January 2015 – Page 2 – derrickjknight

The Lost Earring

On a moist and murky morning I accompanied Jackie to Lymington Hospital for a follow up examination after her recent x-ray. She saw a thorough and helpful physiotherapist who will now refer her for an MRI scan of her knee.

Serious rain set in for the afternoon during which I scanned another batch of uncatalogued black and white negatives. As far as I can tell I took the photographs in 1982, probably whilst on the Fontaine holiday.

Among this collection are five images featuring Jessica’s hair, her neck, an earring, and a bikini strap. I couldn’t pick out a favourite.

Can you?

Soon after this series was taken, Jessica lost the earring. Has anyone seen it?

Purely by coincidence, we repeated what we had done on our last trip to Lymington Hospital, and returned to the town in the evening to dine at Lal Quilla where we enjoyed just as good a meal with friendly and efficient staff as we had had on our first visit. We both drank Kingfisher.

The Vouchers

Today’s weather was dull, and I can no longer ignore the acute pain I have been experiencing in my right knee and shin for a few days now (I know, I know, I should have rested it before now), so I stayed in and scanned a batch of colour slides from July and August 2008.

I only lived in Sutherland Place, W2, for three years, but during that time I served on the Westbourne Neighbourhood Association Committee, and for two years running was prevailed upon, in company with another member, to judge the annual Garden Competition. This residents association is keen, along with other environmental issues, to preserve the character of the gardens in this tiny area of West London. One threat comes from owners extending their basements under the gardens which then have to be paved over. We focussed on the very small front gardens and even smaller window boxes, given that most people were out during the day and we relied on photographic evidence to make our selections.

Here are a few of those photographs:

The third and fifth pictures give some idea of the size of most of the front plots. The second shows what could be done with pots on paving.

The gardeners, by the way, did not enter themselves, and did not even know there was a competition, so were both surprised and delighted to receive their prizes. There were two categories to be considered, the window boxes, and the overall gardens. I printed up all the pictures, discussed them with my colleague, and presented the front runners to the committee where the final selection was made. Pictures six and seven are of the same, winning, garden. In the bottom left of the vertical image can be seen a set on steps leading down to the basement. Plants lined the steps and the concrete at the bottom, giving the whole display a great sense of depth. For this reason it was an unanimous first choice. The garden featured in the first photograph defied categorisation. All there was to this was the railings and steps down to the basement door. Pots stood on every downward level, and were fastened in tiers to each metal upright. There was hardly any room for feet on the way down to the flat. Because this superb effort could not be pigeon-holed, three prizes were offered that year. This was the third, unique, winner. I can’t actually remember which was considered the best window box, but, for its delicate palette merging with the lace curtain behind it, my choice was the last option above.

The penultimate photograph portrays a garden that was not considered eligible, because it was that of an hotel.

Now we come to the prizes, and the reason I chose to feature this batch today. Jackie and I keep a stock of cards for all occasions, some created by ourselves, and others from various sources. Searching through these recently, I came across three identical cards with envelopes. It had been my task to buy the tokens of our appreciation, to be reimbursed by the Association, and to deliver the surprises to the unwitting entrants.

I bought the prizes, but when it came to their delivery, I couldn’t find them, so had to purchase replacements with my own money. I wonder whether, seven years on, Clifton Nurseries of Little Venice would honour three £20 gift vouchers?

To return to 2015, this evening the herbal flavouring of Jackie’s excellent Bolognese sauce had greatly benefited from a further twenty four hours infusion. It was served with tricolour tagliatelle and tender green beans which, with the rich red tomato base reminded me of the Italian flag. Syrup sponge pudding and custard was to follow. Jackie drank Peroni, whilst I chose Llidl’s Bordeaux Superieur 2013.

‘…..Or Grandpa Photographing A Leaf’

We enjoyed another gloriously sunny day. The sky and seas were both clear blue. It was nippy in the shade, but the sun was warming, as I took my usual walk to Hordle Cliff top, where the browns and ochres of the hillside brambles and the shining shingle contrasted well with the brilliant blues.

The Solent had looked most inviting from Downton Lane, where a row of mirror glass had been laid along the pitted footpath through Roger Cobb’s maize fields.

The Shorefield rooks are becoming more vociferous, and distant houses shimmered as I walked along the path to the beach.

