Ramblings
Matthew, Tess, Poppy, and Becky travelled up to Redhill for a family gathering with Heidi, Emily, Oliver, Alice, Emily’s partner, Sam. This was physically and emotionally exhausting, yet supportive.
I have occasionally mentioned that I have given each of my children albums of their childhood photographs. They run to several large volumes. On our way home Becky produced what she considers her favourite ever photograph.
She and Michael were singing with the flowers in August 1971.
Matthew, Tess, and Poppy came to visit this morning. Becky and Ian followed on this afternoon.
I printed Matthew and Becky each a copy of this image of Michael being big brother taken from ‘The Hat’.
This afternoon we were visited by a very tame cock pheasant. Poppy named him ‘Lucky’.
This evening we dined on Hordle Chinese Take Away’s excellent fare, after which Becky and Ian drove home and the others stayed the night.
I had posted early this morning before Jackie and I twice attempted a drive. First we visited Barton on Sea where, at 10.30 a.m.,
the Isle of Wight looked as hazy as our minds.This, in fact, is the only photograph I took today as I could raise no enthusiasm.
This afternoon we travelled around the forest in glorious weather. It could have been dull and wet for all we knew. Between relevant telephone calls and our own reminiscences there was no respite from the thoughts of Michael’s death.
What we were experiencing was that, when locked in one of life’s time lapses, what becomes surreal is such as people walking their dogs along the coast or ponies cropping grass in their customary manner.
This evening we dined on Forest Tandoori’s excellent takeaway fare. My choice was king prawn Madras, while Jackie’s was chicken dopiaza. We shared poppadoms, a plain paratha, and special fried rice.
As will be no surprise to anyone who has read my last two posts, I have been dwelling on memories. Yesterday’s was one to treasure.
‘One Life Cut Short, Another Changed Forever’ will be known to longer term readers. It is forever linked with Michael’s life and death.
Jackie and I have been much heartened by the caring comments on yesterday’s post.
A number of people spoke of the good memories we would have. These have prompted me to provide links to two consecutive posts from 2014;‘Long Day’s Journey Into Night’ and ‘On The Road’, being a recounting of a trip to claim back my French house which I could not have done without Michael’s active support.
This is just one of many.
As Jackie and I set off for a drive this afternoon I received a phone call informing me of the death of Michael, my eldest son.
This was not expected. I can write no more now.
On another bright, almost balmy, morning, Jackie drove us out to Hatchet Pond and back.
Donkeys,
cattle,
and ponies, basked, dozed, chewed the cud, or cropped the grass on the approach to the pond. Eyes open or closed, they definitely think it’s spring.
Have the usual companions of the
sole cormorant on sentry duty
metamorphosed into a pair of swans gliding to and fro beside their posts?
Sedate gulls basked and preened on the opposite bank.
More ponies could be glimpsed among the still leafless trees within the nearby Rans Wood.
This evening we dined on rack of pork ribs in barbecue sauce, prawn toasts, aromatic spring rolls, and Jackie’s special savoury rice, with which she drank Hoegaarden, from which I abstained.
On this fine spring morning we took a trip to Mudeford.
Gulls lined up to welcome us as Jackie drove towards the quay.
A pair of serene cygnets sailed across the calm harbour, while a hunched egret tried to pass itself off as a gull.
Currents meeting on the open sea created spray-tipped turbulence
towards which a speedboat motored.
A silhouetted group was breaking up on the quayside,
with its usual stacks of crab pots, buoys, and ropes.
Along the coast at Avon Beach solitary walker ignored the spray, while, try as it might, by kicking up sand, a dog was unable to distract its owner from her mobile phone.
We continued into the forest where, in the vicinity of Burley, grey ponies dotted the landscape.
Having laboured up a steep hill, a trio of cyclists seemed relieved to coast down the other side.
When we returned home I ventured out into the garden for the first time since my surgery. During my tour I was delighted with the array of hellebores, cyclamens, and snowdrops that have proliferated in the last month.
This evening we dined on pork chops baked with English mustard and almonds from elsewhere; roast potatoes and parsnips; crunchy carrots and cauliflower; and tender runner beans with tasty gravy.
On a bright afternoon of sunshine and showers Jackie and I took a spin in the forest.
Various flocks of birds in different locations skimmed the clouds in the changing skies, taking rests atop the naked trees.
Cattle in a field alongside Bockhampton Road stood in a muddy, waterlogged field. As I watched
one, with the backing of another three, began a gentle crooning rendering of
Reflecting on the fact that there is no speed limit on Harpway Lane and other similar roads, Jackie pointed out that on a speed awareness course she had learned that this was because they had never had an accident. That was a little comforting to hear.
