On a dank, overcast, yet warmer, morning, Jackie drove us to Ferndene Farm shop where her shopping ran so smoothly that it was only a four-page read in the car for me.
We took a slight diversion on our way home, passing Sammy Miller Motorcycle Musem further along Bashley Cross Road, where
work went on attending to donkeys in a field and pigeons perched on a rooftop.
Historic transport, like this plane on display needed no feeding during lockdown. The motorcycle weather vane was in a constant wheel spin generated by the stiff breeze.
Like any other ungulates in our fields there are always some of these alpacas seen on the Sway road inquisitively spotting me spotting them.
Shortly after lunch deceptive clouds scudded across rapidly changing skies over Downton allowing cerulean patches and brief sunlight. This was all too fleeting. Soon we were back in the gloom.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s succulent sausages in red wine; creamy mashed potatoes; crunchy carrots and cauliflower; and firm Brussels sprouts with which she drank Peroni and I drank The Second Fleet Limestone Coast Shiraz 2019.
the cold and gloom of Downton Lane as I walked its length and back this dull, dreary afternoon.
One resident had made a cheerful crab pot and stump arrangement rather like ours; tree fungus decorated another arboreal relic.
Had I had more sense I would have turned back at the stream, but I didn’t, and just about made it home.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s nicely maturing chicken and vegetable stoup with crusty bread fresh from the freezer, with which I finished the Fleurie and the Culinary Queen abstained.
Yesterday I finished reading the fifth and final of Charles Dickens’s Christmas Books. This morning I scanned Charles Keeping’s faithful, first-class, illustrations.
Christopher Hibbert, in his informative introduction to my Folio Society edition, offers the insight that this work reflects painful experiences of the writer’s own life. Seeking freedom from his phantoms ‘The Haunted Man’ of the novella appeals for forgetfulness. The story reveals that forgiveness is really what is required. Once more this tale has been overshadowed by ‘A Christmas Carol’. It does, however contain much of Dickens’s splendid descriptive writing laced with his wry humour.
Highgate West Cemetery, in September 2008, when I produced the batch of colour slides scanned this afternoon, was nowhere near as oppressively gloomy as the heavy atmosphere that prevailed outside my workroom window.
John Turpin, who wrote the text for ‘The Magnificent Seven’, and I needed to join the above paying group to visit this fine example of London’s Victorian landscaped burial grounds. Although wealthy enough to have afforded these final resting places, I have gleaned no information about the various residents.
Steps lead down to these lower levels which also house the columbarium, from the Latin for pigeon-house, which contains niches for storing funeral urns.
I do not know who warranted this elaborate marker.
These three are memorable for their animals. His mastiff guards the remains of Thomas Sayers.
This is what Wikipedia tells us about him: ‘Tom Sayers (15 or 25 May[1] 1826 – 8 November 1865) was an English bare-knuckle prize fighter. There were no formal weight divisions at the time, and although Sayers was only five feet eight inches tall and never weighed much more than 150 pounds, he frequently fought much bigger men. In a career which lasted from 1849 until 1860, he lost only one of sixteen bouts. He was recognized as heavyweight champion of England between 1857, when he defeated William Perry (the “Tipton Slasher”) and his retirement in 1860.
His lasting fame depended exclusively on his final contest, when he faced American champion John Camel Heenan[2] in a battle which was widely considered to be boxing’s first world championship. It ended in chaos when the spectators invaded the ring, and the referee finally declared a draw.
Regarded as a national hero, Sayers, for whom the considerable sum of £3,000 was raised by public subscription, then retired from the ring. After his death five years later at the age of 39, a huge crowd watched his cortège on its journey to London’s Highgate Cemetery.’ His origins are also related in https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Sayers
John Atcheler, commemorated by a horse on a plinth, was reputedly horse-slaughterer to Queen Victoria. Maybe someone was indulging a wry sense of humour.
Menageries were popular in Regency and early Victorian England. The lion resting above the remains of George Wombwell represents a favourite exhibit of that individual who, according to Wikipedia
‘was born in Wendon Lofts, Essex in 1777. Around 1800 he moved to London and in 1804 became a shoemaker in Soho. However, when a ship from South America brought two boas to London docks, he bought them for £75 and began to exhibit them in taverns. He soon made a good profit.
Wombwell began to buy exotic animals from ships that came from Africa, Australia and South America, and collected a whole menagerie and put them on display in Soho. In 1810 he founded the Wombwell’s Travelling Menagerie and began to tour the fairs of Britain. By 1839 it totalled fifteen wagons, and was accompanied by a brass band.
Wombwell bred and raised many animals himself, including the first lion to be bred in captivity in Britain; he named it William in honour of William Wallace. In 1825 Warwick, Wombwell, in collaboration with Sam Wedgbury and dog dealer Ben White’s assistant Bill George,[1]arranged a Lion-baiting between his docile lion Nero and six bulldogs. Nero refused to fight but when Wombwell released Wiliam, he mauled the dogs and the fight was soon stopped.
