Ramblings
This afternoon I watched women’s Wimbledon quarter-final matches between Venus Williams and Jelena Ostapenko, then a cracker between Johanna Konta and Simona Halep.
After this I took myself off to bed with a severe headache and a queasy stomach. I expect to be fully recovered tomorrow.
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Municipal planting has been one of the facilities offered by Local Authorities in these straitened times to have fallen by the wayside. In the metaphorical sense this is not true of New Forest District Council. Last autumn seeds were sown by the side of the A337 and covered with a protective netting. They have now sprung into life.
This is the location of the nearest site to our home, no more than a mile away.
We have been waiting an opportune moment to photograph the most amazing display that is currently swaying in the breeze and buzzing with bees.
Having feasted our eyes on these floral delights, we drove on to Barton on Sea to have a look at Christchurch Bay.
The unstable cliffs sign is not new,
but it has perhaps moved inland a little more.
Only the gliding gulls can travel over the clifftop with equanimity.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s marvellous boeuf bourguignon with swede and potato mash and mange touts. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden while I drank more of the Saint Emilion.
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This morning, while Jackie weeded and I cleared up, Aaron smoothed concrete edging around the greenhouse base and realigned a section of The Head Gardener’s Walk.
At the other end of the garden the recent plantings in the Oval Bed have matured;
honeysuckle swings among the day lilies and petunias in the Weeping Birch Bed;
Violas grimace appealingly in the barrier tubs;
in the Rose Garden lilies still sway beside the Potting Shed,
while potted petunias and bedded penstemons offer accompaniment to the roses.
The view across the centre of the garden from the Shady Path has been opened up.
Out of sight on the far side pink and white sweet peas climb for Bruce.
Similarly hued fuchsias dangle from a pot beside the Gazebo Path.
I’m sure we were not the only children who held buttercups to friends’ chins, asking “Do you like butter?”. If your chin glowed yellow, you did. If not, you didn’t. Noticing this bee’s pollen coated butt, I asked the question.
“I’m not listening to this”, cried the bee, buzzing off with alacrity
This evening we enjoyed a second sitting of Mr Chan’s fare, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank a delicious gold medal winning Saint Emilion grand cru, a birthday present from Danni and Andy.
After this, prompted by Becky, I watched the highlights of the fourth day of the Test Match between England and South Africa. This turned out to be a good call.
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It was very rash of me to assume that I would know the entirety of the group at our meal at Lal Quilla last night, and to predict what I would eat and drink.
On our entrance the staff, with their usual warm and friendly greeting, said that someone had telephoned the night before to add two people. We didn’t know anything about that, and in any case, Ian had made the booking. He had a quiet word with Raj and we were whisked to a larger pair of tables, according to the manager so we could spread ourselves out a bit. He presented us with a bottle of Beaujolais, so I did not drink Kingfisher. After a while I received a kiss on the cheek. Elizabeth had joined us. Soon afterwards, Danni and Andy came through the door. We were nine plus Poppy after all.
Finally, as we gathered ourselves to depart, a small cake with two lighted candles advanced towards our table followed by the entire staff group who led the family in singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to me.
I’ve no idea why I felt rather muzzy all day. I dozed through a bit of Wimbledon tennis on TV, and managed a little weeding, watering, eradicating a few brambles, and tidying up after Jackie’s work on the rose garden. We took a rest with water on the patio from which I enjoyed
This view across the Kitchen Bed with its day lilies in the foreground and verbenas in a hanging basket beyond;
pot planted petunias and geraniums over an erigeron carpet;
and self seeded mimuluses and feverfew.
A dahlia nods to the clematis on the wisteria arbour;
pink discias, red geraniums, and yellow bidens flow over the iron urn at the entrance to the Gazebo Path;
while blazing crocosmia Lucifer leads us into the Palm Bed.
As can be seen from this Special Anniversary rose, I haven’t dead-headed the Rose Garden today.
White solanum and a bright blue clematis stream down from the dead tree at the end of the Brick Path.
