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During the morning and part of the afternoon work continued in the garden, mostly in the Rose Garden, although I did also partly composite the Oval Bed.
In the front, the Prunus Amanogawa,
and the crab apples are blossoming.
Hoverflies
and our crinkly little orange poppies are appearing everywhere.
This afternoon we drove to Redcliffe Garden Centre in Bashley to buy some metal stakes for holding the log in place in Jackie’s most recent attempt to keep out the big beast. We continued on into the forest, and on our return bought some stone from Otter Nurseries.
The bank leading up to the Church of St John the Baptist at Boldre now wears a blanket of bluebells and dandelions,
alongside those of primroses.
The thatching at East End, on an L-shaped building much more extensive than the front elevation shows,
continues apace; nevertheless I am informed that, weather permitting, this very large job is expected to take five weeks.
This evening we dined on Mr. Pink’s fish, chips, and pea fritters, with pickled onions and gherkins. I drank more of the Bordeaux.
P.S. In a comment below, Quercus Community has provided this informative link on thatching: http://www.buildingconservation.com/articles/longstraw/longstraw.htm
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Yesterday afternoon we drove to Elizabeth’s at West End to collect her and go together to The First Gallery at Bitterne to visit the exhibition of woodcuts by Jutta Manser and paintings by Kevin Dean, in conjunction with Margery Clarke’s open studio.
A random selection of the work on display in ‘Scene and Imagined’ includes
and ‘And The Evening and The Morning were The First Day’;
Kevin’s ‘Oriental Poppies’;
‘Bruno Playing’, a pen drawing by Margery;
‘Moonstruck’
‘Sisyphus’, humorously hung at an angle,
‘Evening Glow’,
and ‘Summer Blues’ all by Jutta;
‘Russian Circus’ from Kevin;
and Jutta’s ‘Cutting Edge 20,000 BC.
We were treated to a fascinating display of Jutta’s Tools of The Trade, including beautiful avian drawings in a sketchbook, woodblocks, pins, pencils, and cutting implements;
whilst upstairs we were invited into Margery’s studio.
Jackie bagged Jutta’s ‘Sunflowers’ for her birthday in June. I bought it knowing full well I will have, albeit intentionally, forgotten it by then.
Memory was to become a minor theme of the day. A group of us at the end of the event sat with Margery, having a wide-ranging discussion, which, prompted by recent discoveries concerning mice, possibly helpful to understanding dementia, led to the subject of memory. The capacities of each us were very varied. I made the rash statement that everyone remembers their first day at school. Jackie and I were the only two who did. I found that surprising.
We took Elizabeth back to her car. She collected Mum, and the four of us met and dined in The Farmer’s Home pub in Durley. As always, this led to much reminiscing. Our mother asked if we remembered the flats in Wyke Road. We did, and Jackie even remembered the name of the block that occupied most of the side of the road opposite the railway tracks leading to Raynes Park Station. It was, and still is, Langham Court, which is fronted by a low brick wall topped by stone coping. Tailor-made for little boys to walk along. Well, what else could it be for?
I said I had a story about Langham Court. Elizabeth and Jackie had not heard it, and Mum could not remember it. I did. It is not every day your mother takes on a big hairy caretaker.
Chris and I were about 6 and 8. Wyke Road is situated at the end of Stanton Road, where we lived. In those days it was perfectly acceptable for children to play in side streets devoid of motor cars. Naturally we trotted along the coping stones. The aforesaid big hairy man tore across the lawn in a rage, turfed us off the wall, and terrified the life out of us. We ran home and told our Mum.
Now, the caretaker was frightening enough. But can you imagine a tigress defending her cubs? That gets near. Trying desperately to keep up with Mum we were dragged back up to the flats. I don’t remember the exact words of the ensuing conversation, but I do remember the sound of the slap. I don’t think the gentleman ever accosted us again.
Of course, as was described in the conversation at the Gallery, different people have different memories of the same event, so it is possible that I invented or embroidered this. Nevertheless I only had two glasses of the Rio Alto Merlot 2016 I shared with Elizabeth at our meal. Mum drank orange juice and Jackie chose diet coke. Mum ate poached salmon with new potatoes and carrots, while the rest of enjoyed Sunday roasts with all the trimmings; Jackie’s was pork, while Elizabeth and I chose lamb. Mum’s dessert was Eton Mess and the rest of us had lemon meringue pie.