Robins are territorial creatures, so the one I stalked from stalk to stalk among the brambles was probably the one I have photographed before on that same area of the clifftop.

I exchanged greetings with a passing jogger and his dog I now see quite regularly on the coast road.

Another customary acquaintance is a gentleman with a little dog which befriended a woman and a little boy who walked down the steps to play at the water’s edge.

Further lengthy conversations somewhat extended the timescale of my outing. The first was with a very gregarious woman who was checking the times posted at the bus stops in the jogger picture. With her pass it is worth her while to visit Waitrose where, if she spends £5 in the shop she can enjoy a free coffee and a copy of the Daily Mail newspaper.

After this, I met Roger outside Hordle Manor Farm, now occupied by his son Matthew and his family, who had indeed rescued Scooby on 17th August last year. He also told me that the lake I had photographed filling his field eleven days ago had now disappeared. This is apparently quite a regular occurrence.

In the car yesterday, Becky had described the 2012 film ‘The Sweeney’, in which a far more thuggish, twenty first century, Ray Winstone reprises John Thaw’s Jack Regan role. The eponymous TV series of the 1970s was iconic. ‘Sweeney!’ (1977) and ‘Sweeney 2’ (1978) were feature length cinema spin-offs. Our daughter, who had watched it with Flo, described an amazing car chase through a single lane winding ‘tree tunnel’. Becky had speculated about what could happen if various pedestrians, such as an old lady walking her dog, had been the other side of one of the bends. Flo had finished off the list with: ‘Or Grandpa photographing a leaf’. It just had to be done, didn’t it? The title, incidentally derives from ‘Sweeney Todd’ (the demon barber of Fleet Street), cockney rhyming slang for the Flying Squad. The way this verbal device works is to take a two or three word phrase and just use the first one as the required term. Another example is Plates (of meat) for Feet.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s excellent fusilli and tagliatelle Bolognese followed by lemon tart, with which we both drank water and I finished the Cotes du Rhone Villages.

An Historic House

This morning Jackie drove us to Emsworth to collect Becky, then on to Mat and Tess’s home in East Sussex, reversing the journey soon after sunset.

Tess produced her usual marvellous roast dinner. Today’s was succulent pork; with super-crisp crackling, roast potatoes, sweet potatoes and parsnips; and a flavoursome stir-fry melange of different cabbages and onions. Dessert was a selection of her delicious home-made cakes. Tess and I drank a sublime Malbec.

Matthew can be seen behind Tess in the photograph above. Also evident is his work on the kitchen, almost three hundred years after the original section of their home, one of Elm Cottages, was built.

In the 1750s, from which the house dates, it was a two up/two down cottage with a brick built privy at the bottom of the garden. A chamber pot would no doubt have been provided for cold winter nights. As was not unusual in the eighteenth century, entrance to other back gardens and the terraced houses themselves was by means of a right of way though neighbouring plots, any fences having openings or unlocked gates for the convenience of others in the row. I believe the kitchens are all rear extensions. It is evident from the photographs that some current residents have dispensed altogether with boundary fences. This makes for a little community of unusual friendliness in our modern world.

The frontages of these houses are rather more aspirational than the humble origins of the backs. These were extended apparently as an enterprise of the subsequently disgraced Edwardian MP Horatio Bottomley, whose own house, ‘The Dicker’, now forms part of St Bede’s School, a little further along Coldharbour Road.

The black and white image of the group on the street outside what were presumably their homes, dates from about 1910, soon after the building was completed. The outfits of the women can be compared with those of Tess and Becky who helped me reprise the photograph this afternoon. Apart from the bicycles leaning against the wall, those Edwardian means of transport and their drivers must have been a rare sight in the road at that time, whereas today’s row of parked vehicles is customary. There were no telephone wires, and no dropped kerbs, in 1910, and in 2015 horse dung would be unlikely to be found on Coldharbour Road.

Ermine Trimming

By mid-morning overnight rain had cleared, making way for sunshine to give a fluffy ermine trim to the clouds over both our garden and the rest of the landscape which glistened with raindrops dripping into the pools and ditches. I took the same walk as yesterday as far as Vicarage Lane, this time crossing it to continue along Sky End Lane, turn right into Everton Road, and eventually right into Farmers Walk to Everton Nurseries where Jackie, having bought three Bishop of Llandaff dahlia tubers and various items of bird food, was finishing her coffee whilst waiting to drive me home.

