November 2017 – derrickjknight

“You Can’t Keep A Good Brit Down”

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This morning we drove to New Milton to buy Jackie a bag to carry her overnight stay requirements for our trip to Bicester tomorrow. We then continued to Friars Cliff where we brunched in the Beach Hut Café.

There are two rows of beach huts there – one on the promenade above the beach level, and the other further down. These colourful buildings brighten such areas.

This dog walker had probably made his way from Avon beach, curving away in the distance..

Long shadows were evident even just before midday.

A gull perched on a post catching what warmth there was from the sun piercing the clouds.

Dogs frolicked

and their owners

crossed each other’s paths

on the sand.

At one end of the lower level of beach huts

sat a couple of women, so well insulated from the chill air that Jackie cried “You can’t keep a good Brit down”, which they appreciated.

On the way home .we diverted to Mudeford

where gulls paddled in the shallows at low tide.

Of the several boats

tethered or grounded

in the harbour one was overturned.

Others fronted the moored yachts

and the quayside buildings.

Branches were spectacles on the sand.

On the sea front’,

having missed the boat that was stocking crabs on the van for Brixham,

hopeful

young starlings,

gathered

for possible treats;

they would have enjoyed the great slabs of Spanish omelette that Jackie conjured from the seemingly entire contents of a greengrocer’s stall bound by the massed clutches of multiple brooding hens. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the malbec.

Was It Something In The Water?

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This morning was spent Christmas shopping in New Milton and in Brockenhurst

Jackie parked the car in Butts Lane, Brockenhurs and I walked alongside the stream beside it.

At the far end a ford leads to Park Close. The water level gauge shows

it is quite shallow at this point.

Vehicles are able to cross easily, and send ripples along the waterway.

Trees,

buildings,

and fences rippled in the water.

Wild rose hips wound over the wooden bridge rails.

A chaffinch took advantage of shrubbery camouflage,

spanning the stream.

This didn’t conceal a wood pigeon.

Perhaps this bird had lost a feather.

Jumping jackdaws scratched around on the bank.

Although I saw no birds in the stream, the pigeon had a bath in,

and the jackdaws drank from, a pool beside a house. Was it something in the water?

This evening we dined on barbecued pork spare ribs, prawn toasts, and Jackie’s exceedingly savoury rice. She drank more of the sauvignon blanc and I drank Mendoza Parra Alta malbec 2016.

On The Trail

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At first light this morning Jackie drove us down to the clifftop at Milford on Sea to watch the sunrise.

The forest behind the Isle of Wight and The Needles was a bank of clouds. The lighthouse blinked.

Soon

a pink lining

came into view

over

to the east.

Just two lone walkers

braved the two degrees centigrade temperature at 7 a.m.

This afternoon we visited the New Milton toy shop to investigate Christmas presents, and decided that we needed parental advice.

Afterwards we drove into the forest.

On the way down Holmsley Passage Jackie spotted

a string of ponies

crossing a ridge. Watch the wavy lines in the bracken to the right.

She parked

beside the stream on the lowest part of the lane, while I watched

as the ponies

dropped onto

what was a trail

they had regularly trodden.

It was fortunate

for me that there were a couple of greys to help me pick them out against the bracken

or, as they reached level ground, among the trees.

The black leader came into view and investigated the road;

when it was pronounced clear, the others followed

and were led

past

a delighted Jackie

in the car.

Having crossed to the other side

they reappeared on higher ground.

Further on, up the road to Clay Hill reflections in the calm pool

were clear and bright.

On our return the sun was setting over Holmsley;

blazing clouds shrouded Wootton Common,

where the moon was in the ascendancy.

Trellises of tree branches

screened the pink and indigo backcloth.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s wonderful savoury rice forming a bed for tempura prawns. We both drank Maison Castel Touraine sauvignon blanc 2015.

The Age Of Chivalry

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Today began with leaden skies and raindrops on windows.

Even owls, dripped on from branches above, peered enviously inside.

Late this afternoon, when the rain had desisted somewhat, we took a car load of rubbish, that we had ourselves recycled once or twice already, to Efford Recycling Centre; and returned with two mirrors for the garden, a bar stool, and a Chinese rug.

