Contrary to expectations today, albeit several degrees cooler, was, from midday, bright and sunny.
We drove to Otter Nurseries to buy some primroses, including a pot for Elizabeth, which we took to her with a pair of gardening gloves. After a lengthy socially distanced pleasant conversation in her garden we took off for a drive.
A patch of green on Pilley Street generally fills with fresh, reflective, rainwater after the amount of rain we are currently experiencing.
Today a pair of ponies slaked their thirst thereon.
Kewlake Lane is one of those in the forest where local people have lined the verges with large stumps to deter visitors from parking on them. One mossy specimen, reflected in a pool, had been in use for quite some time. We looked down on a fairly orderly sun-streaked landscape.
Along Furzley Lane we encountered more basking ponies and one solitary donkey. The shaggy coated equines were out in force today.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s substantial, flavoursome, chicken and vegetable stewp, with tangy Welsh rarebit, and fresh French bread. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Garnacha.
Rain beating a clamorous tattoo on the Modus roof; repetitive rapping from a thumping car radio; abrupt slamming of doors; crashing gears of handbrake ratchets; muffled muttering of masked voices; clicking stilettos clopping through puddles – all combined to distract me from the last chapters of ‘Little Dorrit’ as I waited in the car while Jackie shopped in Tesco this morning. Fortunately the rain had stopped when she brought her trolley load for me to unload into the boot.
Heavy rain soon set in again, and I finished reading my Folio Society edition of Charles Dickens’s ‘Little Dorrit’.
For fear of spoiling the story I will not add my own detailed review of this tale which has been printed in many editions and filmed for a BBC series in 2008 to the many that may be found on the internet.
I will simply quote the first paragraph of www.brittanica.com’s article:
‘Little Dorrit, novel by Charles Dickens, published serially from 1855 to 1857 and in book form in 1857. The novel attacks the injustices of the contemporary English legal system, particularly the institution of debtors’ prison.’ and add that it is a love story with added mystery.
The writer’s flowing prose with sometimes poetic descriptive passages and witty humour mostly captivates, although some of the more boring characters had my interest flagging occasionally.
Christopher Hibbert’s introduction is as helpful as always.
Charles Keeping’s inimitable illustrations are a perfect accompaniment to this novelist’s masterpiece. Regular readers will know that I have posted these as I have worked my way through the book. Although some narrative may be gleaned from these pages I have done by best not to reveal too much.
Here are the last three:
‘A big-headed lumbering personage stood staring at him’ as the brim of his hat had been tossed over the body of text.
In ‘Tattycoram fell on her knees and beat her hands upon the box’ the artist has captured the beating motion.
In ‘Changeless and Barren’, his final illustration, Keeping has managed to symbolise that the work is drawing to a close.
The rain returned before we arrived home and continued pelting for the next few hours. Rather like yesterday, it ceased by late afternoon. Unlike yesterday the sun remained lurking behind the thick cloud cover. We took a drive anyway.
As we approached Keyhaven the sails of a trio of enticing kite-surfers could be seen.
By the time we arrived they were packing up.
Saltgrass Lane runs alongside the tidal flats. At high tide it is often closed.
As we arrived, waves were lapping over the rocks and rapidly covering the tarmac. I was splashed by passing vehicles as I photographed the scene.
Figures were silhouetted on the spit; birds made their own contribution.
We continued along the lane back to Milford on Sea. Had we returned via Keyhaven we would probably have been locked out.
Other lanes, like Undershore, were washed by rainwater from overflowing fields and ditches. Jackie parked on this thoroughfare and I wandered along it for a while.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s stupendous chicken and vegetable stewp and fresh bread with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Garnacha, which involved opening another bottle.
An early end to the Test match and rain falling for most of the day prompted me to read eight more chapters of ‘Little Dorrit’, and consequently to scan eight more of Charles Keeping’s excellent illustrations.
‘Mrs Sparkler began to wonder how long the master-mind meant to stay’ is another two page spread.
