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Grey javelins were hurled from a slate sky all day today, so I went to a party.
This was for Louisa’s fourth birthday, at Gracedale Road in 1986. For the purposes of this post I will only identify
the birthday girl herself;
Becky who took charge of games like pinning the tail on the donkey drawn by me;
Wolf;
and Sam and his friend James. Despite James’s efforts Sam still got in a peek at the camera.
Matthew’s portrait hangs on the wall behind his younger brother. Above and to the right of that picture, obscured by the balloons in the donkey game photograph, is the print snaffled by Alice.
Glee, bewilderment, tiredness, scuffed knees, excitement, and participation in happy games were all exhibited during an entrancing afternoon.
On the end of the roll were a few pictures of Louisa, tolerating her cousin, Danni, exploring her face with prodding fingers, as babies are wont to do.
This evening we dined on mushroom and onion omelette, chips, onion rings, bacon, and tomatoes. I finished the cabernet sauvignon.
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On a gloriously sunny morning that would have graced any day in Spring, Jackie drove me, via a network of of narrow, populated roads like
Platoff Road
and Normandy Lane, to a footpath leading to Keyhaven and Lymington Nature Reserve.
As I used my long lens to bring the masts of Lymington Marina into this shot of Canada geese congregating in a field, beside which Jackie parked the car, little did I realise I would make closer acquaintance with the boatyard before my trek was over.
As I walked along the path I noticed first a woman walking along what I soon realised was a brick path around the bird sanctuary;
then a cyclist approaching from the opposite direction.
Did they, I wondered, pass the time of day as they passed each other on their brief encounter.
A five-barred gate gave onto a sloping track that led to a large rectangular route around the water lands, around which others rambled.
This perambulator had obviously dressed to blend in with the gorse.
Waterfowl basked in their sanctuary.
I rely on my ornithologist friends to correct me if necessary, but I think this is a stationary heron being passed by paddling mallards;
whereas this is an egret admiring its reflection.
A slender pigeon-like like bird didn’t manage to merge into varieties of duck that I would need some help to identify.
The woman in the foreground of this picture, after I enjoyed a chat with her, had taken a rest on one of the suitably placed observation benches, but it didn’t take her long to overtake me again.
Bird watchers availed themselves of another seat.
About halfway round the rectangle, I realised that I had a choice between walking on to the marina to find my way back to the car from there, and retracing my steps. I’m not one for taking the latter option, but this has, on occasion, presented problems. I stopped group of people and asked if I could return to Normandy Lane from there. I was told I could, and how to do it, with the observation that I couldn’t get lost. “Don’t you believe it,” I replied. “I can get lost anywhere”.
The Wight Link ferry boat soon sailed past the marina.
Ducks took to the wing;
a jogger and a dog walker took no advantage of their brief encounter;
As I left the marina and approached a path that would lead me to Normandy Lane, I met the group who had directed me earlier. “You are still on track” was the cheery greeting. I hadn’t the heart to let them know that I had been somewhat delayed by taking an incorrect, muddy, track.
Jackie was waiting for me, some two hours after my departure. A little more than intended.
This evening we dined on second helpings of yesterday’s curries, with which I consumed Chapel Vineyard cabernet sauvignon 2015.
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After lunch Jackie drove me on a short forest trip, after which we shopped at Lidl for basics such as toilet rolls.
An Isle of Wight ferry boat passed the mudbank at Tanners Lane, where
the tide was so far out that the little boat that usually bobs on the water was beached.
I watched a lithe, pure white, egret stretch, then curl, its elegant neck; stab the shallow water; stretch again, shake its undulating throttle, spraying liquid; stride along the bank; and do it all again. Thus it enjoyed a late lunch.
Seaweed on the wooden breakwaters indicated sea levels at high tide,
whilst two friendly women walked their Rescue lurcher who ‘has bits in him’. They were not sure of his full provenance.
Keeping the grass verges at Sowley well cropped were the usual group of ponies
including Little and Large performing their routine double act.