This morning, Jackie and I continued with the garden tidying. I dug and chopped out a stubborn young self-seeded bay tree.
This evening we dined on roast chicken thighs served on a bed of onions, peppers and garlic with a sprinkling of sage; creamy mashed potato, spring greens and runner.beans. I drank Château Caillavet Bordeaux 2010, and Jackie didn’t because she had consumed her quota of Hoegaarden on the patio before dinner.
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On Sunday mornings when Aaron is due to come, I nip down to the five-barred gate at the end of the back drive to open it so he can drive his vehicle in.
This morning there was no nipping, because I was bewitched by the light.
Our treasured help performed a variety of tasks today. He painted metal chairs, mended a wooden one that had been smashed by the autumn winds, and weeded more paths.
This afternoon we are visiting The First Gallery, visiting my mother, and going out for a meal with Elizabeth in the evening. It may be that we take Mum with us for the meal. The reason for this is that her domiciliary care has, like everyone else’s, been privatised. This means that it is undertaken by contracted firms whose main object is to make money. The result is rushed and unreliable schedules subject to inconvenient alterations, with or without a warning telephone call.
Mum needs help to get up and shower and to settle herself down for bed. Elizabeth does most other things for her. Today she was informed that the morning visit would be late and the evening early. This could mean starting well after 10 a.m. and finishing well before 6 p.m. In the circumstances Mum cancelled the evening call, so we will come into play. I will report on this tomorrow.
Those who are unaware of the welfare systems here may not know that we have no choice but to have National Insurance contributions deducted from our earnings, and that Local Authorities can keep none of the promises about receiving care free of charge ‘at the point of service’ ‘from the cradle to the grave’. Jackie’s Social Work colleagues from abroad had to have her explain to them why it was that elderly people wondered why they had to pay for these inadequate services. There is much current debate about injecting more money. That will make not the slightest difference because, like so many of our services, the destruction, in the name of Mammon, has already happened.
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Jackie spent the morning working on the garden beds. I finished aerating the scrawny grass patch and did a little clearing up.
At the house end of the Gazebo Path weeded by Aaron last week, Jackie worked on tidying the Triangular Bed;
and, alongside the Dead End Path, the West Bed.
Viewed from our back drive, the splendid magnolia still soars above the vacant North Breeze jungle.
Runaway pansies from last year’s hanging baskets have seeded at will.
The Head Gardener’s Walk, laid down two years ago, threads through the then non-existent Dragon Bed.
Almost by the hour, tulips are opening out everywhere.
This shield bug vainly hoped to hide behind a vinca.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s succulent sausage casserole, creamy mashed potato and swede, fresh spring greens and runner beans. Neither of us imbibed.
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We began this sunny day with a trip to the bank in New Milton, followed by one to Mole Country Stores just outside Lymington.
The shadows of trees were cast on the woodland bank beside the store.
The woman serving us cautioned me to watch for the stampede of staff who, having heard Wendy’s horn, would be dashing out for cake from the popular mobile caterer. We hoped that the poison we were buying would prove as appetising to the rats still coming in from North Breeze, the empty house next door. Whatever is tearing a hole in the Rose Garden fence is of course rather larger than a rat. Either a badger or a fox. Later in the day we put down the bait in its specially designed containers.
Having made our purchase, we drove on to East End to see how the thatching by
was coming along.
I had a pleasant conversation whilst looking up at one of the men perched on his scaffolding. He remembered my having photographed the unloading of the reeds, and was more than happy to have their progress recorded on the blog.
The pair of donkeys across the road were today joined by a younger member of the family. They were liberally bedecked with petals of the blackthorn that lines the hedgerows and provides them with sustenance. The field of rape beyond the hedge failed to blind them to the task of trimming the hedges.
A little further up the road, near the chickens, a younger foal adhered to its mother
until she imparted its first instruction in the art of claiming the road
and the game of disrupting the traffic.
It seemed as if the further we ventured the smaller became the little donkeys. At East Boldre mothers and babies clung together as somnolent fathers dozed along the winding road. One of the more venturesome foals was quick to trot to his mother at the sight of me and my camera.
Just like human babies these tiny tots can fall asleep anywhere in positions of which their parents may well be envious.
It is possible that this will remind anyone of a certain age of
This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious lamb jalfrezi, savoury rice, vegetable samosas, and spicy paneer. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Bergerac.
