June 2015 – Page 2 – derrickjknight

The Farthing

For Jessica’s old friend Mary it was frogs; for Jackie’s sister Helen it is owls; for us it is mugs with birds on them, or in France, chickens.

I speak of collections built up by friends. This is how it works. One person presents you with a frog, an owl, or a mug. These are noticed by others who give you another. Before you know where you are you are overrun with them.

Sheila observed that a lot of our mugs depicted birds. We identified those on her morning coffee cup as wrens, our smallest common avians. The conversation developed into a discussion about the farthing. Until it was abolished in 1961 this, being our smallest piece of coinage, bore a wren on the reverse side. When we were all children one could buy a pink shrimp sweet, blackjack or fruit salad chew for a farthing each. A pair of shoes was available for £1/19/11¾ (a farthing under £2 in pre-decimal coinage).

erratum slip: My friend Geoff Austin informs me he has a Victorian half-farthing.

After a shopping trip to New Milton we visited Braxton Gardens near Everton, where the rose garden has now been refurbished.

On the way home, Jackie deposited me at Paddy’s Gap Car Park. I walked on, following in yesterday’s footsteps. A brisk sea breeze cooled the cliff top on this muggy, overcast, day.

Shorefield Country Park now carries a hoarding explaining why the older chalets were demolished, burnt, and replaced during the winter.

A couple were cleaning the outside of their static caravan. ‘You wouldn’t like to come and do ours when you’ve finished, would you?’, I quipped. Quick as a flash, ‘No’, the man replied with jocularity, ‘I’d prefer you to come and do this one’. I responded with ‘I asked for that, didn’t I?’. ‘You did’, laughingly returned the woman.

This evening we dined on roast chicken; roast potatoes, peppers, and mushrooms; Yorkshire pudding; sage and onion stuffing; cauliflower, peas, and carrots; followed by lemon cheesecake. I drank more of the malbec.

From Seaside To Forest And Back

On another glorious summer’s morning Jackie drove me to the surgery at Milford, where I handed in my repeat prescription order. She then deposited me at The Beach House so that I could walk back along the cliff top and up through Shorefield, thus avoiding the ascent of Park Lane.

Sleepy yachts slipped past The Needles and The Isle of Wight, along The calm, bright blue, Solent, reflecting the clear sky above.

Scarlet Pimpernels straggled underfoot.

Colourful lichen clings to memorial benches

like this one.

What is fascinating about these benches that line the cliff paths, is that they give you some idea of the length of retirees’ twilight years, and demonstrate the longevity of lichen.

Work continues on the re-sited footpath, brought some way inland following last year’s cliff crumble. Three cyclists sped along it. One waved cheerily. In the distance can be seen the crew adding fine gravel to the tarmacked surface. When I reached them I took rather a good photograph of the workers, but their head man preferred not to have their faces flying round the internet, so I deleted it.

A gentleman and his black labrador descended the steps down to the beach. The dog dashed down the bank, possibly indicating that he didn’t want to be photographed either.

The normally reluctant crows didn’t seem interested. One just continued preening.

Another, tattooed, man, attempting a tan, toted his shirt along the shingle.

A few days ago I featured signs warning swimmers off, because of World War II defence ironwork. A photograph now shows the spikes, rather like those that in medieval times aimed to ensnare horses.

This afternoon Jackie drove Sheila and me around the north of the forest. Donkeys wandered on the road in Mockbeggar.

One, standing in the soporific sunlight, cast a sharp shadow.

Another, sensibly stayed in the shade.

Before having a drink in the garden of The Foresters Arms in Frogham, we visited the nearby Abotswell Car Park.

Dog roses decorated the shrubbery. Beyond these it is evident that the small lake is almost dry.

Just how did the owner of these keys ever leave the car park?

There was no suitable stopping place for photography on Roger Penny Way, but, as we approached Cadnam, there was enough of an hiatus in the traffic flow for me, from the back seat of the Modus, to produce an image of

the pony family that had ambled across the road.

This evening we all dined at Lal Quilla in Lymington. The meal, service, and friendliness were as good as ever. I chose a new dish called Chicken Jaljala. This was cooked in a sweet, sour, and hot tomato and onion sauce. I will certainly have it again. Jackie and I drank Kingfisher, whilst Sheila’s choice was sparkling water.

