Watching Jessica and Imogen keenly studying catalogues this morning, to make a selection of Christmas wishes, took me back years. Twice in my childhood and adolescence, I collected postage stamps. Very briefly I was a cub scout, so this would have been quite useful for my collector’s badge. Had I taken more interest in the history and geography they tell us than simply in the attractive designs, I might even have been given the award.
So, what has philately to do with gift catalogues?
It is all a question of approvals. Buying stamps ‘on approval’ is one of the oldest methods of building a collection. Dealers give a questionnaire about your interests and send you little approvals books from which you remove your choices and send back the remainder with your payment. It worked well for a young lad on a very small income. Each period of interest waned, and I gave the collections away.
Jackie’s father, however, did keep the Triumph Stamp Album given to him by his grandmother, Mrs Dove, featured in ‘Revealing The Ancestors’. This collection dates back to Victorian times and contains much history. I had a look through it, seeking sets that I may have once possessed, and which I had attempted to fill gaps.
One such is the early ‘Marianne’ one dating from 1903. This woman is a national symbol of the French Republic – a portrayal of the Goddess of Liberty. Since the mid-twentieth century the full length figure we see here has been replaced by head and shoulders images, and later, beginning with Brigitte Bardot in 1969, busts of famous women. The currency shown is in francs and centimes, from before the days of the euro. I don’t think I ever completed the set
The similarity with the girls’ activity lies in the eager anticipation engendered.
Our return journey, travelling by Errol’s route, was much smoother. Took a diversion through the Oxfordshire countryside and lunched at the Fox Inn at Boars Hill. We enjoyed excellent pizzas and sparkling water which was enough for the rest of the day.
The weather had been dull and rainy for most of the journey, but by the time we reached Beaulieu and Hatchet Pond, a clear light produced smooth reflections.
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Imogen is planning games for her eighth birthday party. She has decided to amend the traditional game of ‘Pinning the tail on the donkey’ to ‘Pinning the nose on Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
Grandpa’s services were required to help with the poster-sized drawing onto which the noses were to be fixed. On a faint outline, with the help of the occasional suggestion from Louisa about the application of acrylic paint, Imogen produced Rudolph. She then added the finishing touches of grass and sun. Louisa cut out a red nose for each participating child and drew a target circle on the stag’s head.
This afternoon, the rest of us visited the Nottingham Christmas Fair, leaving Errol to watch the rugby match between England and Fiji. This should show how seriously I take my Grandparent duties.
We passed a rather good busker on our approach to the market place.
This was the last opportunity we had to move freely. I took one or two photographs before abandoning the idea to a focus on withstanding the tsunami wave of humanity that surged around us. We managed to buy a few presents, but, after a while Jackie and I took refuge on a cold steel bench while Louisa, Jessica, and Imogen wandered around some more. Behind us, a noisy rapper whose needle was stuck, made me wish he would change pitches with the man featured above.
On our return to Haywood Road, I was forced to try out the Rudolph game. The idea is to keep all noses on the board until the last blindfolded attempt has been completed, then see whose is the nearest to the target. An improvement on the current Blu-tack method will be required.
This evening we all dined at Chung’s Chinese restaurant in Mapperley. Louisa, Jackie, and I drank Tsingtao; Errol, Carlsberg; and the children, fruit juices. The food and service were excellent, and we were wisely persuaded to reduce our original order. There was still a fair bit left over.
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Today, Jackie Jackie drove us to Louisa and Errol’s at Mapperley Top, a suburb of Nottingham. When I say today, I mean all day – all eight hours. Rather more than anticipated.
As we travelled along the A35 we imagined the autumn leaves may have all fallen by the time we returned three days ahead.
As we progressed along the M25 we were reminded that we were on the Heathrow flight path, as several planes passed overhead. In another sense the motorway itself was a flight path, being the thoroughfare through which so many people flee from London for the Cotswolds on a Friday
when the first of what were to be several queues began. The speeds shown above the traffic are those that will keep the traffic moving. The huge container vehicle shown on the left, having crossed over chevrons, was about to fill the gap between us and the car in front. The reason for the queues is that most drivers ignore the posted limits and continue until they have to stop. This is termed a standing wave.
