Month: January 2020

Lunch At Steff’s Kitchen

Late this morning Jackie drove us to Fairweather’s Garden Centre in Beaulieu where we met Danni, Andy, Ella, and Elizabeth for lunch in Steff’s Kitchen.

The various trees in pools on the road from Brockenhurst were thoroughly irrigated.

Beaulieu Lake was also very full, to the satisfaction of the numerous swans.

Ella enjoyed playing games with her Dad, in particular practising her pointing,

which she also did with me.

We exchanged Christmas presents which, had we been well enough, was planned to have taken place on New Year’s Day. Later, Danni e-mailed photographs of our great niece playing with the one we had given her. I will publish those tomorrow.

Even when Ella had pinched a chip from Andy she worked hard to place it in her bowl before eating it.

Elizabeth and I both chose roast beef dinners; Jackie selected soup and a sandwich; Andy chose something and chips;

Danni enjoyed a potato tortilla.

Ginormous cakes, carrot for Danni,

and Victoria sponge for Jackie, needed to be shared out a bit.

Danni gave Elizabeth a taste of hers,

some of which found its way to Ella’s cheeks.

I was treated to more of this, and to half of Jackie’s.

After a tour round the well stocked shop we all drove to Elizabeth’s for another hour or so of enjoyable conversation.

As we drove along Lyndhurst Road out of Beaulieu,

a bright sun was making determined efforts to climb above scudding clouds.

There are a considerable number of Shetland ponies about at the moment. I counted eighteen along Pilley Street grazing n the green.

As I wandered among them, they took to the road

in order to sample fresh fodder further along.

It was close to sunset when we arrived home, so we drove on to

Barton on Sea to witness it.

This evening we dined on sandwiches and salad. Mine was ham and Jackie’s was peanut butter.

 

 

Waiting Their Turn

We have now watched half the episodes of The Crown Series 2. My general impression is unchanged.

Much of the morning today was spent getting us back on line. The details are boring.

On another dull day the birds made full use of the feeders.

Sparrows tend to dominate in the front garden,

although they do occasionally allow the tits a look in.

The heavier wood pigeons and sparrows who cannot find room above find easy peckings from what has been tossed aside by the messy feeders.

Eventually Ron was able to take a turn on his own special feeder usually commandeered by voracious sparrows;

while the long tailed tits left a little for Nugget.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy pasta arrabbiata with sautéed peppers, onions, and mushrooms with which she drank Diet Coke and I drank more of the Valréas.

Water Under The Bridge

Today’s weather pattern was again that of sunshine and showers.

This morning Margery and Paul visited to return my copy of “Framley Parsonage’ and to borrow “Can He Forgive Her?” and “The Last Chronicle of Barset”. At this rate our nonagenarian friend will finish reading my Trollopes before I do.

It will come as no surprise to readers of yesterday’s post that I needed a trip to the dry cleaners in New Milton, albeit only for my jacket. After this we took a drive into the forest via Ashley Road where

a rainbow shone its light on a grateful magnolia.

A verge-grazing Shetland pony looked up at Boundary when Jackie clapped her hands to alert her to our presence.

Around the corner lay one more fallen tree.

We were again treated to a rich variety of cloudscapes in watercolour, with or without

rainbows.

Ponies dotted the landscape outside Brockenhurst where I stopped to photograph

a still active railway bridge, when

a pair of cyclists obligingly approached, happy to have enhanced my photograph.

Not so obliging to Jackie’s mind was the driver of the car that added interest to my next one.

That is because she had readied herself to take a silhouette of me under the bridge and he insisted on ruining the shot. She produced this one instead.

Before that she had settled for one including the cyclists, the car, and me

through the rain.

When she photographed me aiming my lens she had thought I was focussed on her. In fact I was making the second of the rainbow pictures above.

Beside the bridge lurch these mossy trees marked with reddle. Many trees are so painted, sometimes with other pigments. I am not sure of the significance of the hues but imagine they must be a foresters’ code for a planned procedure. (Andrew Petcher’s comment below provides a link which answers this point)

They are on the edge of reflecting waterlogged terrain partially fed by

a swollen weed-bearing ditch.

Part of the path to the bridge is now covered by clear water

replenished by raindrops, the descent of which Jackie was photographing.

While returning home via Lymington the cawing of numerous rooks alerted us to the

growing occupation of a rookery. Some of the birds flew back and forth;

others remained on watch.