As I splashed my way along the lanes, knowing that toads like this weather, I kept an eye out for a smiling one, but I was disappointed. The scudding clouds gradually dispersed overhead and buoyant bubbles eventually burst on the surface of the swollen ditches.

The first section of Sky End Lane is narrow and winding and consequently contains a number of reflective mirrors, one of which was crossed with cracks, rain having tarnished the exposed silvering.

A cock crew along Everton Road where smaller birds chirruped in the trees. and from the woods on the other side of Christchurch Road I think I heard a pheasant shoot. A white-haired woman wearing a bright red coat which reflected on the wet tarmac, with a small black terrier in tow, could be seen in the distance as I entered Farmers Walk. Because her female pet held her up every time she needed a sniff, it didn’t take me long to catch them up. We laughed about the animal’s doubling the time it took to walk along the lane.

This evening we dined at our neighbours, The Royal Oak pub. They were very full, for the first time since we have known the establishment. In just a month Carl and Debbie, the new tenants, seem to have turned it round, bringing in a number of local residents. I ate beef madras and profiteroles, whilst Jackie enjoyed a half rack of ribs and sticky toffee pudding (which wasn’t actually sticky) and custard. I normally avoid curry in a pub, because it can never match the real thing, but this one was rather good. Jackie drank Becks. My choice of beverage was Ringwoods fortyniner.

Yellow Ticket

The storm, having filled the deepest ditches, and extended the pools on the fields and the roads, had desisted this morning when we began the day with a shopping trip to Tesco. This supermarket, like all the other home-grown ones, is feeling the squeeze from the Germans, Lidl and Aldi. There were notices everywhere announcing cheaper brands.

By midday the dull weather had evaporated into clear blue sunlit skies. After lunch I walked up Hordle Lane, right into Sky End Lane, left into Vicarage Lane, and left again, returning home back along Hordle Lane. I was lucky, for the rain set in soon afterwards.

Discarded detritus now floated in ochre waters of the ditches which I photographed with my back to the warming sun.

Pools glinted on the lanes and reflected the trees and skies above. A jogger ran past the paddock in which the ponies chomped on their fodder. Later he returned in the opposite direction, possibly eventually passing a woman and her exotic looking dog glowing in the sunlight, and casting long shadows.

Some vehicles sped through the pools on the tarmac, sending up showers of water; others slowed and sprayed a little.

On Vicarage Lane, which enjoyed numerous reflective puddles, I engaged in conversation with a friendly woman tending her garden. She had noticed me attempting to photograph small birds in her trees. We didn’t know what they were, but they were attracted by nuts she had hung up for her visiting tits, siskins, and a solitary woodpecker.

Blackbirds scurried in the hedgerows.

At the corner of Vicarage and Hordle Lanes, lies the Parish Church of All Saints, Hordle. Shafts of gleaming sunlight illuminated the sleepy resting place of former parishioners.

Jackie’s matured liver and bacon casserole was enhanced by the discrete taste of fresh mushrooms and peppers for tonight’s dinner. They were accompanied by prime mashed potato, and crisp cabbage, carrots and cauliflower, then followed by Tesco’s finest Belgian chocolate choux buns. Our dessert was purchased this morning at half price. Such is the UK’s obsession with ‘best before’, ‘use by’, and ‘sell by’ dates, that supermarkets cannot sell goods beyond whichever of these phrases appears the most relevant. Neither, for fear of lawsuits for food poisoning, are they able to give them away. They therefore do the next best thing and reduce the price. Our buns bore the legend ‘use by’ today. Had we purchased them later in the day, they would probably have been even cheaper. In this particular outlet you can recognise reduced items by their yellow ticket.

We each drank the same beverage as yesterday.

Exceeding The Speed Limit

Our home was hit by winds of forty one miles per hour throughout the night after the expected storm hit yesterday evening. Although lessening a little, they continued during the day. Havoc was wreaked in the garden, many of Jackie’s structures being blown down, tables overturned, and two pieces of soffit from the back of the house were dislodged. I know this is not quite so unusual in other parts of the world, but for us in the UK it is a comparatively recent phenomenon.

One bonus has been the fact that I could, as usual, begin uploading photographs and posting for the day before 4.30 p.m. We were, you see, due to be without electricity from 9 a.m. this morning because of essential maintenance our supplier, Scottish and Southern Energy, intended to carry out in our area. This was cancelled because of the gale warning. As I completed this post this evening, the thumping gusts still beset the double-glazed window beside me.