Soon we came to a standstill.
This was the first of many. They at least gave us the opportunity to look at the scenery.
Periodically raptors hovered above.
We stopped at Newport Pagnel Welcome Break Services for lunch at Burger King.
Half an hour later we continued the journey which was to take another four hours. This is because we faced 17 miles of road works necessitating a lane closure. We spent more time studying the back of Davis Haulage van than we usually do studying ponies’ rear ends in The New Forest.
It took a long time to reach a Traffic Officer
warning traffic that a small van had broken down.
The further north we travelled the more wind turbines we saw.
Shortly before sunset the clouds darkened over the motorway.
Eventually we turned off at junction 26 and headed for Mapperley, as shown on the map. Then, like rats in a maze, we drove all over the place seeking something we recognised. We sought local guidance. Only then did we learn that there were two Mapperleys, and that our goal was on the other side of Nottingham. Errol phoned and advised us to go straight through the City Centre. We did that and I found familiar ground. It was dark by then.
We enjoyed a splendid evening with the family. Louisa cooked us a wonderful paella with garlic bread and salad. She and I drank Chateau de Grezels cahors, 2013. Jackie’s beverage was Fosters, and Errols, Stella.
To follow was watching Jessica and Imogen performing with Nottingham City Gymnastics Club for Children in Need TV.
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On a day of winds fit to threaten lingering autumn leaves like those on our crab apples, Jackie drove us to our GP surgery at Milford on Sea for our flu jabs (influenza vaccines).
Down at the coast, vociferous waves crashed onto breakwaters and rolled onto the shore and over the sea wall.
Even the gulls found huddling on the car park tarmac preferable to facing the buffeting elements.
Dramatic skies, seas, and lighting effects gave yet another perspective to the Isle of Wight and The Needles.
When I had my fill of being coated in salt water in the interests of my art, I rejoined Jackie in the car, and did my best to clean the camera lenses.
We then continued on to Friars Cliff beach where we brunched at the cafe.
Here the breakwaters also took a pounding,
but four walkers and a couple of romping dogs ventured onto the beach.
The smaller of the two dogs had a debate with its owner about whether it was possible to take refuge in the cafe. This somewhat obstructed my entrance.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s chicken marinaded in piri-piri and lemon; roasted vegetables, steamed cauliflower and Brussels sprouts, with mashed potato, I finished the madiran.
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‘Every cloud’, we are told, ‘has a silver lining’. Sometimes this is difficult to see. This good outcome from my Broadband problems, however, became clear this morning when the very personable Mike Smith came to install a new phone line.
Firstly, the BT Openreach engineer climbed a ladder at the front of the house to work on the fixture on the eaves.
Health and Safety regulations meant that he was not permitted to climb the pole out in the street without someone in attendance to ensure that he did not come to grief. This was to be a colleague who needed to come from Fawley via Beaulieu where the road was closed.
This may have meant a certain amount of boring hanging about waiting for Andy, the other man to arrive. Not so. A treat was in store.
Mike had noticed that ‘someone was a photographer’. So was he. He has a Flickr account which he opened on my computer so that he could show me some of his superb work. He specialises in street photography, of which the site flickr.com/photos/zarfimages contains splendid examples. My shots above don’t do justice to these pictures. I recommend his site.
Naturally we had much to talk about. But eventually his support arrived and he had to get back to what I called “some real work”. Having climbed the ladder propped against our holly tree, helmetted, and hoisted, Mike did what he needed to do. Unfortunately there is a problem underground that requires the attention of a specialist team. Following our friend’s request this should be attended to in a couple of days.
Today’s title was Mike’s suggestion.
