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We took it easy today. Prompted by today’s post from thebikinggardener I wandered around the garden to see how our Hellebores are doing.
Some way behind Geoff’s, ours are coming through.
Many primulas have so far survived the winter.
The shattered bits of cherub Jackie found in the undergrowth a couple of years ago have gained a fine coating of moss.
The remnants of honesty, hollowing ovals on stems, blends well with the weeping birch bark.
The parent viburnum Bontantense and its two children are blooming well. One joins with a leycesteria in beginning to mask Aaron’s new fencing.
Alongside the winter flowering cherry
and beneath the crab apples, a blackbird dropped down for a change of diet.
This pieris takes my mind off the fact that the grass needs cutting.
A few youthful pink cheeks survive amid those ageing, wrinkly, and skeletal ones of this hydrangea.
Finally, the conundrum. Who has dragged a clutch of eggshells from the compost heap across the New Bed? Well, we did spot a rat, hands and nose pressed to the pane, peering, like Tiny Tim, through our window when we ate our Christmas dinner.
Just before 4.30 p.m., we dashed out to Barton on Sea to watch the sun sink into Christchurch Bay. I did not stage the photograph of the woman kicking it back up into the sky.
A while later we dined at Lal Quilla. My choice was lamb shatkora massala; Jackie’s prawn sallee. We shared an egg paratha, mushroom rice, and sag bahji; and both drank Kingfisher.
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Knowing that the clear morning would turn overcast as the day went on, Jackie drove me to Beaulieu and back for a photo session.
We began at Hatchet Pond where a couple of well-wrapped-up silhouetted walkers, observed by swans in the icy water, passed
a pair of chomping ponies, one freckle-faced.
After a while they turned and headed back for the car park.
A number of other ponies unsuccessfully attempted to merge in with the bare branches of the trees.
Even this duck appeared to be huddled against the chilly weather;
despite being blue with cold, the more playful gulls swooped, skidded, and skated along their improvised ice floe landing strip.
There is always at least one pony lurking around the cars in the hopes of drivers donating delicacies.
This one mistook my attention for intention to feed, and peered hopefully through the windscreen as I returned to the car.
Both the large pond and the tidal Beaulieu river bore shards of ice on their banks.
I was unaware that there was risk of flooding, but the owners of Abbeygate Cottage, opposite the river, had reinforced their gateway with sandbags, so I imagine there must be one.
Ponies very rarely either make a sound or break into a trot. I was therefore surprised to hear one whinnying at a pace up and down the bank.
It was only when it took its place among the traffic that it slowed down and kept silent.
Another surprise was to see gentleman with a long stick, carrying a Waitrose ‘bag for life’ across the still wet river bed. He strode purposefully until his goal became apparent.
Quietly, patiently, the swans lined up for the treats he carried. There was none of the usual clamour as these elegant creatures craned to take food from his fingers. Even the non-squabbling gulls awaited their turn. They knew this man who loved them.
On our return, seeking a place to turn, we were assisted by two ponies blocking the road.
They were licking the salt from the tarmac.
This evening we dined on cottage pie, boiled potatoes, carrots and green beans. Jackie drank sparkling water, and I finished the barolo.
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Memo to self:
‘Never shop at Tesco’s late on a Friday morning. Remember. Because of the congestion, you will never be able to move faster than a plod. Especially when you have driven a short distance having cleared ice from the car windows, you will find that you are wearing too many layers for the oppressive atmosphere. The trolley could pass as a dodgem car. Other drivers will mostly be too old or infirm to be granted a licence; except, that is, for the toddler in the store-supplied pedal vehicle towing his Grandma’s basket on wheels. Facing an oncoming loader stacked with products for filling shelves will be like attempting to avoid an out of control container vehicle. Deft footwork will be required to avoid lasting bruises.
Especially if you are tagging along in a junior mate’s capacity, and you are unfamiliar with the layout you will not feel you are much use. When dispatched to collect specific items, at first you will need to find the relevant aisle. Even if you then find the right brand, you will probably bring the wrong size or the wrong amount back to the Caterer in Chief, and have to retrace your steps to return and replace the item. That is after you have managed to find your lady with her trolley in any one of the countless number of avenues of shelves.’
