February 2016 – Page 2 – derrickjknight

Soggy Wootton Heath

Fairly early this morning, before the warming sun had completed the thaw of the overnight frost, we took a drive out in the forest, stopping for a photoshoot on Wootton Heath.

Spiky icing pricked up the grass;

Ice, perhaps indicating footprints, still lay in the churned up mud pools;

and sunlight glittered on the unfrozen temporary lakes.

The monochrome effects are the result of shooting into the sun, the direct rays of which gave a glow to the shrubs and trees, and revealed the green sward beneath the pools.

These shots show pools just behind the lichen-laden trees. Further back, beyond the dogwood, lies a frosted field, seen in the first.

The muddy soil is churned up by ponies, such as these two, apparently asleep. They must be asleep, otherwise they would be chomping grass.

Hello! The one on the right has woken, and, attracted by the prospect of Jackie in the Modus possibly being daft enough to feed it, walked over to the car and waited patiently.

I, on the other hand, crossed the road and focussed on other grazers seeking out the drier parts of the soggy terrain.

Soon, a clattering turning to a thud beside me announced the arrival of the hopeful horse which had crossed to see if the grass was greener on the other side. The clatter was made by hooves on the tarmac, and the thud, from the heavy weight landing on the turf, fortunately not on my feet. Is that frost on the top of the tail of its new companion?

This evening we dined on Jackie’s sublime chili con carne, wild rice and green peas. The Cook finished the sauvignon blanc, whilst I drank Chateau Le Tertre Graves de Vayres 2014.

Nobby Bates

I have never reblogged before, but my friend Robin Cochran at witlessdatingafterfifty.wordpress.com has encouraged me to do so with this post

Dead Flies And Sherry Trifle

Geoff Le Pard, who entertains us so hugely with stories on his TanGental blog, would have us believe that he was once a lawyer. This cannot be true. No teenager could have had such a past profession. And Geoff is surely in his teens. Who else could so convincingly represent the mind of a nineteen-yer-old, as he does in ‘Dead Flies and Sherry Trifle’, which I finished reading yesterday?

We know that this writer is a master of dialogue, which he uses to great effect in this tale of intrigue, crooked dealings, bullying, and burgeoning sexual angst. It is funny too. I won’t reveal the story, but every time I read the name of the character ‘Nigel Sodding Parsons’ – almost always ‘Nigel Sodding…….’, I heard the voice of the hapless Harold Spittle, and could hardly stifle a giggle. Doesn’t that strike a chord with anyone who has experienced the pungent wit of adolescent relationships?

The setting is on the fringes of The New Forest, where Geoff grew up, and where I now live. The story, with its focus on interplay between the characters, and its rising tensions, could take place anywhere. The period, for those of us who lived through the UK’s scorching summer of 1976, is well described; the heat of the sun synchronising so well with that of Harry’s hormones.

Nice one, Geoff.

Today, the amaryllis that Frances gave us for Christmas produced its final bloom;

whilst our crocuses are reaching their peak.

Helen brought her grandson, Billy, for a visit this afternoon. I made a print for him to take home to Stephanie and John, his Mum and Dad.

Shelley joined us later on.

After our guests had retuned to their homes, Jackie drove me,

via the Lymington River mirror,

to catch the sunset reflected on Hatchet Pond,

and the flooded heath near Beaulieu.

This evening we dined on Thai prawn fishcakes followed by smoked haddock and Davidstowe cheddar cheese fishcakes, with ratatouille, carrots, green beans, and mashed potato. We both drank Louis de Camponac sauvignon blanc 2014.

How Did Pacific Pete Gatecrash?

On a dull, drizzly, day, I scanned the rest of the rediscovered negatives from December 2003. Therein lay the mystery.

Yesterday, I had put pictures of snow in Sherwood Forest into my iMac.

Today, I began with frost on leaves in our garden at Lindum House in Newark.

Every morning, at 6.30 a.m. or thereabouts, before dawn at that time of the year, I crept out through the garden ‘unwillingly to’

Newark Northgate Railway Station to join commuters on the down platform to Kings Cross. By the time the train was due to arrive on this particular day the sun was casting long shadows. Most people in this shot were looking in my direction for our conveyance. Like me, the man in the foreground had learned that one received an earlier alert by watching the signal. Those trains not stopping at the station travel at 120 m.p.h. Prospective passengers are warned to stand behind the yellow line in order to avoid being drawn into the path of the Intercity conveyance. I won’t describe what happens to those who ignore the precaution.

That December, Sam was not at home in Newark. He was out basking in the Canary Islands, where the boat he was to row across the Atlantic had been delivered, and he was becoming accustomed to both it and the ocean. So, how come, on the same roll of film, sandwiched between the images above and those of ‘Oddie Aloft’, were

Sam in Pacific Pete at La Gomera

and on the wide open sea?

I was not there. Had I lent my son the camera? Maybe he will elucidate.

This evening we enjoyed further portions of yesterday’s superb paprika pork, followed by Magnum ice creams. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Costieres de Nimes.