It wasn’t far off 10 p.m. when we admired the sunset from the quay.

Shoebox

I began the day with a brief amble down the lane.

In the bed beyond the kitchen window, the frilly pink poppies have multiplied.

On our back drive, a pennant of white ramblers is now strung from stump to stump down the avenue of dead trees along the Northern side.

Hallmark Builders have finished their work on the entrance to The Spinney, revealing that the purpose of the wall is to contain a letterbox.

While Jackie continued in the garden, Sheila knitted duck puppets.

The Shoebox Appeal, originating in 1992, operates a system of donating gifts, often hand-crafted to needy people in Eastern Europe and in Africa. Sheila contributes with her knitting. When our friend was struggling to thread her wool through the eye of a sewing needle, I was rash enough to mention that I had, as a child, habitually performed this task for my grandmother, I got the job of doing it for Sheila. It took me some time.

If we harvested all the potatoes that emerge among the flower beds, no doubt germinated from composted peelings, we would put the greengrocers out of business. Those that haven’t already succumbed to the supermarkets, that is. Jackie brought in one of the plants, to give our guest a preview of what she was having for dinner.

This very warm afternoon Jackie took us for a drive along the coast road. From Milford on Sea, where we did a little shopping, We proceeded to Keyhaven, continued along the inviting-looking salt marshes, from which a bridge crosses to Hurst Spit, along the top of which a young woman, her fair hair blowing in the wind, strode purposefully. Visible through the railings of the firm wooden bridge, a mother and child sheltered, with their dog on the sun-warmed shingle. It is to be hoped that enough of the rapidly melting ice-cream found its way into the little boy’s mouth before it welded the tissue wrapped around it to the cone.

At Barton on Sea I walked round the side of Sails Coffee Shop and looked out over the air-space that had once carried the ends of gardens in the terrace of which it forms part. Close by is the Beachcomber cafe where Sheila drank a cappuccino and Jackie a diet Coke. Jackie’s excuse for indulging in a slice of rainbow cake was that ‘it had to be seen to be believed’.

She couldn’t eat it all, so, out of the goodness of my heart, I forced down a couple of colours.

Before that, a young woman offered one of the marauding starlings a slice of cucumber. Had she asked, I could have offered the opinion that, judging by the squirming creatures our parent starlings had carried to the chicks in our roofs, these birds are carnivores. Whether or not that is true this one eschewed the cucumber. Like the ‘Five Little Men in a Flying Saucer’, on a visit to Earth, it took a little look at it, ‘didn’t like the sight of it, and quickly flew away’.

This evening we dined on flavoursome smoked cod, Jackie’s piquant cauliflower cheese, mashed potato, and crisp carrots and green beans, followed by lemon cheesecake from the Co-op. I finished the merlot, Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and Sheila quaffed lemonade.

Painting The Scene

This morning we took Sheila to visit the Gordleton Mill Hotel and garden. Although there was a private function in the hotel, having walked down a few steps and across the bridge over the River Avon, we were welcomed in the bar and on the patio where we each enjoyed a cappuccino. One of the attractions of this beautiful garden is its array of artwork, much of which I photographed on our visit of 2nd April.

There were still a few I had not featured before, such as

the front view of Organic Woman, the rear of which greets you as you drive in;

the same artist’s Stone sculpture;

Stone Ware;

or this apple and pear.

Should you prefer tree sculpture there is this moustachioed chap,

or the Wood Spirit.

Two vacant chairs against a backdrop of gunnera, waited patently for occupants. Unbeknown to me, as I followed in their tracks, Jackie and Sheila had apparently obliged, whilst I was inside settling the bill.

Yellow irises were sprayed by a sculpted fountain, creating a scene being depicted by

two attractive artists, their materials spread out on the woven furniture.

We enjoyed a pleasant chat before I continued catching up Jackie and Sheila who had progressed to another area which, in turn, led up some steps revealing another beautiful garden room, in which three women strolled with glasses of wine..

This afternoon I cut the grass and Jackie continued weeding and pruning. I have to admit that, were I to do the weeding, I would be bound either to pull up something I shouldn’t, or to leave to flourish a plant better uprooted. My contribution to this exercise is to gather up the containers of the head gardener’s refuse, carry them up to the compost area, then backtrack, by which time she will have filled a wheelbarrow, and I would return to the heap.

