me. I did not decline her offer of a lift, and squelched into the car.
Our vine path sparkled in the sunlight.
This afternoon I delved into my slide boxes in order to produce another in my posterity series of photographs. When, on 16th March last year, I first wrote about our time at The Peel Institute I had reproduced a photograph of myself with a bunch of roses I had just picked from the garden that was taken by Jessica on Christmas Day 1974, I could not find the slide and used a rather poor copy of the picture. Here is today’s scanned version:
We had moved into the building in Lloyd Baker Street in August of that year.
A children’s playgroup could then be seen in the garden, and in
May 1975, Jessica was reflected in the window of the youth club. We learned later that the second husband of Jessica’s Aunt Elspeth had previously taken parties of boys from the club to climb Snowdon from the cottage in which we were staying when the photograph featured on 7th July was taken.
In August 1974 I photographed a sunset over the St Pancras skyline which is now changed beyond all recognition.
This evening’s dinner consisted of Jackie’s superb sausage casserole (recipe), mashed potato, and crisp Brussels sprouts and carrots, followed by choux buns. She drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Rawnsley Estate red wine.
Why Did The Donkey Cross The Road?
After a noisy thunderstorm during the night, the day dawned bright and clear. I walked the circular route to Milford on Sea and back. Indicative of the brisk pace I was able to maintain in the cooler weather, this round trip took just over 90 minutes.
The pines along Sea Breeze Way cast lengthy shadows across the terrain, and the sun that caused this also enriched the colour of the
leaves now beginning to fall in the Nature Reserve, where the footpaths are becoming rather soggy.
On my way back along the cliff top, watching very choppy seas, I leant into a very forceful head wind which made me think I should have taken this route on the outward journey. Then I would have been blown along. Perhaps I should have emulated the crow which, flying low, may have gained some shelter from the land. Not being able to fly, except in my youthful dreams, I would have had to walk along the shingle, and today I didn’t have time for that.
Back at home, I joined Jackie, who had already made a start on the continued clearance of the back drive. We have almost finished the task.
Later this afternoon Jackie drove us to the Montague Arms Hotel at Beaulieu where we met Elizabeth for a cream tea.
As we arrived at the hotel two donkeys left the forecourt, wandered around the corner and across the road and came to catatonic rest outside someone’s house.
The Montague Arms is a splendid building with a beautifully maintained garden. Whilst waiting for my sister I wandered out and spoke to the gardener who was pleased with my appreciation of his work. He didn’t stop all the time we were enjoying our refreshment. We could have played croquet on the immaculate lawn, had we felt so inclined.
For refreshment, the ladies each chose cream teas, Elizabeth’s beverage being Earl Grey and Jackie’s English Breakfast. The scones looked delicious, but I, thinking we would be eating out later, originally declined. My lady and my sister, however, each persuaded me to have half of one of theirs. With these I drank a bottle of Ringwood’s Forty-niner.
After this, having all agreed to go on afterwards to The Family House in Totton for our evening meal, we took Elizabeth on a tour of Beaulieu, which, of course, doesn’t take very long. We introduced her to Patrick’s Patch which contained more seasonal produce than last time we visited in November last year.
Chard and dahlias were still in their beds, and an attractive arrangement of miniature pumpkins was on display.
I travelled with Elizabeth to the restaurant to be sure she would find the car park where we arrived at the same time as Jackie, and had our usual excellent meal in homely surroundings. We all drank T’singTao beer. Afterwards we parted company and Jackie drove me home.
The Uses Of Enchantment
The gales are back in force. As the wind howled and the rain lashed at our window panes, tearing down the wisteria outside the kitchen door, I felt like a little pig.
One of three, that is. Fortunately in a house made of brick. Had it been of straw we would have woken up exposed to the elements. I refer, of course, to the fairy tale featuring a big bad wolf who huffed and puffed and blew down two of the houses, built of insubstantial materials, with disastrous consequences for the piglets. The wiser, better prepared, porker survived. Other versions have the third brother rescuing his siblings. Either way, it is an entertaining fable, which has given generations of children scary delight.