In case anyone thinks I exaggerate, when faced with an oncoming wheeled tower with apparently no driver, I, at one point, had to choose which elderly woman’s loaded trolley to treat as a bumping car. Fortunately, there was a staff member pushing the container, around which she peered, and applied her brakes. At that moment the toddler pedalled around the corner. The employee had the good humour to be amused when I asked if her employers had trained her on the dodgems.
This afternoon I scanned another batch of negatives from May 1986. Some of these have appeared in earlier posts, but were made from prints of which I thought I had lost the negatives.
I believe this first group was taken at Tooting Common, where Sam and Louisa enjoyed climbing frames, sandwiches, and ice creams. Would gravel be permitted under these structures in our safety-conscious era today, I wonder? I am not sure whether the bicycle was Louisa’s birthday present.
Our first clematis Montana was grown at our home in Gracedale Road,
barefoot on the concrete back steps of which Sam, admired by his sister, undertakes an important piece of carpentry.
Perhaps Jessica took this photograph of me at a party somewhere.
This evening we dined at Lymington’s Lal Quilla, where we received the usual friendly and efficient service with first class food. My main meal was prawn Ceylon; Jackie’s was chicken bhuna; and we shared Kashmira pilau rice, garlic naan, and sag bahji. We both drank Kingfisher.
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No, there is no letter missing from the title. All will be revealed to those who have the perseverance to make it through the bumper morning’s photographic haul.
Although Jackie is far from well, she was determined on a lengthy forest drive on this clear, crisp, morning. Each time I tried to convince her that I had enough pictures, she refused to turn back for home.
Just around the corner in Hordle Lane, gaps in the hedge brought us into eye contact with sheep who have adopted the colouring of the stubble they have been sent to nibble, and the soil they are revealing.
Our first stop was at Wootton, where the breath of a ridden horse wafted against the arboreal backdrop.
From there we parked on a gravel path beside a group of ponies. While my eyes were fixed on these, Jackie became highly excited by a herd of deer bouncing through the bracken. They were about to cross the road. I abandoned the horses and rushed to the tarmac where
I was fortunate enough to hit my cervine target.
My luck held when I returned to the ponies,
where one, ignored by its drowsy companions, showed two clean pairs of heels in rolling over for a scratch,
then clambered to its feet.
A little further along Wootton Road I spent some time exploring the stream,
partly iced over and penetrating still frosted landscape.
Negotiating networks of roots, and taking advantage of the apparent firmness of
frozen terrain,
I was able to explore areas that had been too muddy to venture into in the past. Mind you, I did manage to fill my left shoe with freezing water, and make the rest of the trip in a more than adequate ice-pack.
A frozen hat hanging over the stream had me wondering whether the owner had got a bit wet.
It hung beside one of the many tyre swings that I have spotted in the forest. Had there been a mishap?
Eventually, glancing back at the more open landscape,
I joined Jackie, patiently waiting in the car with her puzzle book.
We moved on to Helen’s favourite view, from the Picket Post car park near Ringwood.
I walked out along the ridge around a deep valley, where I noticed a gentleman looking down the hillside.
He was waiting for female and canine companions.
Frost still lay in the sunless sides of the slope,
whereas it had melted on others.
A beribboned tree provided me with a mystery. My solution is that an enterprising wedding photographer led the bride and groom to this spot for some romantic images. That’s what I might have done, anyway.
Leaving this landscape behind us
we progressed to Eyeworth Pond where twitchers were out in force.
Someone had hung a number of feeders on the trees, and placed seed on the barrier to the footpath. They attracted, among others, blue tits, nuthatches, robins, and blackbirds.
Was this a sparrow hiding in the holly?
Numerous ducks paddled on the lake,
and the area bore its own frosted landscape.
Here, I did manage to miss a tree root and take a tumble. Never mind, the camera was safe.
Before leaving Fritham I failed to interest a pair of dozing donkeys in conversation.