As a little respite from this trudging, I took a brief wander down Downton Lane which has more than its share of blind bends on which a scooter has just enough room to pass an oncoming car.

Iris foetidissima now flourishes on the verges.

This evening the three of us dined at The Plough Inn at Tiptoe. We enjoyed the usual excellent fare, with friendly and efficient service. My choice was home made pork, apple, and cider pie encased in proper short crust pastry, boiled potatoes, cauliflower, carrots and cabbage with tasty gravy, followed by New Forest ice cream; Jackie’s was chicken fricassee followed by a firm, yet, moist cheesecake; Sheila’s was scampi with boiled potatoes and a plentiful, fresh, salad. I drank a superb rioja; Jackie, draught Peroni; and Sheila, sparkling water.

‘Nice To See You Again’

After lunch on a glorious summer’s day, we took Sheila on a drive through the forest via Brockenhurst, Lymington, and Milford on Sea.

It is the season for foals in the forest. Traffic calming structures include short wooden bollards and widened kerbs on either side of the roads, forcing traffic into single files. The necessity for this was evident as one little filly, closely chaperoned by her mother, perched precariously on the kerb, in an effort to relieve herself of irritation she probably didn’t yet know was caused by the flies that would plague her for the rest of her life. Eyes closed, she vainly rubbed her head against the bollard. She had trouble arranging her hoofs.

Other adult ponies wandered across the road, holding up the vehicles as usual.

Further along, a toddler in the arms of his carer, was being introduced to more ponies and cattle sheltering in the shade of a tree on the green.

I had met Percy on 29th January in Polly’s Pantry, when I produced ‘Portrait Of A Village’. Because I had enjoyed this teashop, I took Jackie and Sheila there today. Over our beverages, I told them about Percy. Just before we left, in struggled Percy, with the usual amount of courteous assistance and service from the staff. Usually, when you speak to someone you have only met once, and that six months before, you are inclined to think that the observation ‘Nice to see you again’, which is usually accompanied by a quizzical expression, is just a matter of politeness. Not so with Percy. This very bent, disabled, gentleman, definitely did recognise me. His comment was genuine.

Back home, Jackie continued weeding and tidying the garden.

Helicopters can make a vertical descent and land with precision. So it is with those carried by sycamore trees. Stretching across our back drive from North Breeze next door is such a tree that has self-seeded against what is left of the ancient fence. Its seeds, nicknamed helicopters, hang threatening to drop onto our newly gravelled drive. Despite the fact that they are coloured so as to suggest that they may be support vehicles for the Red Arrows, they cannot be allowed to land among our stones. They had to go. I cut off a few of the branches.

Elizabeth called soon after this and joined us for the usual splendid repast served up by the lady of the house. We all dined on roast chicken thighs, roasted mushrooms and peppers, Yorkshire pudding, creamy mashed swede and potato, boiled potatoes, carrots, mange-touts and green beans; followed by Sheila’s lemon cake and evap. Jackie drank Hoegaarden; Sheila lemonade; and Elizabeth and I, Louis de Camponac merlot 2014.

Where’s Sheila?

A prolific red climbing rose was becoming a hazard as it stretched across the front door. It needed tying up. But there was no trellis left available. Fortunately we have found a number of large pointed metal spikes rather like giant Meccano struts, in various parts of the garden. I banged one of those into the stony soil with a heavy mallet, threaded garden wire through it, and used it as a hawser.

Just after one p.m. Jackie drove us to Brockenhurst to collect our friend Sheila who is spending the week with us. Whilst waiting for Sheila I saw my first ever bearded sparrow perched on a Leyland cypress apparently watching the trains go by. I wondered whether it might be collecting train numbers, as I had done in the 1950s along the railway path between Wimbledon and Raynes Park, clutching lists published, I think, by Ian Allan Publishing. Chris and I would eagerly check off in the books the numbers carried by the trains that would pass our house. As I pondered this and walked onto Platform 3 to meet Sheila’s train, I noticed one of those very numbers on the rear of a Lymington link service waiting for the late arrival from Clapham Junction. I don’t have those books any more, so I couldn’t check it, but the railwayman on the platform assured me it was unique to his carriage. I wonder, are they still published?

Beside the railway stands a carriage which has seen enough days to perhaps have featured in one of my old lists. It now appears to house a cycle hire firm, offering a way of exploring The New Forest.