When visiting Bransgore yesterday, Jackie had noticed a splendid maple at the corner of St George’s Drive that she thought I would like to photograph. She drove me there this afternoon.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s luscious sausage casserole followed by her spicy pumpkin pie. The casserole was served with creamy mashed potatoes, crunchy carrots, cauliflower and Brussels sprouts; the pie with whipped cream. I drank Reserve des Tuguets madiran 2010.
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Today I scanned the last of the Christmas 1985 negatives, and here present a selection.
When you lunched at Mum’s you not only fought your way through a massive roast meal, but later, you were expected to consume a plentiful afternoon tea. Jessica must have taken this photograph of Grandma, Mum, Louisa, and me seated at the table.
It looks as if Jessica swapped places with me.
Having entertained Sam with Hoopla, Dad spent some time playing with Louisa on the sofa. It looks as if there was a certain amount of competition as to who would fall asleep first. Mum will have made the knitted doll.
My father’s reward for his exertions seems to have been to have his daughter-in-law read him a story;
after which Jessica found time for contemplation.
Sam, however, continued to daydream about another game with his grandfather.
Joseph was well ahead of the current fashion for young men to wear full beards.
There were two more photos of Dad,
one of which I used as a model for a pastel portrait for my mother, the Christmas after he died. The story of how he helped me is told in ‘Would You Believe It?’.
This evening we dined at Daniels Fish Restaurant in Highcliffe. With her chips Jackie chose scampi; my choice was haddock. We both had mushy peas. Jackie drank coffee, and I drank tea.
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Prompted by questions from Geoff Le Pard, that great storyteller at TanGental, this morning Jackie drove us in search of what had once been a derelict cottage situated on Holmsley Passage, near Anthony’s Bee Bottom on the moors near Holmsley.
We found it close to
Holmsley Bog.
Unbeknown to us I had photographed this area and the house on 17th October.
It lies beyond a stream spanned by a small road bridge. As we arrived, an egret stood in the shallow, but fast-moving water. By the time I had it in focus, the bird flapped smoothly and elegantly away.
As I walked towards the modern building, a small car with three female occupants approached me at a speed slow enough for me to wave it to a halt. I thanked the group for stopping and asked if they belonged to the house. The driver was the owner. I explained my project and asked her if this building had replaced Geoff’s old derelict. It had indeed. She told me she had bought the modern one and added an extension and a small garden. The address is 11, Holmsley Gate house. This amenable woman was quite happy for me to photograph as I wished. She continued her journey and left me to it. I thought this was rather a generous response. I focussed on the house in its setting;
including the public track running alongside. Further study of an Ordnance Survey map (by Jackie) reveals that this way is the old railway line. The website geograph.org.uk confirms:
“Level crossing on disused Brockenhurst to Ringwood railway.
The wide yellow track is the former railway line. Crossing this at ground level is a tarmac minor road running from the A35 through Holmsley Inclosure towards Burley. The modern house, I speculate, was only permitted because there was a crossing keeper’s hut there before. For a better view of the house see SU2201 : Modern house near Holmsley Bog.”
one of the side walls with its log pile, and reflective windows revealing views of the landscape behind.
The roof of the extension had weathered attractively, its windows offering similar effects.
Although the garden enjoyed the protection of high wire netting, three fresh oranges and an avocado had been tastefully placed on the stones outside, no doubt for the delectation of hungry ponies. Mostly they are only given carrots and apples. This was clearly an up-market establishment.
Intending to lunch at Holmsley Old Station Tea Rooms, we continued along Holmsley Passage. Today the weather was as dull and overcast as on our last visit, but the lane was attractive enough for us to determine to return on a better lit day.
Holmsley Station no longer serves a railway line. I have referred to Dr Beeching’s axe on several occasions in this blog. It is perhaps time to explain this, so I quote thus from Wikipedia: “The Beeching cuts (also Beeching Axe) were a reduction of route network and restructuring of the railways in Great Britain, according to a plan outlined in two reports, The Reshaping of British Railways (1963) and The Development of the Major Railway Trunk Routes (1965), written by Dr Richard Beeching and published by the British Railways Board.