At times sunlight spilt across the road.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy pasta arrabbiata with which with which she finished the Sauvignon Blanc and I started a bottle of Chateau Berdillot Cotes de Bourg 2018

 

 

Planes Of Boats And Trains

The morning was bright and sunny; the afternoon began with a deluge and ended in photogenic light.

Nugget can regularly be seen from the kitchen window. Jackie photographed him from there, where his own personal feeder hangs.

“Where’s Nugget?” (59)

At the dry end of the afternoon we drove to Lymington Harbour where the Assistant Photographer photographed the general scene;

a view of the monument;

and me making my own efforts.

I only saw one gull – or was it a cormorant?

and very view people on the wet quayside.

A solitary rower brought his boat into harbour past all the moored yachts.

The planes of boats and trains formed geometric artwork with the upright moored masts and surrounding buildings.

Barely a ripple disturbed steady reflections.

Before the street lamps ignited

wisps of grey smoke drifted against the pink sky presaging a sunset that disappeared behind lowering clouds.

The bandstand was nicely silhouetted with its mast guard.

In a vain attempt to catch the sundown we drove on to Lymington and Keyhaven Nature Reserve from where

Jackie photographed clouds over the wetlands;

pools along a gravel footpath;

and distant Hurst Castle with its lighthouse.

I focussed on a gaggle of Canada geese.

For dinner this evening Jackie produced Hunter’s Chicken; crisp duchesse potatoes; and tender runner beans, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank Domaine de Sareval Valréas 2016.

 

 

Sexy Side-Swept Bangs

After taking down the Christmas tree we took a short drive into the forest on another very gloomy, yet dry, day.

When, at Shirley Holms, I pointed my lens in her direction, a sexy Shetland pony mistook me for a hairdresser’s photographer and trotted over to display

her dishevelled side-swept bangs.

The ditches are all filling up now. A copper beech hedge reflected in one at Sandy Down caught my eye as we passed. My Chauffeuse kindly made a several points turn in the narrow lane so that I could photograph the scene, including one of the discarded drink containers. The second picture above is by the Assistant Photographer who also focussed on

me. This might have been the moment I was trying to tuck myself in to keep out of the way of oncoming vehicles passing our parked Modus. I wasn’t exactly between rock and a hard place – more on a soggy verge between muddy tarmac and a full ditch..

Mallards have taken up occupation in the very full Pilley lake. They create their own ripples on what would otherwise be a very still surface reflecting barely quivering images of

skeletal trees;

shaggy Shetland ponies;

and red brick houses.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy pork paprika; boiled potatoes, crunchy carrots and cauliflower with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Brouilly.

 

“Let’s Go Play With The Traffic”

Yesterday evening we watched the first episode of The Crown Series 2.

The morning began with suggestions of blue sky when Jackie popped out to photograph our new OLD POST HOUSE sign given to us for Christmas by Shelly and Ron, and

fixed to the back gate by Aaron on Sunday.

While she was down that end of the Back Drive she photographed daffodil spears pushing up early.

From far off in the Rose Garden she heard Nugget singing his heart out, so he became her next subject,

“Where’s Nugget?” (58)

Knowing that the rest of the day would be shrouded in drizzle we drove to

Mudeford harbour by mid-morning.

The waves were choppy and the currents contorted.

Walkers and joggers tracked the waves

or sped around the more sheltered harbour.

No-one was seated on the benches –

not even the mobile phone user.

Gulls gathered on the grass.

Dogs and children so love to scatter them,

sending them flashing against the dark indigo skies.

From Mudeford we headed inland, where, at Burley Manor the deer were busy grazing or resting by the shepherd’s hut.

Beside the fence stands an ancient hollow trunk, probably of an oak. I will spare my readers sight of the various unsavoury items tossed inside by visitors mistaking it for a refuse bin.

Outside Burley grazing New Forest ponies were reflected in rapidly filling ditches.

Nearby a pair of muddy-hoofed Shetland ponies did their bit for verge maintenance.

When a larger cousin joined them, one rather cheery creature proposed: “Let’s go play with the traffic.”

So off they went, intent

on causing mayhem.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s wholesome beef and mushroom pie; boiled potatoes; roast parsnips, onions, and peppers; crisp cauliflower, and tender cabbage, with which the Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I drank Patrick Chodot Brouilly 2017.

Damper And Damper

Yesterday evening we watched the last two episodes of Series One of The Crown.

Today was swathed in rapidly increasing gloom.

Jacqueline dropped in for a brief visit late this morning. Afterwards Jackie drove me to Hockey’s Farm shop for lunch. We left home in slight drizzle, and returned in a deluge.

Even though it was only early afternoon headlights and wet roads were the dominant view from the dripping windscreen.