Sherwood Forest Snowballs

I understand there have been smatterings of snow in Nottingham. We, on the other hand, have experienced nothing more chilling than the slight, short-lived, frost early this morning.

It seemed appropriate, therefore, to scan another batch of those recently discovered negatives from December 2003. These record a trip to Sherwood Forest with Jessica, Michael, Heidi, Louisa, Emily, Alice, Oliver, and Paddy the dog. This National Park is somewhat further north than ours.

That winter was also colder than the current one. The naturally cool tones of these images sets the scene.

Here, between Michael and Heidi, stands Louisa;

who then becomes the sole subject.

There was just enough snow to make fairly decent snowballs. After lobbing a few, one of which, from Louisa, seems to be coming my way;

with Alice bringing up the rear, it was time to move on.

This evening’s dinner was Jackie’s poky pork paprika, dancing onto the plate possibly because of the salsa dip, surplus to Christmas requirements, that the ingenious Cook added to the mix. Perhaps that is also why the rice was wild. There were runner beans as well. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Costieres de Nimes.

Animals On The Road

This afternoon Jackie drove us on a tour of the east of The New Forest.

The first stop was just outside Sway, where I spotted an attractive looking pony. Once out of the car and approaching my prey, I found there was another family member emerging from the gorse bush, some of which still adhered to my chosen subject, who had the decency to take her head out of the bush and pose for me.

Brockenhurst has quite an important railway station. Bridges are therefore found over the approach roads. As I prepared to take the first of these shots, I noticed two cyclists coming into view, paused, and clicked a few times.

The house on the left of this image is a comparatively recent building, and demonstrates an affinity for the area. The car approaching the bridge has its headlights on, as do many when driving through the forest.

On Roger Penny Way, just beyond Cadnam, stands the epitome of chocolate box thatched cottages.

A stream, here providing refreshment for a fluttering white dove, runs alongside and in front of

the idyllic country garden.

Further along, at Burwash, we encountered a flock of sheep lazing on the road.

In stepping out to make their acquaintance I disturbed them enough to cause them to take off down the road,

leaving evidence of their fright peppering the tarmac.

Nearing sunset, back on Roger Penny Way, a pair of donkeys were oblivious of the local rush hour traffic,

until they left the the road across which they cast their lengthy shadows.

Tethering Drove in Hale Purlieu. Now there is a place with a name that deserves to host a decent sunset or two.

There were more possibilities at Woodgreen.

As the ponies cropped the grass, I cropped the first of these last two pictures.

This evening we dined on oven fish and chips, mushy peas, pickled onions, and cornichons. Jackie’s choice of beer was Hoegaarden, and mine, Old Speckled Hen.

Bricks In The Hopper

As our garden awakens, hellebores, snowdrops, ferns, and heucheras stretch their limbs and jostle for position.

Some hellebores, petals perhaps frost-bitten, raise their heads,

possibly having been alarmed by our jackdaws jousting over the rooftop chimneys,

What was once a maple on the grass had been cut back by our predecessors. Although we have some new shoots the stump now bears some fascinating fungus. We hope that is not a sign of the tree’s imminent demise.

During the recent heavy rain, a hopper at the front of the house overflowed. Today I decided to investigate the blockage. The device contained a couple of pieces of brick that seemed to serve no purpose except partially to block the down pipe. I removed these items and Jackie filled a bath upstairs and let it flow into the pipe. All seemed to be running smoothly. Unfortunately Jackie had lifted the manhole cover to the septic tank.

This system, for homes not on national mains drainage, operates via sections of piping across the garden. There are three such covers. When we had our houseful at Christmas, we had experienced some overload in the waste pipes, creating an unsavoury heap in this first access point. Buckets of water, we thought, had solved the problem.

The residue in that pit, now solidified, resembled sand formations in the Arizona Desert,

which is why, having broken it up with a metal post, kicked up a stink, and begun to apply further buckets of water filled by Jackie,

I decided it was more sensitive to refrain from photographing the site until it was cleared. It had been necessary to pour the water down at speed, which incurred a certain amount of splash-back, best nimbly avoided.

The bucket drill was applied to each of the other access points, in order to ensure that the coagulated substance had been coaxed along the pipes. If that hasn’t cured the problem we will call in the experts.

This evening we dined once more on Jackie’s superb, well-matured, liver and bacon dish, served with mashed potato and swede, carrots and green beans. She drank Hoegaarden and I drank Louis Virion Costieres de Nimes 2014.

After dinner, I watched the highlights of England’s earlier rugby match against Italy.

Oddie Aloft

This morning Aaron continued painting the landing doors.

Way back in the dark ages, before Lightroom and such, some of us still used film photography. Processing was offered in far more outlets than can be found today. Our films were delivered to the chemist for collection the following week. Prints came in small wallets complete with a section for the negatives. Two of these that I found in my rediscovered negatives box also contained dated contact prints for ease of recognition.

Today, I scanned a few that tell a story from December 2003.

Jack Russell terriers are known for burrowing down rabbit holes, not climbing trees after squirrels.

