Month: November 2019

A Little Autumn Colour

For the last couple of days marauding rooks have raided Nugget’s robin feeder, ripped it off the Japanese maple, and robbed him of his food.

Jackie has baffled the thieves with a pair of hanging basket frames.

In contrast to yesterday’s dismal weather, today was clear, bright, and cold, taking every opportunity to display a little autumn colour.

Here is Margery’s Bed seen from the Cryptomeria Bed,

and sculpture Florence’s view of the house.

Weeping Birch leaves still linger

and the white solanum goes on forever.

 

Some Japanese maples have retained their leaves,

others have carpeted the lawn and paths with them.

The last scene above can be seen from the Fiveways end of the Phantom Path.

Jackie focussed on the grasses in the Palm Bed named for

the Cordeline Australis which is in fact evergreen.

Mrs Popple is one of the hardier fuchsias,

another of which, Delta’s Sarah, still attracts no doubt confused bees.

A number of pelargoniums still look down from hanging baskets, like this overlooking the Dragon bed in which

Ivy twines herself around one of the eponymous mythological figures.

Jackie spent much of the morning trying not to tread on Nugget while they were cobbling together a winter cold frame.

“Where’s Nugget?” (44a and 44b)

Wherever she moved to another location he was there first. Fortunately she took her camera.

“Where’s Nugget?” (44c and 44d)

Jackie also focussed on a sparrow with,

a pied wagtail,

and a white wagtail on the rooftop. I trust one of our birder readers will correct any errors in identification.

Late this afternoon Elizabeth visited to gather up bags of files that had remained in our single spare room since she moved out last year. She stayed for dinner which consisted of chicken marinaded in mango and chilli sauce; savoury rice topped with an omelette; and tender runner beans. My sister finished the Cotes du Rhone and I drank Chateau Berdillot Cotes de  Bourg 2018, while Jackie abstained.

 

 

 

 

Wetter Than Expected

My plan this morning was to walk along Bisterne Close for half an hour after which Jackie, having dropped me at one end, would follow and pick me up. In gloomy morning light and light drizzle we set off.

The War Memorial in Everton Road, Hordle, had been prepared for tomorrow’s Armistice Day.

The commemorative bench bears stylised pale red poppies and pure white doves of peace.

More poppies grace fences and

freshly mown grass.

By the time we reached Holmsley Passage the drizzle had increased to light rain which

gave ponies a somewhat more than bedraggled look.

Soon the rain had developed deluge dimensions. My readers will know by now that I don’t know when to give up, so we continued to

Bisterne Close.

 

Listening to the increasingly tympanic pattering of raindrops drumming onto the trees, dripping off the leaves, and thudding onto the shoulders of my porous allegedly damp-proof raincoat; peering through specs lacking windscreen wipers, through which I couldn’t clearly see my viewfinder I captured what woodland scenes I could.

Autumn leaves, above

or below, glistened with precipitation.

I resisted the temptation to ask a horse chomping hay for the loan of its cheerful rug.

Here, as on much of the forest terrain, pools were appearing.

Autumn leaves submerged beneath the water where raindrops floated on muddy surfaces until bursting into spiralling increasing circles. I stuffed my specs into my pocket and attempted to employ my dampened eyelashes to provide clear vision.

Fallen trees and their branches, both recent

and longer-lying, settled into their task of maintaining the ancient forest ecology.

while others, now dead, did their bit while still standing.

Some trees sent tentacles in search of rooting soil.

Such bracken as had not yet gathered a fully autumnal appearance was turning nicely.

Well fed birds have not yet been tempted to strip the hollies of their berries.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy pork paprika, savoury vegetable rice, and tender runner beans with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Cotes du Rhone.

 

 

An Evocation

After yesterday’s long trip we took it easy today.

I finished reading

The front and back of the jacket are from a painting by the author’s father, Ulric van den Bogaerde created in 1934.

In this book Dirk Bogarde returns to the years from 1927 to 1934 visited fleetingly in the first part of his autobiography ‘A Postillion Struck by Lightning’. The work really does evoke that period of a largely idyllic childhood. In his author’s note, the author, no doubt very fairly, credits Fanny Blake as ‘the most valiant of editors’ with having ‘wrestled hard and long with [his] deliberately limited vocabulary.’ It is this naive vocabulary and verbal style that is the greatest charm of this volume, conveying the very sense of the young boy who published, courtesy of the Viking branch of Penguin Books, this evocation in 1992 – so many years after the depicted events. Bogarde’s fluency and facility with description nevertheless shines through, as he expands on his early childhood.

The monochrome full page pictures among the text

 

retain Mr. Bogarde’s lightness of touch.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy pork paprika with savoury rice. I drank Séguret Cotes du Rhone Villages 2018 while Mrs Knight abstained.

 

Protective Pruning

This morning dawned bright and comparatively cold, but work in the Rose Garden could still be carried out in shirt sleeves.