‘Lying in the bath was the body of a heavily-made man’ sandwiches the text between the ends of the bath.
‘Mr Clennam, I think this is the gentleman I was mentioning’
”Young John surveyed him with a fixed look of indignant reproach’
‘Arthur turned his eye upon the impudent and wicked face’ which we now all recognise.
‘The gate jarred heavily and hopelessly upon her’
‘She staggered for a moment, as if she would have fallen’
For ‘The old house collapsed and fell’, the artist had no need to draw the building – he simply produced the effect.
Late in the afternoon, the sun emerged and drew us into a forest drive.
All along Sowley Lane
shaggy ponies tore at the hedges for sustenance;
colourful cock pheasants played Chicken crossing the road;
and snowdrops scaled the banks of the verges.
The pink-tinged water of the lake now surrounded bordering grasses;
and similar tints touched the puddle reflecting a gate above it.
Sunset. was arriving over St Leonard’s Grange
and lingered slowly for a while on our return journey.
This evening we dined on oven fish and chips; green peas; pickled onions and gherkins, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Garnacha.
This morning I watched the Channel 4 broadcast of the third day’s play of the second Test match between India and England in Chennai.
Today the temperature was a little warmer than of late; the weather just as gloomy yet less wet. After lunch we took a drive into the forest.
A pair of equestriennes wended their way along a pony track bordering Holmsley Passage.
At the crossroads leading the Passage to Bisterne Close, I clambered with camera among woodland with it’s bright, mossy, roots; lichen-coated branches; reflective pools and puddles on the tarmac.
There was much neighing from ponies on the move in the claggy woodland alongside the Close
which bears its own reflecting winterbourne pool.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s flavoursome chicken tikka, plain parathas, and plentiful fresh salad, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank Agramont Garnacha 2019, a smooth red wine.
Starting at 4 a.m. this morning I watched the second day’s play of the second Test Match between India and England broadcast by Channel 4; and this afternoon ITV’s transmission of the Six Nations rugby match between Ireland and France.
Between these two events I scanned more cemetery colour slides from May 2008.
Because of Covid restrictions the establishment is currently closed, but we are assured on its website that it will be back.
The name is taken from the final line of G.K.Chesterton’s poem
The Rolling English Road
Before the Roman came to Rye or out to Severn strode, The rolling English drunkard made the rolling English road. A reeling road, a rolling road, that rambles round the shire, And after him the parson ran, the sexton and the squire; A merry road, a mazy road, and such as we did tread The night we went to Birmingham by way of Beachy Head.
I knew no harm of Bonaparte and plenty of the Squire, And for to fight the Frenchman I did not much desire; But I did bash their baggonets because they came arrayed To straighten out the crooked road an English drunkard made, Where you and I went down the lane with ale-mugs in our hands, The night we went to Glastonbury by way of Goodwin Sands.
His sins they were forgiven him; or why do flowers run Behind him; and the hedges all strengthening in the sun? The wild thing went from left to right and knew not which was which, But the wild rose was above him when they found him in the ditch. God pardon us, nor harden us; we did not see so clear The night we went to Bannockburn by way of Brighton Pier.
My friends, we will not go again or ape an ancient rage, Or stretch the folly of our youth to be the shame of age, But walk with clearer eyes and ears this path that wandereth, And see undrugged in evening light the decent inn of death; For there is good news yet to hear and fine things to be seen, Before we go to Paradise by way of Kensal Green.
The Kensal Green to which Chesterton refers is a specific section of this West London area.
This is Kensal Green Cemetery, the history and some residents of which are featured in my post “Where Is The Body?”
It is still a working cemetery. Some waterborne funerals still enter through this gate on the canalside.
Alongside the older sections lie the more recent memorials, some of which
bear tributes to loved ones of the deceased, such as Liverpool and Queens Park football clubs and the legendary Bob Marley. I know of no other burial grounds where such adornments would be permitted.
For dinner this evening Jackie produced spicy chicken tikka, plain parathas, and plentiful salad with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Cabernet Sauvignon.