It was then I noticed a phenomenon that should not have surprised me. The breath of the slumbering equine creatures came at very slow intervals and was feeble in its ascent into the ether. One could not hold up its head. The exhalation was nothing like that emitted by the exercising horse at the beginning of this saga. Makes sense really.
This evening Jackie produced a dinner of tender roast lamb, perfect roast potatoes, and crisp carrots with green beans, followed by spicy rice pudding. She drank sparkling water and I began an excellent bottle of Barolo 2012, given to me for Christmas by Helen and Bill.
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I needed a trip to the bank in New Milton today. As it was a fine frosty morning we took a drive in the forest first and moved on to Friar’s Cliff for big breakfast brunches in the eponymous café.
On the way through Tiptoe we fell in behind a splendid horse and cart. After I had photographed hooves through the car windscreen, Jackie overtook the antique vehicle and stopped further down the road so that I could lay in wait for a full frontal shot.
Holmesley Passage, was bathed in both sunshine
and frost;
as was the still autumnal woodland and the bracken covered moor.
The stream that runs under the road flowed fast over the concrete ford.
Wrapped up and back-packed walkers strode across the moor.
The Friar’s Cliff café was so full that many diners sat outside (remember the dog)
watching the sea, a canoeist kayaking by,
and dogs frolicking on the beach.
We are given a slip of paper containing our order number, and wait for the superb, freshly cooked, food. One couple didn’t touch their bottled water and crisps. They, too, were to receive a café meal.
A young mother clutched both her small son and his scooter as she made for the café. She didn’t drop either before she reached her destination.
We admired the patience of a golden haired dog ogling its owners’ bacon sandwiches without moving a muscle.
This evening we dined on fish fingers, chips, onion rings, and baked beans, with which I finished the cabernet sauvignon.
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When I walked around the Keyhaven – Lymington Nature Reserve recently I finished up at the boat yard I now know is the Lymington Yacht Haven. Today I chose to begin at the Haven and wander around it.
Jackie therefore drove me to Pinckney Path from which I had returned to Normandy Lane.
The woman walking towards me pointed to this sign giving the history of the route
through to the boats.
A walker, presumably having emerged from the bird sanctuary, passed me as I stooped to photograph supports of a boat.
Other ramblers could be seen on the far side of the reserve, with the ferry boat making for the Isle of Wight beyond.
I suppose this was really a dry dock area, with boats being supported by wooden struts and other devices,
such as these container drums.
A variety of hulls were prepared for work.
Reflections were seen on car windows
and on the hulls of the cleaner boats.
There was little work being undertaken, but this gentleman climbed down from ‘Plymouth’.
Walking through the boat yard led to the marina where boats and their reflections shimmered in the late afternoon sunlight.
This evening we dined on further helpings of the roast duck and savoury rice, supplemented by spring rolls. I drank more of the cabernet sauvignon.
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A day’s unending dreary drizzle dripping from damp, dingy, clouds over Downton provided ample material for Pearly Kings and Queens to refresh their outfits.
Wikipedia tells us:
“The practice of wearing clothes decorated with so-called pearl, actually mother-of-pearl buttons, originated in the 19th century.[1] It is first associated with Henry Croft, an orphan street sweeper who collected money for charity. At the time, London costermongers (street traders) were in the habit of wearing trousers decorated at the seams with pearl buttons that had been found by market traders. Croft adapted this to create a pearly suit to draw attention to himself and aid his fund-raising activities.[2][3] In 1911 an organised pearly society was formed in Finchley, north London.[1]
Croft died in January 1930, and his funeral was attended by 400 followers from all over London,[1] receiving national media coverage.[4] In 1934 a memorial to him was unveiled in St Pancras Cemetery, and in a speech to mark the occasion he was said to have raised £5,000 for those suffering in London’s hospitals.[5] The statue was later moved to the crypt of St Martin-in-the-Fields, Westminster. The inscription reads:
In memory of Henry Croft who died January 1st 1930 aged 68 years. The original Pearly King
The pearlies are now divided into several active groups. Croft’s founding organisation is called the Original London Pearly Kings and Queens Association. It was reformed in 1975[1][2] and holds the majority of the original pearly titles which are City of London, Westminster, Victoria, Hackney, Tower Hamlets, Shoreditch, Islington, Dalston and Hoxton. Other groups have also been established over the years. The oldest is the Pearly Guild, which began in 1902.[1][6] Modern additions include the London Pearly Kings and Queens Society, which started in 2001 following a disagreement,[1][3] and the Pearly Kings and Queens Guild.[7] Despite the rivalries, each group is associated with a church in central London and is committed to raising money for London-based charities.[1] A parade of real-life Pearly Kings and Queens was featured at the 2012 Summer Olympics Opening Ceremony.