Matthew’s Oddie was, on this occasion, the exception. By the time he began to scale the acacia in Lindum House garden, his prey was long gone;

but he carried on regardless.

Matthew and Paddy, our collie/labrador cross in the shrubbery, looked on with some consternation.

Even my trigger-finger was shaky. At this point Mat rushed indoors.

His dog, looking a bit doubtful himself, continued to scrabble silently up the bark

until the inevitable happened.

He fell,

and plummeted

down

into

the

outstretched blanket that

Matthew had retrieved in the nick of time.

This afternoon I watched the Six Nations rugby internationals between Ireland and France, and between Wales and Scotland.

For our dinner this evening Jackie produced liver, bacon, onions and mushrooms in a easy gravy; crisp Brussels sprouts; and mashed potato and swede.

It tasted as good as it looks.

Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Saint-Emilion.

The Grinch

As we set off this morning for Jackie to drive me to New Milton, and back this afternoon, for my lunch date with Carol, the sunlight on the house at the corner of Hordle Lane attracted my attention. It was then I noticed the electricians installing street lamps on an existing pole.

The attractive early light was short-lived. In London the skies were overcast, and at home there was much rain.

My up journey to Waterloo proved to be interesting. Perhaps because it is Friday, the only seat I was able to find was occupied by a pile of bags and coats. It was one of two groups of four flanking the gangway. Pointing out that there were no other available seats I politely asked for this one to be vacated. It was. With no problem.

Thus I became surrounded by a party of one man and six women out for a day in London. Naturally there was much conversation which did not detract too much from my reading. It was when sandwiches were dished out that I began to feel I was decidedly in the way. One of the women diagonally opposite handed them out. Without a word to me, the gentleman to my left stretched out his arm across the front of me. Swallowing my discomfort, I said nothing. The second time I refrained, but knew one more occasion would warrant a word.

There was a third passage of packaged sandwich. I pointed out to the man that I had been very polite when I had asked for the heap on the seat to be removed and would appreciate it if I were accorded a certain amount of courtesy when stretching across me. A somewhat surprised exchange followed. I said I did not wish to spoil their party, but would appreciate their registering that I was actually there.

There followed a long silence, during which the gentleman read his Daily Mail, taking great care to keep his elbow way from me. Feeling very Grinch-like, I said I would try to find a seat elsewhere, but my fellow passengers urged me to stay.

The thaw continued. Conversation resumed, and, having been offered a sandwich, I was even included. We parted at the terminal station with good wishes all round. I was not asked to carve the turkey, but I felt as if I had gone through the whole gamut of Dr Seuss’s story, since filmed, about his famous curmudgeon.

In ‘Farewell To Westminster‘ I mentioned how the Victorian town hall in which I had worked, had, except for its facade, been demolished for a different use. Many such buildings erected in a more optimistic era for permanent purposes, have met similar fates. Wimbledon’s 1930s Town Hall, gutted to make way for supermarket shelves, is now a Tesco’s.

Alongside Waterloo Station, in Waterloo Road, the London County Council Fire Brigade Station of 2010 has undergone a similar transformation. Where once firefighters had slid out of bed and down their pole, leaped into their engines, and sped out into the busy road to attend to flaming buildings, a gastropub named The Fire Station now serves food, such as wood-fired pizzas and thirst- quenching liquid refreshment.

In the first of these two photographs the cyclists could possibly arrive at Euston before the bus bound for that other London Terminal station. The TO LET board advertises refurbished characterful offices.

The crane is working on a large corner development.

Whilst taking the second of these pictures, from The Cut, I wondered what the painter L.S.Lowry would have made of the scene.

‘Coming from the Mill’ is just one of his famous works portraying unconnected pedestrians.

Carol and I enjoyed our meal and each other’s company at Tas, where we received our usual warm welcome and attentive service.

A Good Arboreal Scratch

We enjoyed another bright and sunny day, albeit a little cooler. A light, short-lived frost had left strings of pearls around our early flowers including

hellebores I had overlooked yesterday,

and prunus pissardi.

This afternoon I watched recorded highlights of last Sunday’s drawn rugby match between Ireland and Wales. This is a very rare result these days, and you have to go back 42 years to the last evenly scored game between these two teams.

After this, Jackie drove us to Ferndene Farm Shop where we bought three bags of compost; then meandered around the forest as far as Godshill and back along Roger Penny Way.

The sun romped in and out of the clouds in the ever-changing skies spilling light and shade over the heathland where well-fattened ponies, with their magpie acolytes, chomped their way across the turf.

When these free-creatures of The New Forest fancied the grass would be greener on the other side, they wandered across the road, exercising their inalienable right to hold up the traffic.

The recent storms have brought down numbers of trees such as this oak, its trunk shattered, on the approach to Burley,

where another, more dead than alive, still stood,

and where one pony left its companions foraging whilst it had a good arboreal scratch.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy chicken curry; savoury rice; and vegetable samosas and pakoras; followed by Sicilian lemon tart and evap. She drank Hoegaarden and I drank Fortnum & Mason Saint-Emilio grand cru 2011, given to me by Luci and Wolf for Christmas.