Undeterred, I determined on a clifftop walk. To this end, Jackie drove me to Milford on Sea and I took that route back. This involved battling into a headwind which definitely exceeded the speed limit in the town, and possibly on the coast road. A cord attached to my camera is meant, by being slipped around my wrist, to prevent me from dropping the device. The wind constantly blew it back over my hand to the camera and I had considerable difficulty holding on to it to take shots of The Solent as rain clouds gathered. The only other person on the spot was a young woman who crouched for her view. Even she decided she was a bit close to the edge, where the barrier to the crumbling footpath had itself been blown down. The netting can be seen in the foreground of the picture.

Realising that I would be struggling, Jackie laid in wait in a car park to offer me some respite. I gratefully entered the Modus and she drove me to West Road, from which I returned through Shorefield.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s luscious liver and bacon casserole, mashed potatoes, crisp carrots and cauliflower, followed by lemon sponge tart. She drank Peroni whilst I chose Cotes du Roussillon Villages 2013.

Lal Quilla

This morning Jackie drove us to Lymington Hospital where she had her knee x-rayed. We were very impressed with this well-laid out building, making it easy to find the walk-in service, and the efficiency of that provision when we arrived. Afterwards we parked behind the High Street and walked down to the quay, where Jackie sat on a bench whilst I wandered around; I then walked the length of the main street, seeking Canon printing ink suppliers. I bought some in W.H.Smith’s and ordered another in Stephenson’s. We then met up back at the car park.

In New Street, Jackie spotted a scarf lying in the road, and I tied it to a lamppost. It was still there on our return. If it belongs to you, I hope you recover it before the promised storms arrive.

Many boats were moored in the harbour, but there was little activity other than that of gulls and mallards.

Zooming the third picture above will reveal, on the left-hand edge of the High Street, Lal Quilla Indian restaurant. We thought we would give it a try this evening, and drove back to Lymington. We were not disappointed. My choice of king prawn naga and special fried rice, Jackie’s of prawn sally with mushroom rice, the popadoms, the onion bajis, and the egg parata were all excellent. We both drank draught Kingfisher. The service was friendly and engaging. Even the chef asked if we had enjoyed our food.

P.S. I am grateful to Lakshmi, another WordPress blogger, for pointing out that Lal Quilla is the Hindustani name for what we call Red Fort. This is how it is described by Wikipedia:

‘The Red Fort was the residence of the Mughal emperor of India for nearly 200 years, until 1857. It is located in the centre of Delhi and houses a number of museums. In addition to accommodating the emperors and their households, it was the ceremonial and political centre of Mughal government and the setting for events critically impacting the region.^[1]

The Red Fort, constructed by Shah Jahan, was built as the fortified palace of Shahjahanabad, capital of the fifth Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan,^[2] in 1648. Named for its massive enclosing walls of red sandstone, it is adjacent to the older Salimgarh Fort, built by Islam Shah Suri in 1546. The imperial apartments consist of a row of pavilions, connected by a water channel known as the Stream of Paradise (Nahr-i-Behisht). The Red Fort is considered to represent the zenith of Mughal creativity under Shah Jahan. Although the palace was planned according to Islamic prototypes, each pavilion contains architectural elements typical of Mughal buildings, reflecting a fusion of Timurid, Persian andHindu traditions. The Red Fort’s innovative architectural style, including its garden design, influenced later buildings and gardens in Delhi, Rajasthan, Punjab, Kashmir, Braj, Rohilkhand and elsewhere.^[1]With the Salimgarh Fort, it was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2007 as part of the Red Fort Complex.^[1]^[3]

The Red Fort is an iconic symbol of India. On the Independence Day of India (15 August), the Prime Minister of India hoists the national flag at the main gate of the fort and delivers a nationally-broadcast speech from its ramparts.^[4],’

‘We’ve Seen This One’

After a domestic morning I attempted the woodland walk. Having negotiated the pools at the kissing gate entrance, I crossed the muddy field, where the lowering winter sun cast dazzling reflections from others between the brassica rows. The path through the woods was reasonably negotiable until the footbridge over the fast flowing stream, when it became increasingly muddy. Despite the nakedness of the trees, small birds, creating a cricket-like crescendo remained largely invisible, although zooming the seventh picture will reveal a few. On an uphill stretch a rhododendron shrub had fallen across a gravelled section. Briefly considering this prospect, I called it a day and returned home to finish our ‘Downton Abbey’ marathon by watching this year’s Christmas special. In ‘Downton Abbey’, Julian Fellowes has created a television masterpiece which deserves to run and run. So much has been written about this award winning series that I will not add to it, but I would like to write about our experience of it. Apparently you had to be living under a rock in order not to know about it in the last few years. Over Christmas, we found out why.