The first report identified 2,363 stations and 5,000 miles (8,000 km) of railway line for closure, 55% of stations and 30% of route miles, with an objective of stemming the large losses being incurred during a period of increasing competition from road transport and reducing the rail subsidies necessary to keep the network running; the second identified a small number of major routes for significant investment. The 1963 report also recommended some less well publicised changes, including a switch to containerisation for rail freight.
Protests resulted in the saving of some stations and lines, but the majority were closed as planned and Beeching’s name remains associated with the mass closure of railways and the loss of many local services in the period that followed. A few of these routes have since reopened, some short sections have been preserved as Heritage Railways, while others been incorporated into the National Cycle Network or used for road schemes; others now are lost to construction, simply reverted to farm land, or remain derelict.”
That is perhaps an early example of how the profit motive has overridden the concept of service in our modern world.
The Tea Rooms have put to good use a sad reminder of a wonderfully meandering transport system that, in less frenetic days, we once enjoyed. The buildings have been preserved and refurbished; familiar signs are featured; and, both inside and out, railway paraphernalia are displayed.
The food and service are excellent, too.
We carried away this evening’s dessert, in the form of delicious meringue confections that we couldn’t manage to consume with our lunch. Only when we laid these on the table did we realise that the green fruit were Kiwis. Now there is only one item of food with which I experience discomfort. Yes. It’s Kiwi fruit. It burns the roof of my mouth, which is more than any chili can achieve. Jackie fished them out of my helping, and stuffed them into hers. She blew me a compensatory raspberry.
Before pud we enjoyed Jackie’s pasta arabbiata with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the pinot noir.
CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. DOING SO ON SMALLER GROUPS GIVES ACCESS TO GALLERIES.
The bright sunshine that tempted us out for an early drive through the forest was to last all day.
Beams searching their way into the trees picked out the browns, the golds, the greens, and the greys of the season.
while dog walkers shared the bracken coated moors with browsing ponies.
Sunlight slashed the road skirting Holmsley on the way to Burley.
I am no good at cars, so I cannot identify either the old or the new models passing each other here. No doubt a reader will oblige. (Cue, Barrie). (Barrie responded to his cue and put this on Facebook: ‘As to the cars, the old one is what looks like a bog standard Austin 7 albeit quite an early one (1920s) as it does not have a rear fuel tank. The newer one at first I thought was a Volvo (new cars all look the same to me!) but expanding the picture shows what looks like a round red badge on the grill so I believe it to be some sort of Jaguar, but I stand to be corrected!’)
There are a number of golf courses in the New Forest. As we passed one just outside Burley, I notice both ponies and putters on the green. By the time Jackie had parked the Modus and I had walked back, the golfers were moving on, to another tee on the opposite side of the road. I pointed out to one that a ball lay in the ditch. He thanked me, hooked out the ball with a club, and joined his friends who were surrounded by a similar equine audience.
Undeterred, the sporting trio teed off.
Another group of three ponies dozing on the verge of Burley Street had not moved by the time I returned from a wander down Honey Lane.
The lane, pock-marked by pitted pools, was more hospitable to Land Rovers than to our little car, so Jackie parked up and left me to it.
We took a rest and a late breakfast at The Hyde-Out Cafe. My choice was a Full English, while Jackie’s was fried eggs on toast. That took care of lunch, too.
There were warning signs informing drivers that pigs were roaming free, but just beyond Gorley it was a cyclist who hogged the centre of the road.
A more sensible female equestrian kept her steed to the edge of it.
Not so a group of donkeys, one of whom held eye contact through our windscreen until the helpful horse nudged it and its friends aside, and continued on its way.
A free Forest pony, sporting Regency style ringlets, observed all this with interest.
As we approached Godshill, a helmeted cyclist employed staccato stop-start attempts to lead his family across a road junction. He alternated between calling them forward and sending them back, as he made the same movements. To our relief, he was eventually successful.
We made our way home via Roger Penny Way, one of the major thoroughfares traversing the forest.