This evening we dined on succulent slow-roasted duck breasts in plum sauce on Jackie’s splendid savoury rice. I drank Cimarosa Reserva Privada cabernet sauvignon 2015.
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Although I am almost recovered from our family illness, and Becky is still unscathed, Jackie and Ian remain under par. I therefore took another virtual reality trip to London through the medium of scanning another dozen colour slides from the Streets of London series made during July 2004.
I forget which of these two shots featuring Welbeck Way W1 depicts buildings in the Wimpole Street. This area of Fitzrovia is rather grand. The cordoned off pavement is, as has been demonstrated before, a common sight in central London. If the young man has just left his bike against the railings, he will be lucky if it is still there when he returns. I also wonder how much longer our streets will be graced with Royal Mail delivery vans. Wikipedia tells that: “The notorious 18th-century highwayman James MacLaine was once a grocer on Welbeck Street.”
Like the above-mentioned Wimpole Street, Harley Street is noted for the large number of expensive private medical specialists who practice there. This photograph was taken from the junction with Wigmore Street.
https://wcclibraries.wordpress.com/2015/10/29/a-controversial-sculptor-jacob-epstein-in-westminster/ gives the story of this rather wonderful Jacob Epstein sculpture in Dean’s Mews W1. The slight straightening required by this image meant that the street name has been lost. It is fascinating to me that the photograph contained in the wcclibraries post was clearly taken at a different time of day to mine.
This post box in Newman Street W1 is clearly no stranger to advertising material.
Bury Place WC1 is around the corner from the British Museum; and is consequently a suitable street in which to find a dealer in antiquities.
I wonder who became the new occupiers of 166 Clerkenwell Road, and therefore next door neighbours of the New Seoul Korean restaurant.
The Duke of York in Vine Hill, EC1 was a favourite haunt of “Mad” Frankie Fraser (13.12.23 – 26.11.14) He was a S. London gangster and criminal who spent 42 years in prison for numerous violent offences.
while the Coach and Horses in Back Hill features on the next page.
The Potemkin Russian restaurant on the bendy corner of Back Hill and White Bear Yard could be named after either Catherine the Great’s favourite or the battleship immortalised by Sergei Eisenstein’s 1925 silent film. Given that the ship must have been named after the statesman the exact answer is probably academic.
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle features Saffron Hill EC1 in his Sherlock Holmes story ‘The Adventure of The Six Napoleons’, being the Italian Quarter where can be found the Venucci family. Repairs to gas mains are not particularly unusual.
Becky and Ian returned home to Emsworth later this afternoon. Jackie and I dined on the final helpings of her lovely sausage casserole, both mashed and boiled potatoes, and Brussels sprouts and broccoli. Neither of us imbibed.
The moon stayed up late this morning. I am indebted to Laurie Graves at Notes from the Hinterland for the information that such a moon is called ‘Wolf’.
Recent work on opening up our fireplace in order to burn logs in a swan’s nest basket, has prompted me to research the history of chimney sweeps. There is much information on https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chimney_sweep.