On a dull day we – mostly Jackie – spent time returning the kitchen to normal. Mrs Knight had washed, ironed, and now rehung the curtains. The glasses cupboard had its doors reinstalled and its contents brought back in from the library. The table returned to its normal position.
A number of bloggers, including us, have been beneficiaries of the late Pauline King’s delightful light catchers. It was therefore a priority for it be back in its rightful place hanging from the centre of the main window ready for when the sun shines again.
This afternoon I watched Television broadcasts of the Six Nations Rugby matches between England and Italy, and between Scotland and Wales.
During intervals I read the next three chapters of ‘Little Dorrit’ and, after dinner, scanned three more of Charles Keeping’s illustrations.
‘The History of a Self Tormentor’ uses Dickens’s device of employing a letter to progress the narrative.
The image of ‘Canalletto dropped on one knee’, with the backward tilt of the body displays the artist’s mastery of movement in the human form.
‘Affery headed the exploring party,’ each member of which is recognisable from Keeping’s earlier portraits. This image is cleverly framed by the sinuous candle smoke.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s toothsome sausages in red wine; creamy mashed potatoes; piquant cauliflower cheese; soft broad beans; and crunchy carrots, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Cabernet Sauvignon.
While Nick Hayter continued with his transformation of our kitchen, I printed him a set of pictures of his progress “on the job”, including this one demonstrating his mask-less cutting-in skill produced this morning.
Downton Service Station had already provided our Modus with a new clutch and handbrake by 10 a.m., so we happily collected it.
Five chapters further on in ‘Little Dorrit’ provided me with five more of Charles Keeping’s illustrations to scan.
‘Leaning on Mr Merdle’s arm, Mr Dorrit descended the staircase’.
‘He approached his destination through the by-streets and water-side ways’.
‘Now, sir,’ said Mr Dorrit, turning round upon him and seizing him by the collar’.
‘All the guests were now in consternation’, just one displaying distress. Another double page spread.
Keeping has portrayed stubborn intransigence to perfection in ‘Each proudly cherishing her own anger’.
This afternoon Nick completed his redecoration project.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s succulent sausages in red wine; creamy mashed potatoes; crunchy carrots; and tender cabbage with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Cabernet Sauvignon.
Today Nick Hayter continued turning our kitchen into a magazine-worthy product such as it can never have been since the house was built.
In the meantime I scanned another batch of colour slides from
Highgate West cemetery, mostly from September 2008.
The bluebells in this image including the gravestone of Henry and Eric Holgate, suggest and earlier month in the year.
The Egyptian Avenue reflects the Victorian fascination with that culture.
One of the mausoleums in another avenue contains the remains of Marguerite Radclyffe-Hall who still receives floral tributes after her death in 1943. brittanica.com writes of her:
‘Radclyffe Hall, byname of Marguerite Radclyffe-hall, (born Aug. 12, 1880, Bournemouth, Hampshire, Eng.—died Oct. 7, 1943, London), English writer whose novelThe Well of Loneliness (1928) created a scandal and was banned for a time in Britain for its treatment of lesbianism.
Hall was educated at King’s College, London, and then attended school in Germany. She began her literary career by writing verses, which were later collected into five volumes of poetry. The Blind Ploughman, one of her best-known poems, was set to music by Conigsby Clarke. By 1924 she had written her first two novels, The Forge and The Unlit Lamp. The latter book was her first to treat lesbian love. Adam’s Breed (1926), a sensitive novel about the life of a restaurant keeper, won the coveted Prix Fémina and the 1927 James Tait Black Memorial Prize for fiction.
Hall’s fame turned to notoriety with the publication of The Well ofLoneliness,in which she explored in detail the attachment between a young girl and an older woman. The intense and earnest love story was condemned by the British, and a London magistrate, Sir Chartres Biron, ruled that although the book was dignified and restrained, it presented an appeal to “decent people” to not only recognize lesbianism but also understand that the person so afflicted was not at fault. He judged the book an “obscene libel” and ordered all copies of it destroyed. Later, a decree handed down in a U.S. court disagreed with Biron, finding that discussion of homosexuality was not in itself obscene. The British ban on The Well of Loneliness was eventually overturned on appeal after Hall’s death.’
