September 2016 – Page 2 – derrickjknight

Precursor Of The Microwave

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Mum had a fall two days ago and injured her arm and ribs. She had spent one night in hospital and was now back home.

Jackie and I drove over to her house at West End late this afternoon.

Mum had begun braising lamb slices for her dinner. Jackie finished the task and prepared and cooked crisp carrots, cauliflower and boiled potatoes.

While this was going on a nurse arrived to dress Mum’s wounds. This required the elderly patient to hold up her arm whilst butterfly stitches were removed. After a minute or two, I grasped her wrist and supported the limb during the rather painful process.

Our mother found the size of the meal placed in front of her somewhat daunting. After yesterday, I had some idea as to how she felt. She did, however, eat practically all of it.

Jackie warmed the plate by placing it on top of the steamer used to cook the vegetables. The saucepan lid sat above that. This reminded me of how Mum had heated our previously cooked meals in the post war days before microwaves were invented. The food was plated up, lidded, and placed on top of a pan of boiling water.

After seeing Mum settled down for a snooze we drove to Elizabeth’s and took her for a meal at Jewels Indian restaurant in West End. The food was excellent and the service friendly and attentive, if a little slow. My meal was Chicken Naga Masala. We shared a garlic naan, broccoli and cauliflower bhaji, and special fried rice. Cobra, Kingfisher, and Chilean Merlot was variously imbibed.

‘What Is Your Tactic?’

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As stated yesterday, Jackie drove us late in the afternoon to Steamer Point Nature Reserve where she parked the car and we walked down to Friar’s Cliff beach.

Here is the origin of the name of this area:

From the Nature Reserve, we could see

Highcliffe to our left,

The Isle of Wight and The Needles straight ahead,

and Friar’s Cliff Beach to the right.

A number of people were exercising their dogs on the sands

and in the water.

Two boys joined in.

It was not until I had moved along towards Friar’s Cliff Beach that I saw this notice.

It was just as well that I photographed the beach yesterday, because steady rain set in for the day as we entered The Beach Hut Café.

The reason we were here was that Jackie, drinking coffee here yesterday whilst I was photographing, had noticed Olympics breakfast on the menu. This was apparently something of a challenge, and came with a ‘no sharing’ rule. We decided I would try it for brunch. Our initial disappointment at its no longer being on offer was dismissed when we explained that we had only come for this treat and we were told that, in that case, they would produce one. This, of course, meant that I was really on my mettle. No way could I fall down on the challenge. Even though I did not know what this meal would contain. Jackie opted for the Big Breakfast which was, in itself, quite a challenge, but

nothing like this, which was placed in front of me with a certain amount of glee.

I had barely begun when Danny emerged from the kitchen and asked me ‘What is your tactic?’ Seeing that I clearly didn’t have one, our young friend, who had managed the feat on one occasion himself, suggested making sandwiches with the toast. As there were three fried eggs and six half rounds of toast, that is what I did.

In fact, I found myself imagining that I was in a generous Indian restaurant and reaching the painful stage when it was only my determination not to leave anything that kept me going. This helped, as did the periodic visits of the catering staff who informed me that I was ‘the best yet’, when I still had some way to go. Perhaps being a former marathon man trained to run through the pain barrier was of equal assistance.

When I was on the final lap, Jackie demanded the camera, and stayed poised for the last mouthful,

and the empty plate.

I swear My Grandfather’s Shirt was not so tight before I sat down.

Should anyone feel inclined to enquire about my evening meal, I would simply refer them to my brunch.

A Topsy-Turvy Season

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A wander round the garden in this balmy morning’s light diffused by wandering clouds above raised questions about what season we are enjoying.

An industrious web constructing spider, seeking camouflage in the spent marigold seedpods

must have been confused by the plants’ fresh blooms.

By early evening the predator had moved house and wrapped its dinner.

Like many of our bidens, these have self seeded from hanging baskets and tubs.

The Small White butterflies still light on them and many other plants.

Some of the clusters on this lace cap hydrangea have turned blue.

Several hibiscuses are filled with flowers.

Petunias,

phlox,

fuchsias,

and begonias go on forever.