Beyond the hedge it was apparent that a farmer was branching out into a new kind of livestock.
This bank at Moyles Court School was just one example of a drift of snowdrops.
Ponies, as usual, occupied the green at South Gorley.
When these two made for my open window I decided to wind it up.
We continued on to Gorley Lynch where donkeys
and ponies kept the shrubberies in check;
and, until they heard the click of my shutter, there were a number of vantage points for observing distant deer.
The stream visible in the last of the deer shots flowed across one drive and reflected its bordering trees.
There is often limited passing space on the forest lanes. On the way up from the ford at Frogham we just sat and waited for this woman and her dog.
Back at home we dined on more of our Hordle Chinese Take Away meal from trays on our laps while we watched the recorded Six Nations rugby match between England and France.
This afternoon I watched the BBC broadcast of the Six Nations rugby match between Scotland and Ireland.
The following three paragraphs have been taken from http://www.beautifulbritain.co.uk/htm/outandabout/eyam.htm
The site contains more information and relevant details.
‘It’s hard to imagine that the quiet village of Eyam, off the A623 in Derbyshire, could have such a fascinating, yet tragic story to tell. But …. at the end of August 1665 bubonic plague arrived at the house of the village tailor George Viccars, via a parcel of cloth from London. The cloth was damp and was hung out in front of the fire to dry, thus releasing the plague infested fleas. On 7th September 1665, George Viccars, the first plague victim, died of a raging fever. As the plague took hold and decimated the villagers it was decided to hold the church services outdoors at nearby Cucklett Delf and, on the advice of rector William Mompesson and the previous incumbent Thomas Stanley, villagers stayed within the confines of the village to minimize the spread of the disease. Cucklett Delf was also the secret meeting place of sweethearts Emmott Sydall, from Eyam, and Rowland Torre, who was from a neighbouring village. They would call to each other across the rocks, until Emmott Sydall herself became a victim of the plague. Six of the eight Sydall family died, and their neighbours lost nine family members.
To minimize cross infection, food and other supplies were left outside the village, at either the Boundary Stones, or at Mompesson’s Well, high above the village. The Earl of Devonshire, who lived at Chatsworth House, freely donated food and medical supplies. For all other goods, money, as payment, was either purified by the running water in the well or was left in vinegar soaked holes. The Riley graves, close to Riley House Farm and approximately 1/2 mile from the village house the bodies of the husband and six children of farmer Elizabeth Hancock. All died within a week of each other. Because of the high risk of infecting her neighbours she had the traumatic task of burying them all herself. Even more tragic is that the infection probably came to her family when she helped bury another villager’s body. Twelve months after the death of George Vicars, the plague was still claiming its victims, and on 25th August 1666 Catherine Mompesson, wife of the recently appointed rector William Mompesson (aged 28) , died of the plague. She had loyally stayed with her husband and tended the sick, only to become a victim herself.
The Plague in Eyam raged for 14 months and claimed the lives of at least 260 villagers. By 1st November 1666 it had run its course and claimed its last victim. Eyam’s selfless villagers, with their strong Christian convictions, had shown immense personal courage and self sacrifice. They had prevented the plague from spreading to other parishes, but many paid the ultimate price for their commitment.’
It would be fascinating to know whether, when he wrote ‘The Plague’, Albert Camus, Algerian winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature, had known of the story of Eyam during the 17th Century bubonic plague. He has certainly written a convincing account of life during an enclosed confinement at the mercy of such a pestilence.
Camus stated of his work, first published in 1947 that ‘I wish to express through the plague the suffocation which we have all suffered, and the atmosphere of threat and exile in which we have lived.’ This is an undoubted reference to the German occupation of France. On a broader scale the book could be seen as a metaphor for any oppressive invasion.
As usual I will not reveal details of the tale. There is in fact very little plot, but the writer has evoked the initial disbelief, subsequent reluctant acceptance, psychological isolation, resignation, and despair of most, along with exhausting resistance of a few.
I have not read the original French of ‘La Peste’, but I believe Stuart Gilbert’s translation reflects the author’s flowing, insightful, prose.
My Folio Society edition of 1987, which I finished reading today contains an informative introduction by Derek Parker, and is illustrated with
Linda Kitson’s muscular drawings.
The essential difference between the English village and the town depicted by Camus is that of voluntary sacrifice and imposed isolation.
This evening we dined on Mr Chan’s excellent Hordle Chinese Take Away fare, on trays on our laps while we watched a recording of the earlier match between Wales and Italy.