Not everyone today would agree that this, like many other such tales, is a suitable story for young children. I cannot now remember whether this one featured in Bruno Bettelheim’s 1976 book, ‘The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales’. ‘Little Red Riding Hood’, also featuring a frightening wolf certainly did. All children have fearful fantasies that they need to come to terms with in a safe atmosphere and environment. Bettelheim’s thesis is that folk tales featuring death, destruction, witches and injury, help children to do so. I have more than once referred to the Brothers Grimm’s ‘Hansel and Gretel’, which some people, as with much of this duo’s work, consider too dark. I am, however, in agreement with Bettelheim.
Heinrich Hoffman, for me, is another matter.
His ‘Struwwelpeter’, of 1845, at one time the most prolifically published children’s book in the world, is aimed at scaring infants into behaving themselves. The cover of my 1909 copy of Routledge’s English translation illustrates what happens to Little Suck-a-Thumb. There is no possibility of redemption in these cautionary tales – just horrific punishment. Contrast this with what must be universally the most popular children’s book of today,
Maurice Sendak’s ‘Where The Wild Things Are’ from 1963. Max, punished for ill-treating the family dog is banished to his room, indulges his fantasies, and is finally forgiven by his mother. It is one thing, although not good, for a child to wave a fork to frighten a dog, quite another for an adult to snip off thumbs.
By mid-afternoon everything had calmed down and I could cease my internal rambling and walk the Hordle Cliff top route in reverse.
Water bubbles balanced on nasturtium leaves sparkled in the sunlight.
When we arrived at Downton at the beginning of April a flood around a manhole cover on a bend a short distance from our back drive was being pumped out.
Today the lake is back. The flood warning sign has lain in the hedgerow all summer.
I fished it out and leant it against a tree. Without this warning the car in the picture would have rushed through the water the driver would not have seen on the blind bend, and given me a cold shower. Other pools reflected the skies at regular intervals.
The skeleton of an umbrella no longer fit for purpose lay abandoned in a bus shelter that has also seen better days.
Even the dogs on the cliff path showed no interest in descending to the shingle below.
This evening’s dinner consisted of rack of pork ribs marinaded in chilli sauce, served with pilau rice and green beans, followed by ginger pudding and custard. Unless you are of a certain age you will not remember the runner beans that, by the time they reached the greengrocer’s, had tough skins with strong cords running down the sides. If you do remember, you may have helped your mother top and tail them, deftly stripping off the stringy bits. Now, the young vegetables reach the supermarkets in tender condition and you just toss them into the boiling water or the steamer. With our meal Jackie finished the Pedro Jimenez, and I began the Rawnsley Estate shiraz grenach mourvedre 2012. Incidentally, it was competition from the Australians that forced the French to name the grapes on their wine labels.
Swampy
A family gathering at Chris and Frances’s home in Wroughton, a rare event in that all the siblings were present, led to much reminiscing. Many of the stories, such as when Chris broke his leg the first time, have featured before in this blog.
Joseph, however, was enlightened to learn that when a baby he had been taken on numerous outings by Vivien and me, notably to watch cricket at Cottenham Park, seen here in 1962. Later, Jackie and I had done the same thing. In the second picture
he stands between her and Michael, fascinated by the budgie cage at Cannizaro Park in October 1967.
Discussion about the various routes we had taken to reach Wroughton led to mention of the Newbury bypass in Berkshire. Elizabeth travels from West End near Southampton via Newbury, a way previously avoided by Jackie because the town had been such a bottleneck. The bypass was free to be built after Swampy came down from his tree. This 
man, otherwise known as Daniel Hooper is or was an environmental activist who, in 1996 led a group of hundreds of villagers who set themselves up in tree houses in a vain attempt to prevent the construction of the road taking traffic outside the town. Thousands of people from all over the country joined in this protest which, to the delight of the media, and at least one reader of The Times, lasted for three months. Mr Hooper, who now lives in a yurt in Wales, and spends his time running marathons, is a Newbury man.
