July 2021 – Page 2 – derrickjknight

Keeping Up With David Copperfield

On a sultry, largely overcast day, with dribbles of rain and brief snatches of sunlight, Jackie carried out weeding and pruning while I helped with the clearing up, dead headed, and produced pictures.

Each of these images bears a title in the gallery.

Later, I scanned three more of Charles Keeping’s illustrations to ‘David Copperfield’.

The double page spread ‘The horses stopped at the stable gate’ contains the tell-tale sign of broken reins.

‘I had my arms round Mr Wickfield, imploring him by everything that I could think of to calm himself a little’

‘I encountered, at the corner, a woman’s face’

This evening we dined on tasty baked gammon; boiled potatoes; juicy ratatouille; and firm carrots and broccoli with which Jackie drank Cotes du Provence rosé 2019 while I chose Paarl Shiraz 2020.

A Knight’s Tale (3: A Relationship With My Dad)

Throughout the night we were beset by a thunderstorm, and I was beset by a barometric pressure headache.

I wasn’t up to much this morning, but Jackie persuaded me to go for a drive this afternoon. Most of the areas to the east that we normally visit were far too crowded either to park or to photograph with ease.

The exception was the village of Pilley where

ponies spilled across the road outside the Community Shop. The pair occupying the centre of the tarmac completely ignored passing traffic. Tails used as whisks, stamping of hooves, and amazing tolerance were the main defences against the gathering fly population.

____________

Later, I redrafted the third episode of my life story.

There was no National Health Service when my mother brought me home to her parents seven weeks after my birth. It did not come into being until I was six years old. The necessary treatment was free because Dad was in the Army.

We came home to rationing, described thus by Wikipedia: ‘To deal with sometimes extreme shortages, the Ministry of Food instituted a system of rationing. To buy most rationed items, each person had to register at chosen shops and was provided with a ration book containing coupons. The shopkeeper was provided with enough food for registered customers. Purchasers had to take ration books with them when shopping, so the relevant coupon or coupons could be cancelled.’

Excepting only vegetables and bread, every consumer item we now take for granted, from food to furniture; from suits to sweets; from butter to Brylcreem; was in such short supply that if you had insufficient specific stamps there could be no purchase.

This is a pictorial image from http://bookcoverimgs.com/food-ration-books-ww2/ displaying one adult’s weekly food allowance per week. There was some variation in quantity according to supply, but this was probably the correct allocation when I was a baby and couldn’t eat any of it anyway.

In the early summer of 1943, my Dad may have been on official leave from the army, in which he spent the war years and a couple more. It is he in whose arms I seem to be struggling in this photograph. Mum, who was there at the time, assures me that I knew Dad well and was fond of him, so I must just have been distracted as the picture was being taken by my maternal grandfather. It is not every child of those years who had the opportunity to form a relationship with his father. I will always be grateful for that, and for the efforts my parents went to to nurture it.

Grandpa Hunter not only held the camera, but he developed the film and printed the shot in a complicated darkroom process.

This of course was long before four year olds like Malachi, his great-great-grandson, who had his own WordPress blog, could take a colour photo with a mobile phone, download it, and post it around the world on the very same day.

This evening we dined on succulent Hunter’s Chicken; boiled potatoes; firm cauliflower, and tender runner beans, with which Jackie finished the Sauvignon Blanc, and I finished the Syrah.

A Knight’s Tale (2: I May Not Have Existed)

I was seven weeks premature, and weighed 5 pounds, 6 ounces. Those weeks were spent in hospital with my mother, who I believe suffered from eclampsia, yet who was told by nurses not to worry and that she should bring me back when I was twenty-one because I would grow to be over 6 foot, dark, and handsome. The first two points are objectively true; the third is subjective. This was perhaps the first time I was lucky to survive.

Like all infants, I was totally oblivious of the world around me. I was aware only of food, excreta, and sleep. Even when I discovered my fingers I didn’t know they were mine.

Rather later, I came to understand that I had been born slap bang in the middle of one of the most important events of world history. Not only was WW2 a terrible conflagration inflicting enormous hardship on my young parents, but it changed the shape of the world and the interrelations of its peoples forever. Had this not happened, my parents, and those of many wartime babies, would never have met.

Firstly it is worth noting that had my father not survived, for example, Dunkirk in 1940, I would not have existed. This was the period, from 27th May to 4th June, when it seemed that almost everything that floated left the south coast of England to sail or stagger across to France to gather up our retreating soldiers under fire from the beach.

This flotilla of 700 little ships consisting of merchant marine and fishing boats, pleasure craft and lifeboats, assisted in the rescue of 338,000 British and French troops cornered by the German army. Some simply ferried waiting soldiers, some of whom stood shoulder deep in water for hours awaiting their turn, to the larger ships waiting off shore.

Others carried their passengers all the way to Ramsgate.

Many of these vessels had not been in the open sea before and often leaked especially alarmingly for a non-swimmer like Dad. His job in the evacuation process, until his turn came to clamber onto an ancient fishing boat and pray all the way across the Channel, was to repeatedly drive out to and beyond the front line to load his truck with exhausted comrades.

The only story my father ever told about this experience or anything else from the war was that each time he drove back to the invading front from the packed beach, the German voices grew ever nearer, until he drove his vehicle into a ditch and legged it to join a queue for the leaky vessel that took him back to Blighty. He was 22 years old.

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It is perhaps apt that I should feature the second instalment of my life story today, because this was the first occasion post-Covid 19 that Elizabeth has been able to bring our mother to our home for a visit.