This evening we dined on a takeaway curry from The Raj in Old Milton. We shared onion bahji starters. My main meal was prawn naga and special fried rice. Becky and I finished the Cabalié. The other didn’t drink, and I haven’t registered what they ate.
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Soon after dawn this morning pink tinged indigo clouds slid across a bright blue background.
Within the hour, like the roof at Wimbledon, a slate grey canopy was stretched across the skies, and by the time Jackie drove me out to the bank at New Milton steady rain had set in for the day. We drove on to the Milford Medical Centre to make an appointment for Ian whose infection lingers on. We also collected a ‘Temporary Service’ form for him to complete, and took it back later.
The NHS Temporary Service is one of the invaluable benefits of our national medical service. This enables a visiting person taken ill away from home to avail themselves of medical services. Ian was seen on time and prescribed antibiotics which he collected at the adjacent pharmacy.
This evening we dined on our second helpings of Chinese takeaway delights supplemented by Hoisin spare ribs marinaded in Peking style sauce. Jackie and Ian drank respectively Staropramen beer from Prague, and Asahi from Tokyo; whilst I drank Cabalié 2015 Red Catalan wine. It’s amazing how cosmopolitan we have become since the end of WW2.
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On another day of gentle recovery Jackie and I delivered a letter to another Knight in Everton Road that had been wrongly included in our mail. We then joined Becky and Ian in the Beachcomber café at Barton on Sea.
Even as early as 2.30 p.m. the horizon over Christchurch Bay took on a pink glow. This appeared to be because the heavy indigo clouds rolling in left room for the sun’s rays to slice the surface of the water. The temperature was, nevertheless, mild enough to encourage a couple to venture forth.
I am indebted to Becky for showing an interest in the birds warming themselves over the chimneys. These, I think, are starlings who are normally to be seen pestering customers on the café lawn.
This one, atop the bus stop, sang like a cranking bicycle chain.
A gull perched on a pinnacle,
helped to create the contrasting image of live gulls and false bird of prey,
the potential for which our daughter, having noticed the spikes, spotted. The owners making sure that unwanted depositors of guano were kept off the balcony. The raptor is even reflected in a window, subtly magnifying the threat.
This evening we dined on Mr Chatty Man’s finest offerings from Hordle Chinese Take away. I finished the médoc.
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We didn’t much feel like taking the Christmas decorations down last night, so left it at unplugging the lights. When you consider that the Head Decorator is also the Head Gardener, you will realise how daunting is this task.
Imagine our delight then, on coming down this morning, to find that leprechauns had been in and completed the job. Leprechauns in the forms of Becky and Ian, of course.
The pastel pink winter flowering cherry in the front garden now blends with the brightly coloured crab apples, which have not yet been finished off by the blackbirds, thrushes, and tits that still feast on them.
Becky has, in recent weeks, taught herself to knit on line – using what Matthew has termed the Interknit. She has, without the aid of patterns, produced a set of sample shoes for Poppy,
who took great delight on trying them on soon after she arrived with Mat this morning.
Poppy enjoys playing with the mice which have periodically featured on posts. She makes a beeline for them when she arrives. She is also fascinated by the chimes of the grandfather clock and the other striker in the kitchen.
It therefore seemed appropriate for four of the mice to run up the clock.
Matthew and Poppy had to leave soon after 4 p.m., so were unable to share the classic roast pork meal that Jackie served up, thus demonstrating a remarkable improvement in her health. She and Becky finished the Barcelino, and I began a very special médoc, Baron des Tours, given to me by Helen and Bill for Christmas.
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Jackie is feeling much better than she was yesterday, but we are still an ailing household, except for Pauline’s ‘last woman standing’ in the form of Becky.
I scanned another dozen ‘Streets of London’ colour slides from July 2004.
For a number of years around the end of the last millennium, I performed a consultancy role at Portugal Prints, the Westminster Association of Mental Health project then situated in Portugal Street, WC2, but now in Arlington Street NW1. The building was then owned by the London School of Economics who eventually wanted it back.