This evening we dined on Mr Chan’s Hordle Chinese Take Away with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank tap water.
The moral of this post is that when I say I will report on an outing the next day, I must not assume there will be no more surprises.
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My 75th birthday was very pleasurable. Matthew, Tess, and Poppy woke up here in the morning, and Shelley and Ron, Becky and Ian visited in the afternoon. We all sat in the garden after lunch.
The first present I opened was from Poppy, who had chosen it. A certain amount of self-interest was rapidly confirmed.
Our granddaughter provided her parents with their own party hats.
Matthew obligingly assembled a colourful bird house that Louisa and Errol had sent me. Poppy saw it as a handbag and commandeered it for a tour of the garden she undertook with Tess;
she was intrigued to be introduced to one of her floral namesakes,
and to many other blooms,
with some of which she picked and adorned herself.
This was one view of the Kitchen Bed,
and another seen across Margery’s Bed, each containing
a number of day lilies, some of which Jackie dug up for Tess along with several other plants.
This scene is beyond the Heligan Path bench.
Being a Kiwi, Tess was able to describe exactly how to propagate New Zealand flax, and to explain the haka.
[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yiKFYTFJ_kw&w=560&h=315]
The reason for this was that I understand that this war dance also represents other events such as courtship, and I had no idea whether the capers of the pigeons on our roof represented war or love.
Becky brought over a beautifully hand stitched and embroidered dress that her niece Poppy had left behind at her home. Poppy couldn’t wait to strip off and model it. This treasured possession had been made by Tess’s friend, Daphne Harris.
This evening, except for Shelly and Ron who had left earlier, we are all going to dine at Lal Quilla. Regular readers will understand that that means I will enjoy a hot curry and drink Kingfisher, and at the end of the meal will be past caring what anyone else consumed. Should anything out of the ordinary occur, I will report on that tomorrow.
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This morning Jackie drove me to Sears Barbers in Milford on Sea, where the affable Peter cut my hair as well as usual. We then continued into the forest.
Strong overhead sunlight dappled the autumn leaves carpet of the forest floor,
giving a spectral air to fallen trees
and their ripped out roots.
Even here, on the outskirts of Brockenhurst, cans can be casually discarded.
On the crossroads in the village itself two ponies and a foal deliberated which way to turn.
I walked around them to obtain better light, and the little one sought comfort and succour from its mother.
A young North American visitor stopped to ask me the way to The New Forest. I informed him that he was in it. He wondered where he could go for a day’s hike. I gave him some suggestions, one of which was that he should buy a map in the main street to which I directed him. He then asked “Are the ponies fat? Or perhaps pregnant?”. I suggested that the one he was looking at was probably pregnant, but also explained that because we had experienced such a mild winter they had found plenty of forage and were not as thin as they often were when the weather had been severe.
As we emerged from the village we saw a large group of ponies, foals,
and cattle grazing, flopping, and vying for shelter under the spreading branches of a mature oak.
Possibly in an effort to shake off the persistent flies
some of the horses shook themselves and strode frantically across the grass.
Other ponies disrupted the traffic as they sought shade by the roadside.
On Hordle Lane as we made our way home we had the pleasure of watching two concrete mixers negotiating a safe passage before we could continue on our own. I expect the drivers knew there was a ditch on the left-hand side.
Elizabeth came to lunch and Jackie plied us with a plentiful array of cold meats, cheeses, and salads, with which I drank more of the malbec and the ladies drank sparkling water.
After this, we visited Braxton Gardens and scoffed scone cream teas.
It should come as no surprise that further sustenance later on was surplus to requirements.
Whilst we were sitting in the garden we received a telephone call from Matthew to say that he, Tess, and Poppy would be arriving later tonight so that they can be with us on my 75th birthday tomorrow.
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This is the view from our bedroom window that got me staggering downstairs for a camera at 4.30 a.m.