Over the years, Wombwell expanded three menageries that traveled around the country. Wombwell was a regular exhibitor at the annual Knott Mill Fair in Manchester, a venue he sometimes shared with Pablo Fanque‘s circus.[2][3] He was invited to the royal court on five occasions to exhibit his animals, three times before Queen Victoria. In 1847 the Queen Victoria noted the bravery of the “British Lion Queen”, the nickname of Ellen Chapmanwho appeared with lions, leopards and tigers. Chapman married Wombwell’s business rival George Sanger in 1850.[4]
On one occasion Prince Albert summoned him to look at his dogs who kept dying and Wombwell quickly noticed that their water was poisoning them. When the prince asked what he could do in return for this favour, Wombwell said, “What can you give a man who has everything?” However, Wombwell requested some oak timber from the recently salvaged Royal George. From this he had a coffin fashioned for himself, which he then proceeded to exhibit for a special fee.
Wombwell frequented Bartholomew Fair in London and even developed a rivalry with another exhibitor, Atkins. Once when he arrived at the fair, his elephant died and Atkins put up a sign “The Only Live Elephant in the Fair”. Wombwell simply put up a scroll with the words “The Only Dead Elephant in the Fair” and explained that seeing a dead elephant was an even a rarer thing than a live one. The public, realising that they could see a living elephant at any time, flocked to see and poke the dead one. Throughout the fair Atkins’ menagerie was largely deserted, much to his disgust.
George Wombwell died in 1850 and was buried in his Royal George coffin in Highgate Cemetery, under a statue of his lion Nero.
The book George Wombwell (1777 – 1850): Volume One recalls the lion and dog fight in Warwick with well researched evidence, but questions whether it ever actually took place. George Wombwell (1777 – 1850): Volume Two covers Wombwell’s life as the most famous showman, from his arrival in London around 1800 to his death in 1850.[5]
In 1851 a tapir broke out of its den at Wombwell’s Menagerie in Rochdale, causing panic among the spectators.[6]
The cedar of Lebanon in the second and third of these pictures is one of the cemetery’s original plantings.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s substantial, wholesome, chicken and vegetable stoup and crusty bread with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Fleurie.
On a dull and frosty morning Jackie photographed some aspects of the garden.
A perky dragon was garlanded in frosted ivy; the ‘Autumn’ sculpture vied with winter;
euphorbia, cordyline Australis, and rose leaves bore fringes of frost and lingering water drops;
some potted pansies were rather limp, while iris reticulata and tulips broke the soil in defiance.
By the time we drove over to Pilley to present Elizabeth (in our bubble) with a tub of Jackie’s substantial chicken and vegetable stoup, the skies had brightened.
In the woodland alongside Undershore a soft toy had successfully scaled the wall that is the undercarriage of a fallen tree.
The decorated postbox in Pilley Street now bears the year date 2021;
the icy old quarry lake bears branches and reflections.
At Walhampton I photographed a pheasant on the verge and Jackie focussed on a silhouetted wood pigeon;
on Monument Lane while I caught the lowering sun behind trees Jackie picked out its tipping the monument railings.
Finally the Assistant Photographer caught me
focussed on the dying sunset and twilight haze shrouding the Isle of Wight and The Needles at Milford on Sea.
This evening we dined on succulent fillet steaks; crisp oven chips; moist mushrooms; nicely charred onions; cherry vine tomatoes; and a colourful melange of peas and sweetcorn, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank Patrick Chodot Fleurie 2019.
Today we took an early lunch and drove to Tesco for our big shop. As usual I sat in the car, Jackie did the business, and I intended to read my book. After one page my sister, Jacqueline, phoned me and that was the end of the reading.
In fact Tesco wasn’t too difficult, so the Caterer in Chief wouldn’t let me unload the shopping into the car for Covid safety’s sake.
We took a diversion round Holmsley Passage and its misty, frosty, landscape on our way home.
As I wandered, fingers and toes tingling, I discerned just one group of grazing ponies.
Others, on Holmsley Road
and Wootton Common were nearer at hand. One, as soon as I paid it any attention, huddled against its companion seeking security.
A weak sun, putting in an appearance over Hordle Lane, silhouetted a number of oaks.
Undeterred by the fact that we are still consuming provisions bought in for Covid-cancelled Christmas, Jackie had made her first Easter egg purchases.
This evening we dined on more of Jackie’s perfect spicy pork paprika; boiled potatoes; firm carrots and cauliflower; and tender runner beans, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Malbec.
On a dank-dull afternoon we drove to Milford on Sea pharmacy for a repeat prescription, with a loop round Keyhaven’s Saltgrass Lane on our return home.
Occasional walkers, like this couple looking across the Solent to the Isle of Wight and The Needles, made their way along the sparsely populated clifftop promenade.