Others, like these antirrhinums in the Weeping Birch Bed

and alongside the Brick Path, are having a new growth surge.

Pansies and geraniums refuse to cede ground to the autumn crocuses,

and the little orange poppies and persistent lobelias really do think it is spring.

Digitalis cavorts with gaura,

and robins and other little birds swing along with rosa glauca’s hips.

It is difficult at this time to find a view that does not include Japanese anemones. Even here, one glows like a coal in the background shadows beyond the Weeping Birch.

Most of the roses are budding again.

Ballerinas are back on stage,

as are Mum in a Million,

Gloriana,

Flower Power, and many more.

When admiring the view through the urn at the southern end of the Brick Path

I did my best to ignore the fresh pile of cut branches produced yesterday by Aaron, Sean, and Rory while cutting down the grizelinias.

Later this afternoon, Jackie drove us to Steamer Point, between Highcliffe and Mudeford. I will publish photographs tomorrow, because I think I have enough on this post today, and because, for reasons that will become apparent, we plan to return in the morning.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s luscious lamb jalfrezi, and omelette-topped onion rice, with samosas and onion bhajis. I drank more of the Fleurie and Jackie drank Le Héron Gros Manseng 2015.

Paddington, Marylebone, And Islington

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Today I scanned another dozen colour slides from the May 2004 selection of Streets of London.

Someone with an excellent sense of humour commissioned this window cleaner scratching his head as he contemplates tackling the M & S glass fronted tower building opposite Edgware Road tube station in Cabbell Street, NW1. Note the graffiti on the phone box.

Paddington Green,

home of Sara Siddons (photographed on July 16th 2013) whose nose job has been unsuccessful;

North Wharf Road, where the windows of this building reflect construction going on around it;

and Harrow Road, all W2, are all within the vicinity of Paddington. Once again we were coming into summertime, when the residents of these small flats could hang their washing out on tiny balconies otherwise used for flower pots and hanging baskets.

At this time I regularly walked from Little Venice in W9 to Parents for Children in Islington’s N1. Depending on my chosen route, I passed through Tresham Crescent, NW8, where the City of Westminster managed a children’s home,

and Pavely Street, near Regent’s Canal, wondering whether the Blue Square air balloon was heading for Lord’s Cricket Ground.

Passing the cricket ground, I would have traversed Barrow Hill Road,

and travelled on along Barker Drive, NW1, where was draped another reminder that this was Arsenal Football Club’s annus mirabilis.

Agar Grove was quite a long stretch, probably more so for the broken down vehicle.

By Laycock Street, I would have neared my goal. Reflected in the window of the modern building is the older street name.

Back in Marylebone, I walked many a time along the length of both Marylebone Road,

and Marylebone High Street, NW1. The splendid domed building shown in these last two shots is St. Marylebone Parish Church, described by Wikipedia as ‘an Anglican church on the Marylebone Road in London. It was built to the designs of Thomas Hardwick in 1813–17. The present site is the third used by the parish for its church. The first was further south, near Oxford Street. The church there was demolished in 1400 and a new one erected further north. This was completely rebuilt in 1740–42, and converted into a chapel-of-ease when Hardwick’s church was constructed. The Marylebone area takes its name from the church. Located behind the church is St Marylebone School, a Church of England school for girls.’

This evening Jackie produced a superb roast lamb dinner. The only item that was not exquisitely crunchy was the tender lamb itself. It was served with roast potatoes, parsnips, carrots, and broccoli, all cooked and timed to perfection. Tasty gravy was added. The Culinary Queen drank sparkling water and I drank Patrick Chodot Fleurie 2014.

Feeding The Birds (1)

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There was much electricity in the skies overnight, but none in the house. It was all required for a spectacular thunderstorm. From the news this morning it was apparent that we were very fortunate. Even in Christchurch, about eight miles away, a house was struck by lightning, and in other parts of the country many people woke up to continuing power cuts.

By late afternoon, when we were on a driveabout, the skies had broken up, but still looked dramatic.

Before then, I had filled two more of our large bags with chopped up branches, and we had taken them to the dump.

As before, bees had worked alongside me.

Following a roundabout route, we found ourselves at Hatchet Pond where

donkeys basked

or foraged.