Here Jackie prunes Mama Mia which had already been trimmed a short while ago. These photographs  show the new shoots persisting – but they had to go before winter winds rocked the stems and loosened their roots.

Climbers escaped the treatment, allowing their hips to colour the arch. One white Madame Alfred Cariere bloom has survived.

Nugget, of course, shot down to investigate. Muggle kept a low profile in the larch.

Late this afternoon Jackie drove us to Emsworth where we dined at Durbar Indian restaurant with Becky and Ian.

We stopped at Everton village shop and Post Office to post a package to Australia.

Here is the village poppy display.

Jackie thinks this cloud formation ahead of us on the M27 indicates a spell of cold whether. Can anyone confirm this?

We were almost an hour early for our 6 p.m. date. Then we hit this roadworks queue which occupied a little time.

The mogul inspired restaurant is excellent and rather out of the ordinary. We shared rices, a paratha, and onion bahjis. My main course was Goan pork vindaloo; Jackie’s, paneer tikka; Becky’s, chicken biriani; and Ian’s, another mild chicken dish. Our son-in-law and I drank Cobra, his wife drank rosé wine, and Jackie drank Kingfisher. The food was very well cooked and the service exemplary.

It Didn’t Seem Politic

The best light of the day was forecast to be seen this morning. And so it proved.

Fairly early on we drove to Tesco’s for petrol; to New Milton Post Office for currency exchange and Christmas stamps; and to Brockenhurst, where, in common with New Milton,

poppies ahead of Armistice Day adorn the lampposts, before making our leisurely way to Hockeys farm shop for lunch.

Our first pause was at Wilverley where a pair of pensive ponies beside the road from Wootton paid no attention to two walkers on the opposite side –

they were more interested in their necking session.

Meanwhile a friendly horse rider emerged from the

 

autumn landscape,

more of which was seen in the forest scenes on either side of

Roger Penny Way.

Jackie decided that I blended in rather well with the environment.

Having, tentatively as always, in second gear, scaled Blissford Hill we encountered a shaggy calf using a scratching post beside Hyde Parish Hall.

Coming across a band of bulls further along the road I speculated about which one may be the father.

Somehow it didn’t seem politic to enquire too closely into the infant’s parentage.

This evening we dined on spicy pizza and plentiful fresh salad with which I finished the Merlot and Jackie didn’t.

 

Where’s It All Gone?

Apart from a brief spell of red-gold sunshine enlivening the last of the Weeping Birch leaves we worked in drizzling rain on the final heavy pruning in the Rose Garden. It is very sad to cut off healthy buds in an effort to ensure the plants’ winter security.

This does, however, bring the bonus of cut flowers such as

Absolutely Fabulous rose of a couple of days ago

and today’s For Your Eyes Only roses and Mrs Popple fuchsia . Otherwise Jackie doesn’t pick her own flowers.

Despite the fact that I filled the bird feeders, Nugget, paying us a visit demonstrated his preference for live worms. Watching the rapid disappearance of this one I wondered “Where’s it all gone?”.

Now, “Where’s Nugget?” (43).

Flitting from larch

to hawthorn, Muggle kept to his own quarters.

The Rainbow Blessing

This afternoon we drove into the forest, making use of the day’s changing light.

In contrast to the recent gales, the winds were so slow that the sun, albeit bright, would remain behind covering clouds for an age.

Although the distant Portsmouth’s Spinnaker Tower was well lit, the near Tanners Lane’s breakwater was not.

The skyscapes above the Isle of Wight reflected this, until

weak sun was briefly glimpsed.

We crept along Sowley Lane through which a string of dithering donkeys threaded their way;

one stopped for a scratch;

one toddler demanded its dinner;

another paused to chew on a stick.

As we approached St Leonards Grange

the road and its surrounding landscape were burnished by the brighter sun.

With showers of rain added to the mix rainbows separated trees and

blessed at least one of the jackdaw couples pairing off on the ancient granary roof.

Another two preferred the view from one of the ruin’s windows.

This evening Elizabeth joined us for dinner which consisted of succulent roast lamb; crisp roast potatoes, parsnips, and Yorkshire pudding; sage and onion stuffing; crunchy carrots, broccoli, and cauliflower; winter greens; tender runner beans; and tasty gravy, followed by Mississippi mud pie. My sister and I finished the Fleurie and I began a Concha y Toro Casillero del Diablo 2018. Jackie drank Hoegaarden.

 

Swooping And Squabbling

All was still and bright in the garden today when we began the post-storm recovery.

We didn’t manage the patio area, which won’t take long tomorrow.

Aaron righted the Rose Garden arch, with minimal discomfort to Crown Princess Margareta and Zefirini Drouhin.

The Phantom Path;

the Gazebo Path;

views from the Kitchen Bed,

from the Shady Path,

from the Palm Bed,

towards the Rose Garden from the corner of the Phantom Path, are now less cluttered.

Some hanging baskets, like these suspended from the eucalyptus, have been righted.

In order to prevent loosening of the rose roots from further winds, Jackie has begun their winter pruning.