The programme has loosely, in the press and everyday conversation, been termed, simply, ‘Downton’. This gave our witty daughter, Becky, the opportunity to post on Facebook, when series five began, that she had just watched the first episode and her parents weren’t in it. ‘What’s going on?’ she exclaimed. Becky and Ian bought Jackie the complete boxed set for Christmas and she and Flo began watching it with us. Such was its appeal that we almost reached the end before the Emsworth family returned home a few days ago. Sometimes taking in three or four episodes a day, Jackie and I continued in their absence. This activity developed its own rituals. One concerned Isis’s bum. Isis was the beloved pet of the Earl of Grantham, played brilliantly by Hugh Bonneville. Every single one of the 42 normal episodes and the four Christmas specials began with the dog’s tail waving across the screen. This prompted a race to be the first, with a variety of jocularly exasperated or frustrated exclamations, to complain: ‘We’ve seen this one’. Jackie and I continued this practice even after Becky had returned home and changed her Facebook cover photo to:

For dinner this evening, roast potatoes and parsnips, Yorkshire pudding, and cabbage were added to Jackie’s beef and sausage casserole. Dessert was apple strudel and custard, and we each drank the same as yesterday.

Pictorial Female Lines

Giles popped in for a visit this morning, bringing Jackie and me each a bottle of our preferred beverages. After this a powerful wind blew me to and fro as I walked down to the Spar shop for some stamps and posted some letters.

Having dreamt up the idea for today’s activity and consequent post during the night, I worked on the photographs, some of which had to be sought out and extracted from group images.

Having loaded them onto my iMac, I hung the photograph of my Great [great] Grandmother Elizabeth Franks on our dressing room wall. If you look closely you will see the photographer reflected in the bottom right hand corner. Remembering that this Victorian woman was eighteen at the time the picture was taken, and that just a day or two ago I had placed Flo’s eighteenth birthday photo in the sitting room, it occurred to me that I may have the material in my collections to trace our granddaughter’s descent, where possible with images of ladies of a similar age. Here is the result:

Florence McConlough’s Great Great Great Grandmother Elizabeth Franks,

whose son George Henry Hunter married Annie Evans, Great Great Grandmother photographed at their son, Ben’s wedding to Ellen in about 1941.

Their daughter Jean, Flo’s Great Grandmother, was also eighteen when photographed shortly before her wedding to Douglas Michael Knight,

as was their son, Grandpa Derrick John Knight when his first wife Vivien took this shot in front of the Tower of London in 1961. (Sorry to insert a man, but it couldn’t be helped).

Then came his daughter Rebekah Veronica Jean, shared with second wife Jacqueline Mary, nee Rivett. Rebekah, Florence’s Mother, was 21 when photographed by Derrick at his son Michael and Heidi’s wedding on 5th October 1991.

Florence McConlough 23.12.14 by Grandpa Derrick, father of

Rebekah,

daughter of Grannie Jacqueline Mary, still Rivett and almost 18 when photographed by Derrick in May 1967.

Jacqueline Mary’s Mother was Flo’s Nan, Veronica Rivett, nee O’Connell, probably also 18 when this photograph was taken.

Vera Rivett, nee Dove was Flo’s Great Grandmother.

It will be apparent that these portraits are almost all crops from larger images. It seems fitting that I should post this shot of Jackie in full, because it tells a story that will amuse those members of the family who appreciate my obsession with photographing the day’s events. My then fiancee, you see, had slipped down a bank in a wood somewhere in Surrey, and grasped a tuft of grass, putting it in danger of being uprooted, and her of slipping further. Chivalrous as ever, I just had to take the photograph before coming to her rescue.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s divine beef and sausage casserole, boiled potatoes, runner beans, and carrots, followed by Mr. Lidl’s exquisite apple strudel, with which I drank more of the Cotes du Roussillon Villages and Jackie drank Hoegaarden.