The youngster snoozing by the Lyme disease poster is quite appropriately positioned, because, although the ticks carrying this very nasty complaint inhabit the forest grasses and shrubs, they are also carried by the donkeys.

The two adults seem so much more elegant than many of the asses found wandering in the National Park that we wondered whether they might be mules.

A family by the lakeside had come to feed the birds,

which became very excited at the prospect;

in particular, when watching them fight over breadcrumbs, we were given plentiful evidence of why the collective noun for seagulls is a squabble.

The donkeys turned up for their share,

and became quite persistent.

A magpie also tried its luck, until being seen off by a gull.

Not far away, in Furzey Lodge, a thatcher’s donkey has found its way onto a roof;

and the agisters’ pound is dedicated to Jeffrey Kitcher, M.B.E. : http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/obituaries/8646105/Jeff-Kitcher.html

This evening we dined on chicken breasts in sweet chilli sauce, Jackie’s onion rice topped by an omelette, and runner beans. I drank Old Crafty Hen.

Fish ‘n’ Chips

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Alison visited today and brought us a wonderful set of wind chimes. Given the amount of wind we usually experience, it is sod’s law that the air was now perfectly still.

On display during her walk around the garden were

Japanese anemones

and dahlias;

clematises and petunias;

begonias;

and bees approaching kniphofias

or stocking up on sunflowers.

A response to yesterday’s post from Pauline, The Contented Crafter, prompted me to look into the fire at Mr Pink’s Fish And Chips shop. It was on the evening of Wednesday 24th August that the oil in one of the chip pan vats caught fire. Three firefighting crews were rapidly in attendance to extinguish the fire, and no-one was hurt. The best fish and chip shop for miles around will, however, be closed for some weeks.

We had been considering for some time visiting The Cliff House at Barton on Sea, an hotel with a restaurant serving, among other things, fish and chips, so when Pauline asked us what we were going to do on fish ‘n’ chips nights, this seemed a good reason to try it.

We did that this evening. We both enjoyed excellent hake in sourdough batter, served with chips in a tin mug and peas in a pottery dish. My delicious dessert was summer berry Eton mess which came in a jam jar. Jackie’s trio of ice creams was enjoyable, but she wasn’t sure about the flavour of one, and asked for my opinion. I suggested Plasticine, on the grounds that it was the same colour of that modelling material after children had been at it. The waitress informed us that it was blueberry. Jackie drank Erdinger wheat beer and I drank an Italian pinot grigio. The service was friendly and efficient. We will return.

After The Drift

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When Aaron and Sean cleared space for the promised greenhouse, they stacked the cut branches at the end of the Back Drive.

I chopped or broke them into manageable sizes and filled two of our large orange containers with them. There is still enough for two more bags. Jackie and I took them to the dump and returned with a very large saucer for a big planter tub.

While I worked, big black bees and Small White butterflies were equally busy alongside me among the fuchsias and the verbena bonarensises in the New Bed.

From the recycling centre we went on a driveabout.

At Sway we came across a group of ponies bearing the identification marks showing that they had experienced The Drift.

When I featured this annual event, I explained that tails were clipped, collars replaced, and branding applied. This animal displays all three.

It was actually quite difficult to show the cuts on the tails because they were constantly being used as fly whisks.

Wherever the creature had rolled in the mud, it had besmirched its nice new collar;

whilst this one’s bath had obscured its brand.

We visited Milford on Sea to investigate the fortunes of Mr Pink’s Fish and Chips since its recent fire. Unfortunately it is closed until further notice.

The shingle and the rocks along the coastline were well populated, as can be seen by this shot of Hurst Point Lighthouse, the story of which can be seen here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurst_Point_Lighthouse

Others were bathing in the water,

seated on folding chairs,

reading newspapers, or flashing tattoos.

This evening we dined on duck breasts in plum sauce; roast new potatoes in their jackets and peppers in chillies and herbs; and crisp carrots and green beans. I finished the Fleurie.

Waiting For A Table

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Today, Jackie drove us to Frances’s home in Wroughton, near Swindon and back.

We sat and talked in her garden, where

her trug and its contents had clearly been put to good use.