After Jackie had driven us back home we dined at the Rivaaz in New Milton and both drank Kingfisher.
Narrow Lanes
The day began less than delightfully. Two days ago, our dishwasher was delivered. That was an excellent service. Disappointingly, the Kenwood machine developed a fault on our first wash last night. The booklet advised us to contact a qualified technician. I tried that this morning. Curry’s customer service number produced one of those maddening systems that asks you to repeat everything before moving on to the next robotic question. Eventually I reached a person who clearly knew what he was doing, but, unfortunately for him, could only offer a visit in five days time with no specific time frame. Rather less than calmly, I expressed my frustration. ‘We are not the retailer’, he politely replied. He did sound a little upset. Of course I said it was not his fault, but I had expected to speak to the people who sold the equipment, not an engineer engaged to conduct repairs within the guarantee period. That is asking too much in our progressive age.
I then tried the number of the Christchurch store given on the receipt. This connected me to the same system. It looks as if I will be washing up for a few more days.
After this I needed a walk. It is a long time since I undertook one of these in the rain. We have enjoyed such a long dry summer that it is difficult to remember the two years of 
almost incessant rain that ended this spring. I took my circular route to Hordle cliff beach, along which I crunched with no other company. The few dog walkers there were preferred to stay on the cliff top. One small terrier stood at the top of the steps insisting he be led down. His master complied with the request, but the young lady with him remained aloft.
Often, on these narrow winding lanes, a mirror is fixed to a suitable structure on the opposite side of driveways so that residents emerging are able to see anything coming up 
the road. One of these in Downton Lane gave me the opportunity to take a selfie. Although the term for these images has not yet reached the dictionaries, they are photographs taken at arm’s length by the subject with a mobile phone. Certain politicians, such as David Cameron, are partial to their photo opportunities. Actually I don’t believe my effort is strictly a selfie, since it is a reflection and taken with a digital camera that doesn’t send or receive messages. Perhaps the lexicographers will eventually elucidate.
A controversy rages in The New Forest over cyclists. One faction encourages them into the area, so they may enjoy their exercise and patronise the tourism facilities; whilst another regards them as a nuisance, often creating dangerous obstacles on the roads, causing long backlogs where they cannot be overtaken.
A sign at the corner where Downton Lane meets the coast road states ‘Caution Cyclists’. I think this is to encourage car drivers to be on the lookout. It could also be alerting pedestrians to the fact that a two wheeler could come hurtling round the bend on the footpath. On the other hand it may be suggesting that the cyclists themselves should be careful.
By mid-afternoon the day had brightened. The clematis Carnaby has flowered for the first time, as has a pale blue morning glory, clearly fooled by the dull morning into blooming still at 5.30 p.m.
This evening Jackie varied her smoked haddock and cauliflower cheese meal photographed on 2nd May last year (recipe for cauliflower cheese), by using cod. The green element in the palette was provided by spinach. This was followed by sticky toffee pudding and custard. We both drank Cimarosa Pedro Jimenez 2013.
The Lady Plumber
It was Homer in The Odyssey who first described dawn as having ‘rosy-‘ or ‘rose-tinted fingers’. This morning we saw how apt his description was. There is, of course, as much controversy about the identity of this ancient Greek, or even Greeks, as there is about our own William Shakespeare’s. Something else the two have in common is that their phrases have become part of international language without speakers necessarily knowing from where or from whom they originated. I expect you can all think of examples. For starters, here is one I learned only this morning: ‘Manners maketh man’. We must have all heard this one, but where does it come from?