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Yesterday afternoon our peace was disturbed by a clattering and scratching emanating from the wall behind a radiator in the TV half of the sitting room. We used to hear that in the open fireplace. Until we lit a fire. Clearly the jackdaws were back, building their nest in a now boarded up chimney. Sure enough, one was perching sentinel on a chimney pot this morning.
Much of the day was spent attending to the garden, throughout which violets are popping up.
My contribution was generally tidying up and cutting the grass.
The Rose Garden is coming along quite well,
as is the Front Garden.
I was close enough to this wasp in the orange shed to be sure that we do have them.
Jackie’s efforts included relining the Waterboy’s pond which had sprung a leak;
replenishing the soil in pots and hanging baskets, during which she discovered her first clutch of evil little vine weevils;
and poking holes with an aerator into the less healthy looking grass patches.
While we took drinks in the Rose Garden before dinner, Jackie spotted that the Big Beast has shown us what it thinks of my pathetic round peg in the square hole. It has simply moved along a touch and ripped off a lot more fencing. We really do hope it is not a rat.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious lamb jalfrezi, savoury rice, and vegetable samosas. Jackie, having drunk Hoegaarden earlier, did not join me in my Bergerac 2015. Not that she would have done anyway. It is not her tipple.
Jackie and I began the day with a drive in the forest, in order to see how the thatching at East End was progressing.
A shallow stream ran over the ford at Norleywood, enhancing the beauty of the shadows on the road ahead.
A pair of donkeys breakfasted on the hedgerows opposite the house
on which the skilled roofing work had commenced.
As is their wont, one of these creatures crept, silently, up behind me to see if I had any carrots. I am mean enough to disappoint them, however, feeding them is not advised by the verderers, unless you want to catch Weill’s disease.
Jackie had driven further up the road to turn round, by which time the donkeys really had claimed the road.
The other two large lorries were still parked outside the neighbouring house. One was being loaded with soil dug out from the garden.
High above the chicken range a solitary Thelwell child’s pony also enjoyed its morning meal.
The chickens cooed and clucked around their chook house,
sharing their repast with crows,
ducks,
and pheasants, which were freer to roam.
One of the llamas sat with a silly grin on its face
as another gurned at me.
A trio of cyclists paused at the road junction to take their bearings.
They were small fry compared with those who were to limit our progress on the road to Brockenhurst.
As we approached that village, Jackie expressed the wish that they would not be going our way. No such luck.
This afternoon we continued, focussing on the rose and front gardens, preparing for an alfresco summer.
This evening we dined on shepherd’s pie topped with layers of cheddar cheese and mushrooms; crisp carrots, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts and runner beans. Jackie finished the Cotes de Gascoigne and I drank more of the shiraz.
This morning we visited New Milton’s Birchfield Dental Practice, where Mr Hefferan relieved me of one of my choppers which was rather loose. His painless technique was a little more sophisticated than the application of my mother’s fingers many decades ago.
My Dad was a fan of the novelist Edgar Wallace. This is what prompted me to buy a second-hand copy of ‘The Flying Squad’ a good thirty or more years past. A recent exchange with Brian, LordBeariofBow, prompted me to get around to reading it. I finished doing so in the waiting room while Jackie was having her less drastic treatment.
A fairly standard early 20th century detective thriller that would seem tame if translated to today’s TV series, so often penned by women, my copy was the 1940, 13th edition of the 1926, work. Produced during the time of the Battle of Britain, this book has survived longer than would a modern counterpart. A hardback, suffering a little foxing and browning of paper, it is still quite durable. I know it has been read previously for there were one or two minor stains and the occasional crumb lodged within.
Perhaps the most memorable aspect of Wallace’s novel is it’s constant reference to the death penalty of which the villains were in fear. Had I committed murder before I was almost thirty, I could well have been hanged.
It was not until the Murder (Abolition of Death Penalty) Act 1965 that the death penalty for murder was abolished, although it was to survive in Northern Ireland until 1973. Wikipedia tells us that ‘the Act was introduced to Parliament as a private member’s bill by Sydney Silverman MP.’ It provided ‘that charges of capital murder at the time it was passed were to be treated as charges of simple murder and all sentences of death were to be commuted to sentences of life imprisonment. The legislation contained a sunset clause, which stated that the Act would expire on 31 July 1970 “unless Parliament by affirmative resolutions of both Houses otherwise determines”.[3] This was done in 1969 and the Act was made permanent.’