Nugget, of course, could not keep his beak out of the process. Yes – he and Muggle are both alive and well.

“Where’s Nugget?” (42)

Late this afternoon we took a drive into the forest. Given that a woman had been killed not far away yesterday by a tree falling on her car it had been a good decision not to risk it ourselves.

Moody skycapes loomed above Beaulieu Heath

and Hatchet Pond,

casting reflections on the water

over which greedy gulls swooped and squabbled.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s especially spicy lamb jalfrezi with pilau rice, vegetable samosas, and plain parathas with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Fleurie.

It’s An Ill Wind……..

We are in direct line from The Needles off the Isle of Wight. The heaviest gust of wind overnight sweeping through these iconic rocks was recorded at 109 miles per hour. Even this morning rains continued and the wind speeds were in excess of 70 m.p.h.

This was definitely a day for staying indoors and watching the Rugby World Cup final between England and South Africa.

Jackie braved the elements with her camera while I sat tensely on the TV sofa. After the match I made my contribution to the damp photography.

The weeping birch whipped across the sky in the direction of the crouching Cryptomeria.

The kitchen window wept.

Numerous flower pots had been thrown aside.

We had lain down all the patio furniture as a precaution. The white metal table, having been placed face to the ground had been picked up and tossed across the space.

In the Rose Garden the firmly fixed corner arch had toppled over.

Both Crown Princess Margareta

and Zefirini Drouhin still cling to their support, which we think in will be possible to right.

Even the compost bins have been wrecked.

Today it was an ill wind…… except for South Africa.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy lamb jalfrezi and pilau rice with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank Patrick Chodot Fleurie 2018.

I Can’t Stay Long

Today was another dull, wet, day.

Seated on the sofa, I lunched on scrambled egg and toast while watching the Rugby World Cup third place play off between Wales and New Zealand. It was a very good match, albeit no doubt rather an anti-climax for these two losing semi-finalists.

This afternoon I finished reading ‘I Can’t Stay Long’, a selection of

Laurie Lee’s essays. This portrait of the author by William Thompson forms the frontispiece of my 1975 edition published by Andre Deutsch.

Here is the biography presented by Britannica.com.

‘Laurie Lee, (born June 26, 1914, Slad, near Stroud, Gloucestershire, England—died May 13, 1997, Slad), English poet and prose writer best known for Cider with Rosie (1959), a memoir of the author’s boyhood in the Cotswold countryside.Educated in his home village and in nearby Stroud, Lee eventually moved to London and traveled in Spain in the mid-1930s. Upon his return to England, he worked as a film scriptwriter (1940–43) and as an editor for the Ministry of Information (1944–45). Lee published several volumes of poetry in the 1940s and ’50s, but he achieved little recognition until his autobiographical book Cider with Rosie (U.S. title The Edge of Day) was published by Leonard Woolf in 1959. Cider with Rosie became an instant classic and was widely read in British schools. An account of Lee’s happy childhood in a secluded village, the book nostalgically evokes the simplicity and innocence of a vanished rural world.Lee wrote two more volumes of what became an autobiographical trilogy, As I Walked Out One Midsummer Morning (1969), a description of his walk to London and then across Spain just prior to that country’s civil war; and A Moment of War (1991), an account of his experiences in Spain during that war. Lee’s other works included the poetry collections The Sun My Monument (1944), The Bloom of Candles (1947), and My Many-Coated Man (1955) and a collection of stories, I Can’t Stay Long (1976).’ My first edition of this latter publication attests to the fact that it was published the year before this extracts states.
1959 was the year before I left school. I was one of those who read the instant classic that was ‘Cider with Rosie’ – but, I think, a little after 1960. ‘I Can’t Stay Long’ is presented in three parts, each one introduced with a decoration by Susan Campbell.
relates to periods of the author’s childhood;is more philosophical, presenting the author’s views on love, appetite, charm, paradise, and parenthood; and culminating in a compassionate and insightful visit to Aberfan the year after ‘the village lost its children’. I feature this terrible disaster in my post: https://derrickjknight.com/2015/12/05/aberfan/is a set of travelling stories. It is in these in particular that Lee’s splendid poetic eloquence is given full rein. Like a rich Christmas pudding filled to capacity with glazed fruits, nutritious nuts, and silver sixpences, the author’s fluent and elegant prose is packed with simile, metaphor, alliteration; amplified with appropriate adverbs and adjectives, yet nothing superfluous. He writes like the poet he is, managing to reflect the varied atmospheres, pace of life and people encountered. Contrasting ‘A Wake in [communist] Warsaw’, including the barren journey to reach the town, with the lively, yet languorous ‘ Sugar Islands’ of the West Indies, or the self indulgent sybaritic exploitation of ‘A Festive Occasion’ at Cannes, all demonstrate Laurie Lee’s keen ear and observation.This evening we dined on tasty pork cutlets; roast potatoes, chestnut mushrooms, and Yorkshire pudding; tender greens, and crunchy carrots, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden while I drank more of the Fronton.