‘William of Wykeham’, according to Barrie Haynes, ‘was not a bad lad’. This is how my friend began his ‘Between Ourselves’ column of 22nd July 2009, in a Lincolnshire newspaper, Target Series. He then goes on, among other pieces of information, to tell us that William founded both Winchester College and New College, Oxford. The phrase quoted above has been adopted as their motto by each of these educational establishments, for it was their founder who coined it. Thank you, Barrie, I didn’t know that.
Barrie’s column ran for 76 weekly issues from 2009 to 2010. It is entertaining, sometimes provocative, and a mine of information. I am slowly working my way through the collection he sent me. I am not tempted to skip anything. The man is a delight, and I hope he soon succumbs to my pressure on him to start writing a blog.
During an hiatus in the work of Sam, The Lady Plumber, who fitted our dishwasher this morning, I walked the route through Roger’s fields, along the side of the wood, left along 
the bus route, and back up Downton Lane, pausing as usual to admire the cottage garden on the corner. Cosmos, marigolds, and nicotiana were the plants I could identify.
A crow, with another in the distance, tracked the hang glider that reflected the deep blue of the Solent, visible from the fields at our end of the lane.
As I walked along the side of the wood, my face tickled by spider’s strands stretching across the footpath, I felt thankful that I was not a fly, one of which basked in comparative safety on a dead branch.
To return to Sam, she is not phased by any problems she encounters. On each occasion she has worked on our plumbing, she has found the need for another piece of equipment, and has happily gone out and shopped for it. Today the pipe leading from the dishwasher to the water supply was too short, so she bought an extension. Sam is also willing to sort out other problems. Whilst testing the machine she spotted a leak in one of the sinks, unscrewed the elbow and found a broken washer. This meant another trip to the suppliers. She had other jobs to complete first, but undertook to come back to us afterwards, which she promptly did.
Matching the washers had been a difficult task, so Sam was justifiably triumphant when she had fixed the new one to her satisfaction.
Work continued somewhat sporadically in the back drive. We are slowly getting there.
The Happy Wok at Ashley once again provided our evening repast, liquid refreshment being Hoegaarden and Bishop’s Finger.
Beach Hut Maintenance
This morning Jackie and I continued work on the entrance to the back drive. This involved another bonfire. I had anticipated saving the brushwood until November when we will celebrate Guy Fawkes day with the Mapperley grandchildren. We already had far more than we will need then.
The still hazy noon, following an early morning mist meant that The Needles fog alert was still sounding as I took my now circular route to Hordle Cliff and its beach. The Isle of Wight and lighthouse were still invisible.
At the bottom of Downton Lane, a ladybird clung to a mare’s tail.
The field on the left of the coast road also belongs to Roger Cobb, whose tell-tail perfect ploughing lines alerted me to his standing Massey Ferguson tractor whilst he repositioned the hinge on a five barred gate. I held it steady as he applied his hammer.
Crows foraged among the crumbling turned-up soil.
Down at the beach a spider lurked between beach huts, and a solitary swimmer surfaced on the smooth water.
t has not been unusual this summer to to see beach hut maintenance being carried out. Observing an example of this from the water’s edge I walked up to the building being repaired and spent some time with Marcos, the craftsman, and his dogs. We sat and chatted enjoyably for a while. His two spaniels seemed more sure-footed than his woolly black dog, which kept slipping down the bank until coming to rest against some part of me or another.
Marcos, who also does household decorating, had replaced the whole of the front of the hut which was rotting in parts. this is an attractive example of the work of milfordandhordlecliffbeachhuts@yahoo.co.uk
Jackie had continued work on the back drive entrance, and I joined her later on. 
She is exposing a brick edging to a narrow border beyond the gate, and I have reached half way into the fuchsia hedge. 
This is what the area looked like as the sun was going down. The No Parking sign is the handiwork of the previous owner of our home, and the plastic bag is to gather up what people chuck out of their cars.
The Happy Wok at Ashley provided our Chinese Takeaway meal this evening, with which I drank Shepherd Neame Bishop’s Finger Kentish Strong Ale. Jackie’s drink was Hoegaarden.