Later on Jackie and I both tidied, weeded, and cleared sections of the garden, adding to the compost heap. Jackie then planted more flowers and I continued with ‘A Knight’s Tale’, extracting edited sections of ‘A Retirement Project’ and ‘Where’s The Tripod?’, yielding more experiences of the heyday of the cinema.
In the garden the marigolds and Black-eyed Susans cone has reached its peak.
Hemerocallis
and lilies,
especially these giants in the Rose Garden, flourish everywhere.
A new dahlia has popped up in the New Bed,
where pollen-laden bees plunder poppies, the seed pods of which produce nodding sculptures.
Schoolgirl rose bends in a bow in obeisance to Jacqueline du Pre against a backcloth of white Hawkshead fuchsia. I was lucky to get these shots in, because not long afterwards the Head Gardener had tied up the errant rose.
Visible in this view across to the New Bed
is a thriving potted hydrangea;
shifting the eye slightly to the left offers the view across the Concrete Patio.
The aptly named rose Summer Wine
and golden Summer Time soar over the Rose Garden.
In between further sessions of clearing up after the Head Gardener, I watched Wimbledon tennis match featuring Britons Heather Watson, Johanna Konta, and Andy Murray.
This evening we dined on cod fish cakes, ratatouille, Jersey potatoes, carrots, caiuliflower, and runner beans. And very tasty it all was. We both drank Cimarosa Reserva Privada sauvignon blanc 2016, which rather helped.
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Today, Jackie drove me to and from New Milton for me to travel to London for lunch with Norman. There was not one available seat on the train until I had a stroke of luck. In search of any possibility I walked through to the third packed carriage of the five that comprised this morning’s transport vehicle. Other hopeful travellers walked towards, and past, me in their own fruitless hunt. Suddenly a young man rose to his feet and retrieved a violin case from the luggage rack. He didn’t sit down again. In response to my enquiry he replied that he was leaving the train at the next stop. As I relaxed into position I reflected that, had he been my maternal grandfather, he would probably have uttered the rhetorical question: “would you be in my grave as quick?”.
Five more carriages were added at Southampton Central where we learned the reason for the crush. It was, of course, Wimbledon week. This also necessitated an additional stop for the tennis.
From Waterloo, I travelled by Jubilee and Metropolitan underground lines to Preston Road, and walked down that street to
The Preston, where Norman was waiting, and we each enjoyed the same acceptable lunch of gammon steaks followed by Eton messes. We shared an excellent bottle of Fico Grande Sangiovese, followed by lukewarm double espresso coffees. The one and a half staff on the bar did their pleasant very best.
On my outward journey I finished reading Alan Bennett’s ‘Keeping on Keeping on’.
This massive tome written in Bennett’s idiosyncratic style includes diaries from 2005 to 2015; short essays and newspaper articles; two playlets; and his experience of filming The Lady in the Van.
The diaries are fascinating for the author’s take on years still in my own memory. Of the plays I preferred ‘Denmark Hill’ ‘a darkly comic radio play set in suburban South London’ which has particular appeal for one who grew up in Wimbledon.
This is Wikipedia’s opening section on The Lady in the Van:
‘The Lady in the Van is a 2015 British[2] comedy-drama film directed by Nicholas Hytner, written by Alan Bennett, and starring Maggie Smith and Alex Jennings. It tells the true story of Mary Shepherd, an elderly woman who lived in a dilapidated van on Bennett’s driveway in London for 15 years.[5] Smith previously portrayed Shepherd twice: in the original 1999 theatrical production, which earned her a Best Actress nomination at the 2000 Olivier Awards[6] and in the 2009 BBC Radio 4 adaptation.[7]
Hytner directed the original stage production at the Queen’s Theatre in London, while Bennett adapted the screenplay from his 1999 West End play of the same name, which was nominated at the 2000 Olivier Awards for Play of the Year. The film was shown in the Special Presentations section of the 2015 Toronto International Film Festival[8] and received largely positive reviews from critics.’