The plinth in the first of these two pictures bear a grieving bas-relief; others sculpted statues.
John Turpin and I were part of a group taking a booked and paid for tour which was the only way possible to visit Highgate West. I was admonished by what I considered to be an over-zealous guide as a stood on a further stretch of undergrowth to focus on the grave of Carl Rosa, his second wife, and a daughter. Like a good boy I did as I was told.
‘Carl August Nicholas Rosa (22 March 1842 – 30 April 1889) was a German-born musical impresario best remembered for founding an English opera company known as the Carl Rosa Opera Company. He started his company in 1869 together with his wife, Euphrosyne Parepa-Rosa, and popularised opera in Britain and America, performing standard repertory in English, as well as operas by English composers.
Rosa was born Karl August Nikolaus Rose in Hamburg, Germany, the son of Ludwig Rose, a Hamburg businessman, and Sophie Becker.[1]His father subsequently took him to Edinburgh. A child prodigy, Rosa toured in Scotland from age 12 to age 16, eventually earning glowing notices.[2][3] Beginning in 1859, he studied at the Conservatorium at Leipzig (where he met and became lifelong friends with Arthur Sullivan)[3]and, in 1862, in Paris.
In 1863, Rosa was appointed Konzertmeister at Hamburg, where he had occasional opportunities to conduct.[1] Three years later he visited England, appearing as a soloist at the Crystal Palace. He had considerable success as a conductor both in England and the United States. He travelled to America in 1866 as a member of a concert troupe promoted by the Baltimore impresario Hezekiah Linthicum Bateman that also included the Scottish operatic soprano Euphrosyne Parepa. During this tour, on 26 February 1867 in New York City, he married Parepa, who became known as Madame Parepa-Rosa.[4]
In 1869, in collaboration with the Chicago impresario C. D. Hess, the couple formed the Parepa Rosa English Opera Company in New York and toured in America for three seasons, with Parepa as the star and Rosa as the conductor. It brought grand opera to places in America that had never seen any, performing Italian operas in English, which made them more accessible to American audiences. In 1872, the Rosas returned to England and also visited Europe and Egypt.[4] Rosa changed the spelling of his name after he moved to England, where people took “Rose” as a monosyllable.[1]
In 1873 Rosa and his wife started the Carl Rosa Opera Company (the change in name reflecting her pregnancy) with a performance of William Vincent Wallace‘s Maritana in Manchester on 1 September,[5] and then toured England and Ireland. Rosa’s policy was to present operas in English, and that remained the company’s practice.[6] That year, Rosa invited the dramatist W. S. Gilbert to write a libretto for Rosa to present as part of a planned 1874 season at the Drury Lane Theatre. Gilbert expanded one of the comic Bab Ballads that he had written for Fun magazine[7]into a one-act libretto titled Trial by Jury.[8] Parepa died in January 1874; Rosa dropped the project and cancelled his planned 1874 season.[8][n 1]Rosa later endowed a Parepa-Rosa scholarship at the Royal Academy of Music in London. He married a second time in 1881. With his second wife, Josephine (d. 1927), he had four children.[1]Carl Rosa startled by the bogey of Italian Opera in an 1886 cartoon by Alfred Bryan
The company’s first London season opened at the Princess’s Theatre in September 1875, playing The Marriage of Figaro, with Charles Santley as Figaro and Rose Hersee as Susanna. In 1876, Rosa staged a second London season, which featured the first performance in English of The Flying Dutchman with Santley in the title role.[5] For the next fifteen years, under Rosa’s guidance, the company prospered and earned good notices, with provincial tours and London seasons, frequently in conjunction with Augustus Harris at the Drury Lane Theatre.[1] Such was the success of the company that at one point three Carl Rosa touring troupes were set up.[5] Rosa hired Alberto Randegger as the musical director of the company from 1879 to 1885. In 1880, George Grove wrote: “The careful way in which the pieces are put on the stage, the number of rehearsals, the eminence of the performers and the excellence of the performers have begun to bear their legitimate fruit, and the Carl Rosa Opera Company bids fair to become a permanent English institution.”[10] In 1892, Rosa’s Grand Opera Company gave a command performance of La fille du régiment at Balmoral Castle.[5]