The same must be true of that of the nursery across the road. This facility for student and staff parents has been established in order, ‘by offering flexible hours and half-day care, [to] help parents achieve a better work/life balance. And our central London location, in a quiet street between Covent Garden and Holborn stations and close to the LSE campus, means you can cut down on commuting time’. The quotation is taken from their website advertising the service now situated at Wild Street. Snow White, the Seven Dwarves, and cut-out teddy bears may or may not have moved with the children.
The Nursery windows are also evident on the side of it’s building in Sheffield Street. Much information on St Clement Danes parish is contained in https://www.londonlives.org/static/StClementDane.jsp
Clare Market WC2, where stands this LSE building, once provided many of the church’s parishioners. Naturally this particular Waterstone’s caters for those studying politics and economics.
Walking back to Little Venice from Portugal Prints I could have taken Marylebone Road, passing Ossulston Street NW1 giving another view of the refurbishment of the St Pancras Renaissance Hotel and the British Library.
Howard Brown was all the rage at this time. He was the star of the Halifax Bank advertisements that used the talents of their staff members to create a popular series. The following video is only just over two minutes long, but I defy you not to go on to the extracts in the next one. It is one of the many images of this charismatic gentleman that flies into Old Marylebone Road NW1.
(In answer to those who are curious about what has happened to Howard, here is an article from the The Daily Mail: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1389417/Face-Halifax-Howard-Brown-walks-dropped-ad-campaign.html
Cato Street W1 lies between Brendon Street featured two days ago and
Molyneux Street. The address of the Duke of York, built on this corner in 1889, is actually 45 Harrowby Street.
Bryanston Mews West W1
and Gloucester Place Mews W1 are others in this cluster of Marylebone streets. It is good to see the now old-fashioned sash windows in some of these Victorian terraces. These are designed to be opened at top and bottom so that cooler air can be attracted from the bottom and, when warmed up, exit from the top. So often they are replaced, resulting in ventilation and condensation problems.
The rebuilt Hinde Street Methodist Church (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hinde_Street_Methodist_Church) dates from the 1880s.
This evening we dined on fish, chips, onion rings, and baked beans. Jackie and Ian shared a bottle of Amstel, while Becky and I drank Barcelino blanco 2015.
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Jackie was really unwell today. I needed to ask for a home visit from the Milford Medical Centre GP. The service was its usual brilliant self. Dr Bartlet visited. He was as thorough as ever and demonstrated that his bedside manner is as excellent as that in the surgery. He prescribed medication for a severe chest infection and she had perked up by the evening.
Just before sunset, Becky drove me to the surgery to collect the prescription and have it dispensed at the next door pharmacy.
On the way down Downton Lane our route was blocked by a couple of cyclists riding two abreast. Keep your eye on the silly hat. Becky informs me that cycling training courses now teach their students ‘defensive cycling’, requiring them to take up as much room as a car, so that drivers will not be tempted to rush past them. So cyclists are being trained to annoy car drivers. Nice.
We were even unable to pass these two at the bottom of the road, because they had to pass a parked BT/Open Reach van. As always, these vans advertise advance fibre optic broadband. I found myself being grateful that this company that had mis-sold me such equipment which they could not deliver had not yet spawned the generation of solicitors touting for business on the back of PPIs. Keep your eye on the silly hat.
It was almost sunset when we reached the clifftop, within sight of the Isle of Wight and The needles.
I was not the only photographer keen on observing the view.
A couple of cyclists sped past a pair of dog walkers. Did you keep your eye on the silly hat?
This evening we dined on pizza, breaded mushrooms, samosa, and salad. I drank Cabbalié 2015, a rather splendid Catalan red supplied by Ian, who contented himself and Becky with finishing the pinot grigio.
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Generally when I delve into my archives that is because either the weather is foul, or I am feeling so. Whilst rather better than yesterday, it is for the latter reason that I scanned another dozen colour slides from the Streets of London Series of July 2004.