I had plenty of opportunity to memorise number 158888, because her train was late and Sheila wasn’t on it. With an hour to kill before the next one, we repaired to the Forester’s Arms for lunch. I enjoyed fish, chips, and peas, and most of a pint of Ringwood’s Best. Jackie’s Baked potato with tuna and salad was equally to her taste.

Afterwards we returned to the station in good time for the next train.

Sheila wasn’t on it.

Now what? I thought as I climbed up this steps from the platform then turned right towards another set that would lead down to the car park. I then stopped, turned round and walked the other way towards the stairway to the ticket office. I thought there could be just a chance that a lost lady might be lurking there. And there, as I descended the stairs, was Sheila in a phone box, about to make a call to our home which would have been unoccupied because we were at the station waiting for her. She had, having missed the first train, decided to come by a different route, arriving on a different platform.

We then had a pleasant drive through country lanes back home, spent an afternoon catching up with each other, and then enjoyed the culinary skills of the head gardener. Succulent sausage casserole, crisp mange-touts and carrots, and creamy mashed potato and swede, were followed by a lemon cake that Sheila had brought, with evap. Hoegaarden was imbibed my Jackie, the rest of the merlot by me, and lemonade by Sheila.

Conquering Everest

Soon after dawn this morning, a couple of sleek, dark, lean looking adult starlings led a pair of fluffy fat fledglings onto the roof above their nest. A friendly young blackbird, like the lonely child watching others playing, attempted to join the group. It was chased off by Mum and Dad. Naturally I dashed, such as I can, downstairs for my camera. By the time I returned the birds had flown. We miss them already. Later, Jackie tackled further tidying of the beds surrounding the Heligan Path. I helped a bit, and a bit more in erecting a third arch along The Brick Path. This consisted of nailing an old piece of timber to the dead snake bark maple. We trained the clematis Montana, now devoid of flowers, onto the strut, which we hope will be met by one recently planted at the foot of the tree. To the left of this third photograph can be seen a scented peach coloured climbing rose which, seeking the light now available, doesn’t appear to want to join the white rose and clematis adorning the Gothic arch, and now rambles elsewhere.

This afternoon, Jackie planted up the cleared section around the dead tree.

While we were thus engaged A.P. Maintenance, in the form of Aaron and his Dad, Dave, continued laying the brick paving in the projected rose garden. This curve perfectly reflects that of the much older Heligan Path with which it links. Those of you who have been following for a while may have wondered what the peripatetic mice have been up to recently. They, and their sheep, now cast as Sherpas, are attempting a conquest of Everest. The base camp has been set up in front of a portrait Jackie drew of her mother many years ago. One rodent perches atop an approach peak that is one of Giles’s stained glass creations, on which flies a flag proclaiming ‘Conquering Everest 2015’. Our double-glazed windows were installed by a well-known firm who claim to fit the best. Get it? We dined this evening on Jackie’s sublime sausage casserole, crisp carrots and cabbage, and creamy mashed potatoes, followed by pineapple sponge pudding and evap. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank Louis de Camponac merlot 2014.

The Garden Map

Come for a further wander down the garden paths.

Stepping out of the utility room stable doorway, we meet this little rose that was bramble-bound last year.

This frilly new pink poppy sits quite well against the red Japanese maple, visible from the kitchen window.

Opposite our small patch of grass, we think designed for a dog loo,

against the backdrop of a yellow Japanese maple, speckled New Zealand flax arches over red penstemon and budding thalictrum.

Passing the other end of the Phantom Path, at the far end we see a yellow-green-leaved tree, only one branch of which seemed alive last year, before we lopped out all the dead wood.

Jackie transplanted the outspoken orange hawkweed, regarded in other parts of the world as an infestation, from the former kitchen garden. It now enlivens the Oval Bed.

This Sambucus, planted not so long ago, now blooms behind the potting shed.

The back drive is now framed by new planted troughs. In the top right hand corner of the picture can be glimpsed a basket suspended from the slender arch through which we now walk into the garden. Please don’t tell the head gardener that I keep banging my head on it.

From the end of the drive we turn left to see how Hallmark Builders are getting on with their ‘massive’ project on the recently sold The Spinney at number 11.

Two men are building a beautifully curved wall.

Back down our own brick path we see the delicate pink rodgersia, yet another member of the saxifrage family.