Hardy ponies at Ibsley saught shelter where they could;

the more cosseted field ponies made the best of their wet rugs;

Alpacas alongside Ringwood Road just cheerfully became damper and damper.

This evening we dined on a second sitting of Hordle Chinese Take Away’s excellent fare, with which I finished the Fleurie

An e-mail

04.01.20

Yesterday evening we watched episode 6 of The Crown.

Our friend John Jones has sent an e-mail responding to posts featuring “A Moment Of War” and Thelwell Ponies:

‘I read “A Moment of War” a few years back and while I remembered the illustrations, the cover was unfamiliar. On checking I found that my copy is the edition published in Penguin Books in 1992 and that the cover does use a different illustration, by Roger Coleman, but inside the illustrations are the same as your Viking copy and happily Penguin name Keith Bowen as the illustrator. He has produced a lot of work portraying Snowdonia, which was my father’s home, and the shepherds of that area. Another interesting association for me is that in the spring of 1937 Southampton was the port of entry to the UK for some 4,000 Basque child refugees (Los Niños) who were evacuated after the bombing of Guernica. Their arrival from Bilbao on SS Habana is commemorated by a plaque on the Civic Centre.

I enjoyed seeing the Thelwell cartoon too. Anyone who can draw well and be humorous at the same time is exceptionally talented. By chance the Friends of Southampton’s Museums, Archives and Galleries (which Margery helped to set up in 1976) will be having a talk on Norman Thelwell later this month. The speaker is Tim Craven, a former Curator of Southampton Art Gallery. No doubt we will hear a great deal about “small, fat, hairy ponies ridden at full-tilt by alarming young ladies”.’

I have appended these comments as P.S.s to the relevant posts.

Enough To Patch A Dutchman’s Trousers

Episodes 7 and 8 of ‘The Crown’ really rather confirmed my reluctance to begin watching it because I imagined it to be intrusion into the lives of some still living people who could not answer back. We will probably persevere because of the history that we ourselves have lived through.

On this day of gloom and drizzle, Nugget occupied himself checking out the area beneath the wisteria where his own personal feeder hangs.

Now, “Where’s Nugget?” (57)

As the skies began to clear a little later this afternoon to a drive towards Hatchet Pond, returning home via East End.

Along  the road between Brockenhurst and the Pond several trees spend their dryer months in sunken areas which fill with water at times like this.

This gives them something to reflect upon.

On the Hatchet Pond side of the road into East Boldre vast areas are now waterlogged, whereas

the lumpy landscape on the other side remains dry and crisscrossed by pony tracks.

Occasional blue streaks now threaded the skyscapes – enough to patch a Dutchman’s trousers,

as a wide, flashing, farm vehicle ensured that our journey through East End was perforce slower than expected.

Becky was still with us this evening when the three of us dined on Hordle Chinese Take Away’s excellent fare with which I drank more of the Fleurie.

At The Jazz Band Ball

Philip Oakes was a British journalist, poet, and novelist brown in Burslem in 1928. His father, a travelling salesman, died when Oakes was 4, and his mother developed a brain tumour when he  was 8. All this led to a difficult upbringing and lasting conflict with his mother.

Today I finished reading the third of his autobiographical trilogy which forms the title of this post. The subtitle, ‘A Memoir of the ’50s’ is not strictly accurate because it really occupies the 1940s.

There is no doubt that the author’s early life contributed to his later relationships, especially with women, about which he is honest and revealing. He displays a lively journalistic style in describing his early adulthood, his needs, his errors, his lessons, and his influences. There is a rich vein of humour. He hadn’t minded his post-war call up for National Service, which I narrowly missed.

It was as the ’50s turned to the ’60s that I was into my jazz period, so I was intrigued by Oakes’s friendships with the likes of George Melly and Mick Mulligan. Although I could only find much later versions like this one https://youtu.be/AJAuxRzLM30 of one of Melly’s standard performances I did enjoy his much more athletic presentation some 50 or so years earlier on a stage I don’t remember – possibly Croydon’s Fairfield Halls. Oakes also celebrated this turn in his book.

One of the author’s friend’s favourite recording was Muggsy Spanier’s https://youtu.be/fjnpXl9Q-ag

Perhaps it was Bill Maddocks’s early death in a car accident that suggested Philip Oakes’s  tribute title.

Ian returned home to Emsworth soon after lunch. Becky stayed on another night. The three of us dined on more of her tasty pasta bake, pizza, and salad, with which I drank Patrick Chodot’s Fleurie 2018.