We followed a steady jogger along Saltgrass Lane until we paused to photograph walkers and dogs on the Hurst spit alongside which idle sail boats were moored.
Curlews and turnstones (I am grateful to Quercus for identifying the latter in his comment) fished the shallows;
an elegant swan sailed among resting gulls,
one of which passed the time of day with a trailing cygnet.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s especially spicy pork paprika; boiled potatoes; crunchy carrots; and tender runner beans, followed by aromatic rice pudding laced with a dollop of strawberry jam with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Malbec.
This morning I produced an A3 print of his choice for the paraglider from “Sunset Dancing”. Now we are back in National Lockdown handover will probably have to wait a while.
In the meantime Jackie photographed the farmer across Christchurch Road trimming his hedge. He didn’t really cause any disruption to traffic, although it was a little tight at times. The owls on our front fence were undisturbed. Note the thriving carpet rose.
Charles Dickens’s ‘Christmas Books’ is definitely a mixed bag. This afternoon I read ‘The Battle of Life – A love story’, first published in 1846. The narrative begins with a lovely bucolic description and a delightful dance giving us hope for joyful times ahead. There follows a rather boring sequence, more poetic word pictures, and a somewhat far-fetched conclusion, all featuring the author’s entertaining wry humour. Christopher Hibbert, in his introduction to my Folio Society edition, describes this ‘slight but dismal tale’ as a version of relationships and events in the author’s own life at this time. That rings true to me.
Beginning with the dance,
Charles Keeping’s wonderfully moving illustrations are as true as ever to the text.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s well-filled flavoursome beef and onion pie; crisp roast potatoes; crunchy carrots, cauliflower, and firm Brussels sprouts, with tasty, meaty, gravy, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank Mendoza Malbec 2019
The weather today, albeit dry, was at its most gloomy.
Even the animals kept away. When we took a brief forest drive there was a definite dearth of donkeys and a patent paucity of ponies,
except for a few grazing alongside Furzey Lane at Beaulieu. The first grey in this group, and the lone bay both bear the scars of torn fur. Maybe that is why the smaller bay gave the gentler grey a hefty kick out of the way before continuing with the matter in hand.
On our return I finished reading Charles Dickens’s third Christmas book, namely ‘The Cricket on The Hearth – A fairy tale of home’. I am happy to report that our great Victorian novelist, in this work, has recovered the deft touch that eluded him in ‘The Chimes’. This magical mystery story is well constructed, keeps the reader wondering, and contains all the writer’s ready humour and wry description. Beginning in a fog, all is revealed in a neatly packaged ending.
My Folio Society edition is enhanced by the apt illustrations of Charles Keeping, the frontispiece featuring a foggy scene.
This evening we dined on a second sitting of Hordle Chinese Take Away’s excellent fare with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Malbec,
When a dull day began to brighten up we drove into the forest for a while.
Constantly changing skies,
reflected in pothole pools,
swept over the moorland bounding Holmsley Passage and its footpaths.
Sun-tipped ponies pastured on grass, bracken and holly on the borders of Burley golf course.
The forest car parks were all full to bursting. Overflow vehicles lined streets, lanes, and lay-bys. Nevertheless, visitors largely kept to their own discrete clusters.
Nowhere was this more apparent than at Rockford Sand Pit where family groups enjoying scaling the sandy hillside largely maintained social distance from each other.
This evening we dined on Mr Chan’s excellent Hordle Chinese Take Away fare with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank MV Reserve Malbec 2019 – a present from Shelly and Ron.
This afternoon we followed a rather circuitous route to Ferndene Farm Shop where Jackie made some timely purchases without having to queue.
At Neacroft a weak sun silhouetted trees and houses and lightly illuminated the lane
beside which ducks scavenged before crossing to the other side.
Did you spot the decoy?
Moving on after waiting for the waddling ducks we were somewhat delayed by a pair of cyclists.
A tanker lorry on Bockhampton Road was a more serious blockage than either of the first two. There was no way round this one. Jackie was about to turn round when this action was aborted by a driver having arrived behind us who apparently knew better.
The cycle-laden motor passed us and, attempting to do the same with the tanker, came unstuck.
The cycle-carrier reversed enough to allow a passenger to emerge and remonstrate with a gentleman in the garden. The seemingly ineffective gesticulations had subsided somewhat before I photographed the exchange. Jackie wound down her window as the lady approached and informed her that “He’s not going to move his lorry any time soon”.
We allowed the other driver to make the first turn round, then did the same.
The weather vane on Owls barn sports both an unconcerned owl and an unafraid mouse.
As usual the River Avon at Avon had burst its banks and numerous swans had taken up winter residence in the water meadows. Jackie photographed me in action, and
a couple of shots of her own.
A pair of inquisitive donkeys basking in the remaining sunlight that pierced the arboreal backdrop of Priest Lane, Sopley, rose to their feet on my appearance.