Just past this plant lies the Dead End Path.

Back at the house, the pink striped Rosa Gallica is now blooming against the kitchen wall,

and the Rosa Glauca soars above the patio.

Taking visitors on a meandering trip is rather easier than the task on which the head gardener has been engaged during much of the last two or three days.

John Whitworth recently expressed his need of a garden map. We are not lovers of straight lines, but, had we had a few more, Jackie’s task would have been so much easier. When she proudly presented the finished chart, I then had the task of reproducing it. Since it had been drawn on A3 paper, which is too large for my scanner, I had to photograph it with my little SX700 HS Canon. Having the benefit of neither Ken Morse’s equipment nor his expertise, it was difficult to achieve an unwarped rectangle from above. Here is the finished masterpiece:

Later this afternoon I had transferred the bonfire ashes to the compost heaps, and raked back the shingle that I’d scraped out for a makeshift hearth.

It is hardly surprising that there had been no time for cooking. There was nothing for it but to go out for dinner. It was Spice of India that was graced with our presence, for which we were rewarded with an excellent meal. My main course was naga chicken with special fried rice; Jackie’s was chicken shaslik and salad. We shared a paratha, and both drank cobra.

Maybe The Plants Were Sweating

This, the hottest day of the year so far, was so humid and overcast as to be energy-sapping and mood lowering.

Even the overnight rain couldn’t muster the enthusiasm to slide from the weeping roses, doing their best to brighten the day.

The head gardener, yesterday, had expressed pleasure that the photograph of Elizabeth’s rose had not sported any insects. I was unable to persuade these to leave this crisp yellow one. Perhaps they were taking a refreshing drink.

The unidentified delicate iris I featured a few days ago is in fact an iris foetidissima. They are now cropping up everywhere, in a multitude of colours. Named because they are supposed to stink, if ours do, the pong has not yet reached my nostrils.

Maybe all the plants were simply sweating, as was I when I laid a small set of the stepping stones that Jackie has been placing in the beds in order to provide access. This one was needed to save a trek round to what we call the Dead End Path that comes to a halt at the patio wall.

This afternoon I began reading Truman Capote’s ‘In Cold Blood’, which I am already finding difficult to put down, although I had to do so later, for we lit a bonfire.

Mr Pink provided our crispy cod and chips dinner. We supplied our own Garners pickled onions. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I quaffed more of the cabernet sauvignon.

The Tour Continues

This morning we drove to Highcliffe for coffee with Caroline and Keith Martin, with whom Margery had put us in touch. This was a very enjoyable meeting. All thanks to Margery.

Meanwhile our garden tour continues.

We call this Elizabeth’s red climbing rose, because it is in a bed she cleared last autumn.

A bee burrowed into one of the recently blooming rhododendron flowers,

which can be seen alongside the Phantom Path, so called because of an eponymous ghost-like hydrangea, not yet flowering and not seen in this shot.

These are views from each end of the Heligan Path.

Another winding path leads from the proposed rose garden to the back drive. Jackie, on this very hot day, is to be seen watering her new tub planting.

Forming a kind of clef in branching off from this is a gravel track surrounding the Oval Bed. Along the back fence is Elizabeth’s Bed.

It is only this year that we have paid due attention to the small front garden. The freshly planted blue hydrangea has yet to mature, and is consequently dwarfed by the red potted foxglove.

It was the creation of this previously ill-defined path that gave us the necessary impetus.

The head gardener correctly informs me that two days ago I incorrectly termed The Brick Path The Agriframes Arch Path,

because it also contains The Gothic Arch. We erected this last year and, on one side, retrained two roses that had been lost in the jungle, and on the other, planted two clematises.

Just a few yards down Downton Lane

honeysuckle

and white roses festoon the hedgerows. (are those spider’s eggs behind the central bloom?)

After the usual long stint in the garden, Jackie roasted the succulent pork, and the crunchy crackling; baked the crisp Yorkshire pudding; and produced the tasty gravy for our dinner, whilst I prepared the vegetables. These latter included carrots, green beans, and mange tout; but I was particularly proud of the Anya potatoes, three weeks past their best before date, that, after complete desprouting and partial peeling, tasted as good as new, although they were somewhat reduced in size. I drank Casillero del Diablo cabernet sauvignon reserva 2013, but I was enjoying the potatoes before I began it.