Back in the early 1970s, I discovered the English book illustrator Frank C. Papé, and, through him, the American writer, James Branch Cabell, in the illustrated editions produced by The Bodley Head in the early 20th century. I have already featured ‘The Cream of the Jest’, and today, as I finished reading ‘Domnei: a Comedy of Woman-Worship’, offer more information on the collaborators.

On the author, Wikipedia tells us:

‘James Branch Cabell (/ˈkæbəl/; April 14, 1879 – May 5, 1958) was an American author of fantasy fiction and belles lettres. Cabell was well regarded by his contemporaries, including H. L. Mencken, Edmund Wilson, and Sinclair Lewis. His works were considered escapist and fit well in the culture of the 1920s, when they were most popular. For Cabell, veracity was “the one unpardonable sin, not merely against art, but against human welfare.”^[1]^[2]

Although escapist, Cabell’s works are ironic and satirical. H. L. Mencken disputed Cabell’s claim to romanticism and characterized him as “really the most acidulous of all the anti-romantics. His gaudy heroes … chase dragons precisely as stockbrockers play golf.” Cabell saw art as an escape from life, but once the artist creates his ideal world, he finds that it is made up of the same elements that make the real one.’

There is much more information on his life and works on this link ^[1]’

Maybe I’m too gullible, but I found this work an enthralling fantasy of an imagined love story from the age of chivalry. There are a number of cynical characters, and we are invited to believe it is based on fragments of a Medieval manuscript. Obviously the source is spurious, and it is perhaps significant that the only uncut pages are the last two of the alleged bibliography. Nevertheless the romantic in me was enjoyably engaged with this readable story, details of which I will not reveal. The language is of the writer’s time, yet following the form of a 14th century geste. The descriptions of the natural world are beautifully done.

The artist is perfectly in tune with the writer, Clicking on the numbered highlight in the following paragraph will take you to the fuller Wikipedia page about him.

‘Frank Cheyne Papé, who generally signed himself Frank C. Papé (b. Camberwell, July 4, 1878 – d. Bedford, May 5, 1972) was an English artist and book illustrator. He studied at The Slade School of Fine Art, completing his studies circa 1902-04.^[1] Papé was married to a fellow Slade student, illustrator Alice Stringer.’

Papé’s distinctive style ensured his popularity in the golden age of book illustration. He has a mastery of line and form.

Domnei, first published in 1913, underwent several revisions before the first illustrated edition of 1930, of which my copy is one.

Of the ten plates protected by tissue sheets, we begin with the frontispiece;

thereafter I have chosen samples of chiaroscuro elegance;

of drollery;

and of excellent composition, with an ability to indicate the effect of passing time on a still beautiful woman. We can well believe this is the lady in the second picture above.

Each of the thirty short chapters is introduced

by a framed picture illustrating its first page.

These are minutely faithful to the text.

I cannot elaborate on this without giving too much away.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s supreme lamb jalfrezi, savoury rice, and vegetable samosas. I finished the malbec.

Happy Campers

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This morning and early afternoon I watched the three autumn international rugby matches I had recorded yesterday.

Given that the best light had departed when the recordings were finished, it seemed appropriate later to publish the Newark photographs scanned on 22nd.

One afternoon in May 1993 Sam, in the blue T-shirt, as was his wont, gathered a few friends around him in the garden of Lindum House. To his left, in ascending order of height, are Matthew S, Richard, and James B. I think Warren swings in the hammock.

Paddy, who we saved from imminent death in the R.S.P.C.A. rescue centre, here converses with Richard and Gavin. Making up for stepping out of shot in this image,

Matthew S poses with his scooter.

James B has joined Warren in the hammock. Three of the tents pitched in the orchard are in the background. James lived in the Working Men’s Club next door.

These two stayed put whilst

the others positioned the picnic table removed from the lawn for service in this adventurous campsite.

James stirred himself, but Warren appears to be directing proceedings from his bed.

Perhaps it is because James

is a few years older than the others

than the others that he takes care of the brick-bound camp fire,

turning back when satisfied all is well.

Warren follows on,

and catering planning recommences.