Prospect Hospice where Chris died two years ago, has a Bluebell Walk which is undergoing a cleaning process at the moment. This is a paved path funded by the purchase of bricks and stones bearing the names of people who spent there last days in this peaceful final care home.

Our sister-in-law drove us there to show us Chris’s paver. She and the family had gone for the tasteful, simple, option.

Back at The Mountings Frances gave us a welcome lunch of pasties and chips.

Afterwards, in the garden, I watched sparrows on the bird feeders, which tended to become a little crowded.

As in all the best restaurants, it was necessary to queue for a table;

then the more fortunate visitors had one to themselves.

This evening Jackie and I dined on her excellent chilli con carne with rice and peas, followed by vanilla ice cream. I drank more of the Fleurie and Jackie didn’t.

Find The Moth

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Today was overcast and unseasonably hot and humid. I cut the grass and had a wander around the garden. Many of our plants linger on, refusing to accept the advent of autumn.

We still have blooming clematises.

Although the leaves of the weeping birch are beginning to colour the Heligan Path,the beds bordering it remain colourful.

The new rudbeckias stand in a tub as they are having to await the demise of the nicotiana sylvestris which they are intended to replace.

We have white begonias.

Bees continue to plunder the sedums into which they merge;

but the prize for camouflage goes to this moth posing as a dying begonia leaf.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s powerful chilli con carne with rice and peas, followed by Victoria sponge and lemon meringue pie ice cream. I drank Croix des Célestins Fleurie 2014, and the Culinary Queen didn’t.

The Village That Died For D-Day

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This morning, Aaron and Sean cleared space for the anticipated greenhouse. Holly and Bay trees were cut back and Jackie’s old work corner dismantled.

The sun danced over Jackie’s head as she contemplated the opening.

This afternoon Jackie drove us to Tyneham in Dorset and back.

Now uninhabited for the last 73 years, Tyneham was a thriving village from a previous age, until the villagers were ordered to leave their homes as part of the war effort in 1943. They were never allowed back. Today the remnants of this community were swarming with visitors.

The story of its century of change is fixed to a wall near the telephone box. All will become clear when this photograph is enlarged.

The replaced telephone box bears it own story,

as does the shell of the Post Office.

Most of the buildings are now ruined husks

revealing such as fireplaces,

and vacant windows fitted with stout wooden supports.

Exceptions are the school and the church. Jackie waits for me in the shadows outside

the schoolroom where there is a permanent exhibition. Here are the children’s desks.

The teacher’s faces down the classroom. Note the cane.

Queen Victoria and King George V hang on the wall.

The school photograph from 1912 features, third from right on the front row, Fred Knight.

We met a man who had worked with this former pupil some twenty years ago. Apparently, after Fred’s wife died, he often returned to the village to sit and think. In the second of these rows of coat hooks, young Frederick’s coat hanger is clearly labelled.

Did this lad and his classmates gaze through the schoolroom window and contemplate where they may be laid to rest one day? If so, this was not to be.

One gentleman who had grown up in Tyneham did come back to be buried there in 2010, to be joined by his wife five years later.

Beyond the churchyard, as from anywhere else in the village, can be seen the Purbeck Hills.

The Century of Change board pictured above tells us that it is Evelyn Bond who pinned the notice to the church door on the day the village died.

Priests first washed their hands in the piscina behind the font more than 700 years ago.

With their own little dog straining at the leash, a couple ascended the slope beyond this tethered collie

which was unperturbed as they loomed into silhouette.

Beyond the Military Firing Range on Povington Hill

we can see how close the sea is to the low-lying village. If you examine these pictures carefully, you should be able to distinguish between hay bales and sheep in the fields.

As we approached Wareham on our return journey it became apparent that the road home was very busy. There was therefore only one course of action.

We turned off into this very attractive town and sought out The Rajpoot Indian restaurant. It was not yet open, so we dropped intoThe King’s Arms next door for drinks. The restaurant itself was first class. I enjoyed king prawn naga, as Jackie did her chicken shashlick. We shared the chef’s secret spice rice, an egg paratha, and an onion bahji. We drank small bottles of Kingfisher.