This evening we dined on beefburgers with caramelised onions on a bed of roasted vegetables; mashed potato; carrots, cauliflower, spinach, and Brussels sprouts; followed by Jackie’s tried and tested pumpkin pie with whipped cream that had been bought and paid for. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden, while I quaffed Cono Sur Bicicleta pinot noir 2015.
CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE; THOSE IN SMALLER GROUPS GIVE ACCESS TO LARGER GALLERIES.
Today was a wet one. Jackie drove us to Tesco for a shop, and to my bank in New Milton where we discovered it was closed all over the weekend. Progress, I suppose.
This afternoon I scanned more colour negatives from Christmas 1985 at my parents’ home in Rougemont Avenue, Morden.
Considering that she had served up one of her trademark dinners, my mother looked remarkably relaxed.
The occasion was the last time the three older siblings were to spend time together.
In the popular antiques programme, ‘Bargain Hunt’, Tim Wonnacott, the presenter, always says “great name” to any contestant who shares his first name. None of them could compete with my Uncle Norman Knight, who, with my Auntie Peggie and cousin Gale, emigrated to Adelaide immediately after WW2.
This was his final visit back to England where he stayed with Mum and Dad. Louisa and Sam, in turn, digitally explored his face. When little ones do this, it can be unnerving at the best of times. It must be rather more so when you are wearing a rug.
My godmother, Auntie Gwen, was the eldest of the eleven children born to Grandma and Grandpa Knight. Gwen has appeared several times in this blog. The story of how she ensured that I survived my infancy, and therefore came to make these photographs, is told in an eponymous post.
I suspect that this photograph of Jessica and Louisa features a debate about whether our daughter was ready for a rest. Louisa’s expression glazes over as she avoids her mother’s knowing look.
Although Dad had only two more years to live. He was fit enough to get down on his knees to play an exciting game of hoopla with Sam.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s golden poached smoked haddock; creamy mashed potatoes; bright orange carrot batons; and glistening dark green spinach fit to swell Popeye’s forearms; followed by lemon meringue cheesecake. We shared a bottle of Marlborough Wairau Cove sauvignon blanc 2015
CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. THE SMALLER GROUPS ACCESS GALLERIES.
Late this morning Jackie drove us to Lepe where we enjoyed a brunch in the cafe by the beach.
Gulls scavenged among the pebbles and the seaweed that proved there is a stronger wet smell than that of damp dog.
You see, the seaweed aroma pervaded the air so much that it swamped any scent of the dog that, dashing into the sea on the end of a telescopic leash; in a vain attempt to capsize the honking avian flotillas commandeering the surface of the water; became very wet indeed.
Upon enquiry at the Information centre, I learned that these noisy birds were Brent geese who regularly fly from Canada and Siberia to enjoy what they must experience as a summer holiday in Lepe.
There was a fair amount of shipping seen on the horizon,
and approaching the Isle of Wight, which formed the backdrop of a number of these photographs.
A container vessel passed a spit
along which. at low tide a group walked out to sea. I assume they were not aiming to walk all the way to the island.
A helicopter chugged overhead,
where, later, the next flock of geese arrived for their overwintering.
Work was being undertaken on a terrace of cottages on the slopes above the beach. These listed dwellings were built in 1828 to house coastguards employed to combat the centuries-old customs of smuggling and piracy. The building nearer the shore was the Watch House.
Driving past them led us to the corner of Inchmery Lane where, perched on the side of the cliff, stood a lighthouse,
overlooking a stretch of beach belonging to a wildlife preservation society.
Taking the left bend visible in the above photograph of the lane, we continued along it, catching glimpses of the sea through the trees on our left.
At Moonhill, on our way to Beaulieu, a pony feeding in the forest caught my eye. I made my way through the trees and caught his. As I set out to cross the road back to the car, an equine companion did the same on its way into the woods. This had the usual effect on the traffic.
A neat stack of felled tree trunks occupied a cleared area.
For our dinner this evening, Jackie supplemented our second sitting of the Chinese takeaway with her superb egg fried rice. I finished the cabernet sauvignon.