Having seen and enjoyed this delightful film I was pleased to find the book closing with Bennett’s filming diary of the production.
The successful and versatile artist David Gentleman was a neighbour of Bennett’s when the author lived in Camden Town’s Gloucester Terrace. He has produced some charming vignettes for this section of the book.
My reading on the return journey was Spirit of Love by Ramanlal Morarjee. I am enjoying this novel and will comment further when I have finished it.
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I am beginning to find myself reminded by readers, of earlier posts that may have something to contribute to ‘A Knight’s Tale’. One of these was ‘Early Entertainment’, which provided quite rich material that I used in today’s update. Please keep the ideas flowing – I really can’t remember everything I’ve written.
Our general garden maintenance continued today on both sides of a trip to Efford Recycling Centre where we dumped more rotting IKEA wardrobe sections that have served a useful purpose up to now. we went on for a drive.
Standing beside a roundabout on the A337 out of Lymington we have often noticed three stag-headed figures standing either side of a five-barred gate. We knew that these heralded the entrance to
the site of an Iron Age Hill Fort.
Parking on a roundabout on a main road is not a good idea, so we had never stopped before. This time Jackie drove on a little way and parked in a side street from whence we walked back to investigate.
A gentleman with a dog was passing the sculptures
and walked on around a gentle incline.
Having read how far the walk to the top would be, Jackie opted to return to the car and let me check the lie of the land.
Or maybe the reason was the sight of a colony of descendants of Iron Age rabbits romping on the hillside.
In the event, the steeply undulating nature of the paths riddled with tree roots suggested that this had been a good idea.
On the way up, a sign informed us that young people had transformed a disused sand quarry into a sledge run. The area is apparently packed with tobogganists whenever there is sufficient snow.
What was once farmland around the fort is now densely wooded. Through the trees I glimpsed the roof of what I later discovered to be
Not far from there lay a shallow set of steps leading to
a broad open plateau that had been the centre of the fort.
This was grazed by a cow and her calf.
The logs just visible in the steps picture are designed to prevent people parking on the hallowed ground. There is a car park alongside.
I was informed how to reach that from the road by another gentleman walking his dog.
Taking an easy route down the hill I watched a crow sweep across the grass tops,
and banged my head on a low branch.
Quite sensibly, Jackie declined to investigate the car park, and we went home.
Wikipedia has an informative entry on this historic site: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Buckland_Rings
This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy penne pasta arrabbiata with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank Parra Alta Malbec 2016.
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Aaron of AP Maintenance does not hang about. Skilled, patient, and thorough, our friend nevertheless manages to work at an amazing rate. He will tackle anything in the garden that you ask.
This morning’s exceptional effort was no exception to his general rule. In less than three hours he had laid a seven foot square stone base for our anticipated greenhouse.
First, the area from which he had already removed a tree needed to be cleared of bits of rubble
and some plants.
The outline was then cut clear
and swept.
A dry mix of sand and cement was applied, to form a bed for the stones.
Everything was carefully measured,
with a spirit level regularly employed.
A final sweep added the cement bond into the crevices between stones.
Observant readers will have noticed the roll-up behind the craftsman’s right ear. We keep him plied with mugs of tea which he usually allows to cool before he drinks on the go. Otherwise the only breaks he takes are of the length it takes to smoke one of the cigarettes. Today he was so engrossed in what he was doing that he forgot all about the smoke.
This is the current view of the path alongside the kitchen window, as it awaits delivery of the greenhouse. The white patch at the end is the stone base.
Aaron mixed the sand and cement at the end of the Back Drive and transported it to this corner in a wheelbarrow, as he did with the heavy stone slabs. In passing he had every opportunity to make the acquaintance of the
rabbit on the grass.
The Head Gardener, however, was more enamoured with the birds of Somerset she had brought back from her brief holiday.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s super-spicy pasta arrabbiata with which I drank more of the Fleurie. Jackie didn’t imbibe because she had finished her Hoegaarden on the patio beforehand.