All Sam and Louisa’s local friends would spend many happy days on projects in our garden. James once counted 25 birds’ nests. I have forgiven him for thinking that Louisa was my granddaughter when we first arrived.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s deliciously spicy lamb jalfrezi and pilau rice with which I drank more of the malbec.

It Wouldn’t Go Away

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A glance at the sitting room floor this morning

set me chasing shadows, there;

across the kitchen table

and floor;

on the patio;

along the Gazebo Path;

beside the Cryptomeria Bed;

across the grass;

beside the outlet for the heating system steam;

along the Head Gardener’s Walk,

and the Brick Path.

Normally I work hard to exclude my own shadow, but it wouldn’t go away.

Late this afternoon we drove out to Mudeford, where

the Isle of Wight and The Needles benefited from the clear light,

as did holiday homes and beach huts.

Two gentlemen wheeled their boat onto dry land.

Distant rain clouds released their precipitation,

while those over the harbour displayed silver linings.

We motored on into the forest. Sheep in a field alongside Snails Lane, Ringwood, basked in the last rays of the sun.

By the time we reached Abbotswell

dusk had arrived

bringing a pink trim

to soft mink clouds.

This evening we dined on succulent pork chops served with tasty Lincolnshire pork sausages on a bed of mushrooms, peppers, and mushrooms; cauliflower in cheese sauce; mashed potato and swede; and green beans. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the malbec.

A Touch Of The Sun

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Our old friend Giles came to lunch. His importance is not just that he is one of my oldest friends, but that he shares memories from the first time Jackie and I were married. We enjoyed a couple of hours of conversation before he left.

Later, we drove out to the forest in a last minute attempt to catch the sunset. We were a little late for that, but enjoyed the skies soon afterwards.

By the time I had emerged from the car at Goatspen, just outside Holmsley, the bird that had been perched atop a tree took off and aimed for another

where it took up residence with a companion. The recent winds have seen off the last of the leaves.

As can be seen here,

clear skies at dusk retain a touch of the sun, especially when clouds take on a mountainous form.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s excellent chilli con carne with egg savoury rice. I drank more of the malbec.

The Photo Shoot

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Yesterday I expressed m intention to published the prints from Newark 1993. Today I changed my mind. I decided to hold them in reserve for the next dull day. This could have been one. But it wasn’t. It was one of bright, crisp, sunshine.

Jackie continued potting up

cuttings

in the greenhouse.

After lunch, she drove us to Boscombe and back.

We stopped within sight of the pier.

As I walked down the slope, a young woman walked up.

A boat, approaching from the left, skirted the structure stretching seaward. Was it a lifeboat? The water was certainly rough enough for someone to be in trouble.

At the bottom of the slope two sculptures, one in a garden,

and another on Undercliff Drive, caught m attention.

I then had the serendipitous good fortune

to gatecrash

a photo shoot

conducted by

three delightful

young ladies. The third, given that she was carrying out the same role as me, is not in shot.

As we left this suburb of Bournemouth, the skies gave promise of the good sunset we were to witness later.

Despite a propensity to allow his exuberance to take him swerving all over the road,

this joyful cyclist, seen here approaching Hengistbury Head, kept up a good 20 m.p.h. We parted company with him as he wheeled onto the footpath leading up the headland.

The sunset was ripe

outside Burley;

the murmuration of starlings swirling over Holmsley was a sweeping cloud formation;

the crescent moon exchanged places with its daytime counterpart.

This evening we dined at The Monkey House pub just outside Lymington. The establishment was as packed as ever, demonstrating its quality and the friendliness of the staff. Jackie enjoyed prawn cocktail and gammon steak. My choice was whitebait followed by rib-eye steak. Everything excellently cooked. Jackie drank Amstell and I drank Flack’s Double Drop

Almost Blown Away

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James, of Peacock Computers, visited to examine the iMac, and took it away to restore it to working order. In anticipation of the Apple’s removal, I had scanned a set of photographic prints from May 1993 onto the Windows laptop. We had also thought the weather would be bad this afternoon and I would be able to use these to illustrate today’s post. In the event, the sun shone and the winds were high enough, at more than 50 m.p.h. to suggest a trip into the forest. The 1993 set will appear tomorrow.