On 13 August 1964, Peter Anthony Allen, at Walton Prison in Liverpool, and Gwynne Owen Evans, at Strangeways Prison in Manchester, were executed for the murder of John Alan West on 7 April that year. They were the last of such UK executions.
Perhaps better known victims of the hangman were Ruth Ellis, the last woman hanged, and Derek Bentley who had met a similar fate two years earlier.
The Bentley case led to a 45-year-campaign to win him a posthumous pardon which was granted in 1993, A further campaign resulted in the quashing of his murder conviction in 1998.
The gun that killed PC Sidney Miles had been fired by Bentley’s companion, 16 year old Christopher Craig, who was too young to hang. The finding of guilt hinged on the interpretation of Bentley’s cry, ‘Let him have it’. The jury interpreted the phrase to mean ‘Kill him’. The defence view was that he meant ‘Hand over the gun’.
Those two 1950s executions stayed in the memory of this then young boy.
Late this afternoon I wandered around the garden.
When I recently photographed an insect such as this one making a bee-line for euphorbia, I described it as a wasp. I don’t think it really can be. A bee, or a hoverfly, perhaps?
I photographed this rhododendron in bud a day or two ago;
as I did this flowering cherry.
The erigerons outside the back door are recovering well from their severe haircut.
This evening we dined on shepherds’ pie, carrots and cauliflower. Jackie drank more of the Côtes de Gascoigne, and I drank Lion’s Lair Shiraz 2013.
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Threatened with an early disappearance of the sun that shone through the mist at dawn this morning, we took a drive soon afterwards. I have to confess that Jackie was the only person out of bed early enough to produce these two photographs.
Our first stop was at Norleywood where the land alongside a stream was very waterlogged;
and primroses and celandines sprawled over the slopes and beside the stream.
Prolific blackthorn also bloomed.
Llamas, two of which reconstructed Doctor Dolittle’s Pushmepullyou, grazed in a field further along the road;
cattle opposite had freedom to roam;
while neighbouring chickens certainly enjoyed free range.
At East End, an interesting problem for motorists was presented by the unloading of a lorryload of thatcher’s reeds at the same time as two huge vehicles were parked outside the house next door where heavy landscaping seemed to be in progress. We watched the reeds lifted by crane, carried over the hedge, and lowered into position for the imminent task of re-thatching an impressively proportioned house.
A rather splendid mimosa grew in a garden on the opposite side of the road.
It was so misty beyond Tanners Lane beach that neither the Isle of Wight
nor Lymington harbour was visible.
After I had taken this very pleasant woman’s photograph we had an enjoyable conversation, beginning with our lack of complete understanding of the cameras we were using.
More pale yellow primroses shared the banks of the ditch along the lane with little violets.
This evening we dined on Set Meal B at Imperial China in Lyndhurst, both drinking Tiger beer.
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This morning I continued work on the rose garden, Jackie cut back plants in other beds, and
Aaron made considerable headway on weeding the gravel paths.
After lunch, Jackie and I drove into the forest. The terrain around Fritham seems to be the home of miniature ponies. I tend to call them all Shetlands, because I don’t know any better. As we drove past a car park we noticed one vehicle surrounded by these little creatures. Naturally we turned round to investigate.
Brian, who is concerned that I don’t feed carrots to the ponies, should be very pleased that a little girl was doing just that.
When the time came for our little friend to wave goodbye
the fickle animals moved on to see what they could scrounge from the next vehicle.
A few larger ponies did mingle with the smaller ones,
one of which had me wondering whether there was such a thing as a Dalmatian pony. Later research revealed that it is probably a miniature British spotted pony,
which, when a young woman on the other side of the car park opened her car boot to change her footwear, trotted over and stood patiently, silently, behind her.
Perhaps she felt its breath, for, with a joyful exclamation, she turned and patted it, just as she was in the process of prising off a footwear boot.
Our return home was via Bramshaw, where black-faced sheep spilled into the road.
Upon investigation I discovered that the Newbridge Telephone Kiosk is now a repository for local social history. Among the photographs inside is one of the phone box when it was in use as such, with information about the iconic design and its creator;
Images of St Mary’s Church and an early wedding can be seen through a broken window;
two more weddings, seen here through murky glass, are also remembered.
This evening we dined on tasty pork chops with apple sauce, flavoursome sage and onion stuffing; creamy swede and potato mash; crisp carrots, broccoli and green beans; and piquant cauliflower cheese. I finished the merlot, and Jackie abstained.