Rosa introduced many works of important opera repertoire to England for the first time, performing some 150 different operas over the years. Besides Santley and Hersee, Minnie Hauk, Joseph Maas, Barton McGuckin and Giulia Warwick were some of the famous singers associated with the company during its early years.[11] Rosa also encouraged and supported new works by English composers. Frederic Hymen Cowen‘s Pauline (1876), Arthur Goring Thomas‘s Esmeralda (1883), Alexander Mackenzie‘s Colomba (1883) and The Troubabour, and Charles Villiers Stanford‘s The Canterbury Pilgrims (1884) were commissioned by the company. Earlier English operas by Wallace, Balfe and Julius Benedict were also included in the company’s repertoire.[4] An obituarist noted, “He had long looked forward to the time when Sir Arthur Sullivan would have undertaken a grand opera, and to the last had hoped to have been able to produce such a work.”[2] Shortly before his death, Rosa launched a light opera company that debuted with Robert Planquette‘s Paul Jones.[1]Tomb of Rosa, his second wife Josephine and daughter Violet, Highgate Cemetery, London’ (Wikipedia)
For this evening’s dinner Jackie produced a thick and fluffy cheese and onion omelette and oven chips with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank Coonawarra Cabernet Sauvignon 2019.
This morning, while Nick continued brightening up the kitchen, Jackie helped the ailing Modus to Downton Service Station. Unsurprisingly the diagnosis, which was delivered later, was the need for a new clutch. It is hoped that we will receive it back by the weekend.
This afternoon, having reached the 3/4 point of Charles Dickens’s ‘Little Dorrit’, I scanned seven more of Charles Keeping’s remarkable illustrations.
‘It was a deserted place and looked upon a deserted scene’ which was the side of the River Thames at night. The ladder scaling the wall to the left of the illustration was placed for easy access to the river bed. It was at such a location when the tide was low that I had to fish my late wife Jessica out of the mud.
Mr Keeping remains faithful to earlier portrayals of these two characters in ‘He rolled Mr Flintwinch about with a hand on each of his shoulders.’
‘I am now going to devote an hour to writing to you again’ depicts the unmistakeable letter-writer from the opposite side in a different location from the first such image.
With ‘It was a dinner to provoke an appetite’ the artist captures what I think is one of the rare boring passages of the prose.
‘Mrs Plornish, now established in a snug little shop at the crack end of the Yard’, contains typical details of the illustrator’s work, such as worn steps, feral pigeons, and a horse in the stable. These are Keeping’s own embellishments.
‘Mr Sparkler came and sat down on the other side of her’, for a happy announcement. The artist makes the varying feelings about this very clear;
equally in ‘Nobody noticed the Bridegroom’, whose insignificance is well depicted.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s succulent sausages in red wine; sage and onion stuffing; creamy mashed potatoes; piquant cauliflower cheese; crunchy carrots; and tender cabbage, with tasty gravy. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Recital.
This morning Nick Hayter performed more painstaking preparation work on our kitchen. Apart from exemplary decorating he exhibits enviable flexibility.
An Antipodean friend, in order the more safely to transport some important paperwork to another part of the UK, e-mailed the documents to me to print out and post in snail mail. This mission was carried out this afternoon. Jackie drove me to Everton Post Office where I posted the package.
The overflowing ditch at the corner of Woodcock Lane sports an excellent puddle with reflections and the possibility for passing motorists to splash potential stalactites to drip in sub zero temperatures.
Striated skies streaked over Walhampton.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy chicken jalfrezi and pilau rice with vegetable samosas. I drank more of the Recital.