A short distance outside East End cattle grazed on a hillside that was topped by an oak tree sporting a car tyre.

The little falabella pony which

sometimes joins its cousins outside St Leonard’s Grange,

spent its time crossing from one side of the road to the other.

Another just stayed in the road.

When we reached this point, one of the ruins of the granary was nicely silhouetted

against the lowering sun, bestowing a sepia tone.

We continued along the road, intending to return for sunset. Pheasants chased each other across the lanes and the autumnal fields.

On our return golden streaks stretched along the sky.

We took a diversion down Tanners Lane on our journey home. Those streaks had deepened over the Isle of Wight.

The winds pressed so strongly against the car door that it felt as if it was close to a wall. Just one other vehicle was parked in front of us. Perhaps it belonged to the windsurfer

who skimmed over the choppiest waves we have ever seen there,

constantly changing

direction, and almost blown away.

This evening we dined on Jackie;s gorgeously spicy chilli con carne, with her most savoury rice wearing an omelette jacket. She drank Hoegaarden and I drank Mendoza Parra Alta malbec 2016.

Paddington Basin Development

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I enjoyed another thrilling day wrestling with technology. After a few hours last night the iMac update ground to a halt. First thing this morning I phoned Apple again and got started once more. Today the process continued for a little longer, but again took an unwelcome rest. James Peacock, my local consultant is going to have to come and collect it.

My next task was to order and pay for Christmas presents from the Disney Store. The nearest was in Southampton. They had four of the main item in stock. They couldn’t accept payment over the phone; and they could not save an item for us. I could buy the present on line. I went on line. The item was not included in their pages. I’ll leave that one there.

I am due possible laser surgery on my left eye. I need to book the appointment on line. Apparently this is an easy process. It didn’t prove to be. Each time I typed the address given on my form, I landed on Google explanatory pages. I’ve no idea how I managed it, but I did eventually arrive at the booking system, and obtained the first available NHS appointment. This is in April.

Not to be deterred from my determination to illustrate this post, I transported my Windows laptop to my Epson scanner, and set about scanning my next batch of colour slides from the Streets of London series, produced in May 2005.

Everything was correctly plugged in, but no scanner icon appeared on the screen. Further investigation revealed the message that the driver was unavailable. Given that I thought I was the driver, that seemed at first to be out of order. Further head scratching made me realise that I had never used the ten year old scanner on this laptop. From the depths of my memory I remembered that a CD contained the relevant software. I found it. Things were looking up. This ancient bit of kit loaded perfectly, and I was up and running.

Sheldon Square, W2 has appeared before, especially featuring the other realistic sculpture walking towards this chap standing on the left.

Neither of the two shirted gentlemen will ever be provided with an umbrella like the real live woman walking towards us.

This sculptural group is not striving to hoodwink passers by. Much of the paving in this up-market development was, in my view, laid too soon to allow sufficient settlement. There also appears to be a dearth of drainage. Pools are the result.

My counselling room in Beauchamp Lodge enabled me to look across the Harrow Road roundabout

and the flyover

that spans the canal

and the edge of the square.

I was able to watch cars, vans,

industrial vehicles,

and bendy buses travelling along Harrow Road or the A40. What could easily be mistaken for two red buses is in fact one. Bendy is the colloquial name for articulated buses. They were introduced into London in 2001, some 20 years after several other countries. Most Londoners would probably agree with Boris Johnson who believed they were unsuitable for the city. They were all withdrawn by the end of 2011. I believe that Sadiq Khan, the current mayor of London is being urged to bring them back. As a fairly frequent traveller on this method of transport I observed many people securing a free ride. It was possible to enter the bus by means of the exit door situated at the centre join. The buses are operated by a single person who, with so many standing passengers, had no chance of preventing this abuse.

Blomfield Road, W9 forms a junction with Warwick Avenue which leads up towards the huge roundabout featured above.

The grand terraces of Park Place Villas and St Mary’s Terrace stand in stark contrast to the buildings shown at the start of this post.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s smoked haddock, piquant cauliflower cheese, creamy mashed swede and potato; with runner beans and carrots for a splash of colour. I finished the cabernet sauvignon.