Berners Street W1 sports a fruit and vegetable stall useful to visitors, residents, and local workers alike. It is overlooked by the Post Office Tower in the left of the picture.
On the corner of Great Titchfield Street W1, football fans are the stallholders’ targets.
I have been unable to find any information about this chapel, on the steps of which, adjacent to Chapel Place W1, young people enjoy their lunch in the sunshine. (I am grateful to Paul Clarke who has done the research and provides a link to the story in his comment below)
The fire engine seen in the first of these photographs of Chiltern Street W1 suggests that the ornate building occupying the right hand side of the frame was then still a working fire station, but, like The Fire Station at Waterloo, is now a luxury hotel and restaurant named The Chiltern Firehouse.
If you ask me, the cyclist emerging from Montagu Mews North W1, is taking her life in her hands. But she is no doubt experienced at dodging London traffic.
Mind you, I do hope she steers clear of Saint Michael’s Street W1. Whether you look up or down, you couldn’t get much more into the shot.
Maybe she would fare better in Brendon Street, and at the same time get a view of a sun-tanned, shirtless, builder up a ladder.
Leaving Westminster and entering Camden, we see, in Longford Street NW1, some of that London Borough’s recycling bins. Recycling is a contentious issue here in UK, for every Local Authority has its own regulations as to what is and isn’t acceptable, and much of what is collected rots in warehouses anyway. It is admirable that efforts should be made in this direction but the systems are apparently far from perfect.
Longford Street leads us to Drummond Street NW1. The Mystic Maze appears to be where one can find Exodus Travels who will arrange your tours for you.
Alfie’s Antique Market, its proprietor clearly a fan of Gustav Klimt, is one of many such outlets that line Church Street NW8. ‘It houses over seventy-five dealers offering antiques; including silver, furniture, jewellery, paintings, ceramics, glass and vintage clothing.’ Wikipedia
Today’s evening meal, the first of the day for most of us, was an interesting affair. Becky, now being the only fit family member, knocked up various concoctions from available sources, according to what people thought they could manage. It is perhaps a measure of my improvement that I chose breaded mushrooms, vegetable samosa, and savoury rice; and drank half a glass of Costières de Nîmes.
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It may not have escaped some readers’ awareness that I have been struggling against a ailment of some sort for the last few days. This morning, Jackie made an appointment, forced me into the car, and drove me to the GP’s surgery where I was given a prescription for antibiotics which I collected from the adjacent pharmacy.
‘Anthony Trollope’s own goals’ is the title of a post on www.adrianbarlowsblog.blogspot.co.uk. Adrian is Jackie’s eminently erudite cousin whose piece gave me the nudge I needed to get on and read my complete set of the writer’s works before I run out of time. When I conveyed this intention to the blogger, he advised me to start with ‘Barchester Towers’, then move on to ‘Can You Forgive Her?’ Today I finished reading the first.
Here is a link to Wikipedia on the great Victorian novelist: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anthony_Trollope
I had been under the impression that the only one of his forty seven novels I had already read was ‘The Warden’, some forty years ago. It was not until I found a slender bookmark towards the end of ‘Barchester Towers’, that I realised I had read that one as well. Never mind, I had forgotten it, so enjoyed it afresh. The writer’s style, a little lengthy for today’s taste, is superb. Trollope has an insightful knowledge of human nature combined with the ability to convey the emotional life of his characters with clarity, compassion, and passion. He has subtle humour and evokes the manners of the the time with a keen descriptive eye. The book in question is well crafted, keeping the reader interested in the tale he is telling. As usual, I will not give away any details.
My set is from The Folio Society. This one is dated 1977, and has an introduction by Julian Symons.
The text is embellished by Peter Reddick’s delicate drawings, nicely evoking both the setting and the characters.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s marvellous macaroni cheese, green beans, broccoli, carrots, and ham. Jackie drank Hoegaarden; I finished the Costières de Nîmes; and Becky and Ian didn’t imbibe.