This illustration shows a 19th century Italian master sweep and his apprenticed boy
With particular reference to the small children sent up chimneys in UK, Wikipedia tells us that: “Boys as young as four climbed hot flues that could be as narrow as 81 square inches (9×9 inches or 23×23 cm). Work was dangerous and they could get jammed in the flue, suffocate or burn to death. As the soot is a carcinogen, and as the boys slept under the soot sacks and were rarely washed, they were prone to Chimney Sweeps Cancer. From 1775 onwards there was increasing concern for the welfare of the boys, and Acts of Parliament were passed to restrict, and in 1875 to stop this usage.[6]Lord Shaftesbury, the philanthropist, led the later campaign. Chimneys started to appear in Britain around 1200, when they replaced the open fire burning in the middle of the one room house. At first there would be one heated room in the building and chimneys would be large. Over the next four hundred years, rooms became specialized and smaller and many were heated. Sea coal started to replace wood, and it deposited a layer of flammable creosote in the inside surface of the flue, and caked it with soot. Whereas before, the chimney was a vent for the smoke, now the plume of hot gas was used to suck air into the fire, and this required narrower flues[7] Even so, boys rarely climbed chimneys before the Great Fire of London, when building regulations were put in place and the design of chimneys was altered, The new chimneys were often angular and narrow, and the usual dimension of the flue in domestic properties was 9 inches (23 cm) by 14 inches (36 cm). The master sweep was unable to climb into such small spaces himself and employed climbing boys to go up the chimneys to dislodge the soot. The boys often ‘buffed it’, that is, climbed in the nude,[8] propelling themselves by their knees and elbows which were scraped raw. They were often put up hot chimneys, and sometimes up chimneys that were alight in order to extinguish the fire. Chimneys with sharp angles posed a particular hazard.[9] These boys were apprenticed to the sweep, and from 1778 until 1875 a series of laws attempted to regulate their working conditions, and many first hand accounts were documented and published in parliamentary reports. From about 1803, there was an alternative method of brushing chimneys, but sweeps and their clients resisted the change preferring climbing boys to the new Humane Sweeping Machines.[10] Compulsory education was established in 1870 by the Education Act 1870 but it was a further five years before legislation was put in place to license Chimney Sweeps and finally prevent boys being sent up chimneys.[11]”
Now, we have never sent a child up a chimney, but we have sent one under the floorboards. In 1985 we had some reason for needing to access the nether regions of our house in Gracedale Road. I cannot now remember what.
Sam was in fact rather chuffed to be given the responsibility and the opportunity to explore. Carrying a torch he slid down the hole.
Here he is on the descent,
and as he emerges with whatever he went down for, and the bonus of a packet of Wild Woodbines.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s sausages in red wine, and Becky’s creamy mashed potato, tasty bubble and squeak, and peas. Jackie drank sparkling water; Becky and Ian, Leffe; and I finished the shiraz.
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Somewhat encouraged by the lack of adverse effects on my knackered knees after the long, flat, walk round Keyhaven and Lymington Nature Reserve, I decided to take the somewhat shorter, yet undulating, route through Honeylake Wood. At about halfway I ventured into the undergrowth, after which I turned back.
A pedestrian gate breaking a hedge serves as an entrance to the field leading to the wood.
The hedge was reflected in the muddy verge beside Christchurch Road.
A bent and aged oak on one edge of the field bowed beneath the prevailing wind,
which even around mid-day bit into me as I crossed to the wood.
On my way in the leafy path offered welcoming shelter,
while a sight of Downton’s cottages as I left it gave notice that home was near, if not in sight.
Often springy underfoot, the forest floor,
over which squirrels scampered,
was, especially near the stream, occasionally waterlogged.
The wind roared overhead. There was much evidence of broken trees,
and, although some autumn leaves had not yet reached the ground,
others glowed in the sunlight
which played among the trees.
The bridge had been so severely damaged as to deter anyone from leaning on the rickety rail; a sapling had been converted to an entrance arch.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s classic sausage casserole, creamy mashed potatoes, and crisp carrots, cauliflower, and Brussels sprouts. I drank Basson Shiraz 2014. The others didn’t drink their Kronenbourg 1664 until afterwards so that didn’t count.
A minute particle of my casserole splashed up from my plate and onto my grandfather shirt. Jackie and Ian swooped on me to supplement the stains and Becky grabbed the camera. I was set up, I swear it.