Mum was able to see much of the garden colour, and was intrigued by the idea of a water feature operating from solar panels. She knew she had been to a garden like this before, but wasn’t sure it was ours. She congratulated Jackie on her creation.

One bonus of having a small group together is that we can enjoy different conversations and silent moments without pressure to focus on one person.

We even briefly included Danni and Ella in a FaceTime conversation with Mum. I wondered how many people approaching their 99th birthday could enjoy the experience of communicating with their 2 year old great granddaughter in this manner.

Jean was shyly appreciative of the complimentary messages of goodwill sent by so many people from around the world via this blog.

She was also delighted by the posy Jackie prepared for her to take home.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s flavoursome sausage casserole; boiled new potatoes; sautéed mushrooms, leeks, and peppers with crisp broccoli. The Culinary Queen drank more of the Sauvignon Blanc and I drank more of the Syrah.

A Knight’s Tale (1 : “A Sneaky Weekend”)

On another blisteringly hot day, before the sun was fully up, I produced

a dozen current garden views from above.

Later, Jackie occupied herself planting and watering, while I carried out some dead heading. These activities were continued at intervals throughout the day.

Some years ago, now, encouraged by a number of my readers, I began work on an autobiography reflecting the era of my life so far. Eventually I came to a seemingly unsurpassable crossroads.

I have now decided to publish extracts from my draft, in occasional instalments, making use of some material previously posted and further thoughts and details, of which this is the first:

During the early 1940s members of my father, Douglas Michael Knight’s, generation were doing what those of his father had done before, namely fighting to save the life of our country, and, indeed, the whole world, from the might of Germany and its allies.

My maternal grandfather, an engineer in the prison service, was attached to Leicester Prison. As such he and his family including my mother, Jean, née Hunter, were allocated prison quarters.

Dad was billeted for a while next door. The teenaged neighbour must have aroused his interest, because, on 7th July, 1942, I was born in Leicester General Hospital. The above photographs were taken around this time.

Wherever he was stationed, Mum tells me, Dad took every opportunity when in England to get home to Mum and me and, later, Chris. If he had no official leave, this involved nipping off for what she calls “a sneaky weekend”. Apparently he found all kinds of means to do this, often involving the railway services. On one occasion when he couldn’t find any sort of train he walked all through the night from ‘somewhere in Yorkshire’ to Leicester for the pleasure. Dad himself has told me about marathon nocturnal walks to Leicester.

Mum’s part in the subterfuge was to keep a lookout for redcaps, as were termed the military police, one of whom was her elder brother Ben. I guess discovery could have been awkward.

__________

Later this afternoon, having read more of David Copperfield, I scanned the next four of Charles Keeping’s illustrations.

‘What was my amazement to find, of all people on earth, my aunt there, and Mr Dick!’

‘I observed Agnes turn pale, as she looked attentively at my aunt’

‘Mr Micawber had prepared, in a wash-hand-stand jug, a ‘Brew’ of the agreeable beverage for which he was famous’

‘I replied, ‘I, Miss Mills!’ I have done it!’ – and hid my face from the light, in the sofa cushion’

This evening we dined on Jackie’s luscious liver and bacon; boiled new potatoes; tender broccoli and cabbage, with which she drank more of the Sauvignon Blanc, and I drank Valle Central Syrah Reserva Privada 2019

Stable Yard Aroma

After an early start when Jackie concentrated on watering and I dug out a couple of brambles, we called a halt on gardening and drove to Rosie Lea for a very enjoyable full English brunch which, even under the open shelter had us oozing in the heat.

We then set off for the Rhinefield Ornamental Drive, but didn’t get very far. Our first encounter with

desperately sheltering sun-dappled ponies clustered together for protection against insufferable flies came immediately after leaving Brockenhurst on the Rhinefield Road.

A little further along, beside Whitemoor Pond Car Park where Jackie waited in the Modus, I walked around a pool inhaling the stable yard aroma sucked from the panting, pulsating, hides of ponies, including Shetlands, and Highland cattle, by the unrelenting 29C heat.

As usual, the larger Highlanders hogged the water while the poor native ponies patiently waited their turn on the banks. Sometimes, even those paddling, seemed unable to hold up their heads, or to be bothered to drink.

The still water scarcely summoned the energy to raise a ripple.

I went off the idea of a walk in the woods and we returned home. While I drafted this, Jackie watched TV Garden Rescue programmes, pausing them every 45 minutes to move the garden sprinkler hose.

As usual, after a hearty brunch, a light salad sufficed for our evening meal.

A Ship In A Bottle

Some 100 yards or so to the east along Christchurch From our house lies the entrance to a series of quarry pits. Our friend Giles has learned that three of the pits have been filled with water and converted to bird sanctuaries. In recent months a series of gates into the woodland have appeared. I imagined that these may provide access to the waters. This morning I walked along to investigate. Each one of the gates bears a digital padlock on the inside.

The last two of these images show the dried ditch. Remaining enticed by views beyond the gates, I returned home thinking that further research would be in order.

A bonus was that I met and enjoyed a lengthy conversation with our next door neighbours, Laraine and David, from whom we have been largely in Covid-induced isolation for too many months.

Jackie continued work in the garden and later photographed the Brick Path which has become quite slippery. The first of these shots shows a completed section; the second, work in progress; and the third what was still to be done.

From later afternoon until early this evening, The Head Gardener continued her task to completion among the essential shade.

These three scenes comprise the southern, central, and northern, sections of the thoroughfare, which I photographed.

After lunch I had previously toured with my camera.

Slightly left of centre in this picture we see a rather spindly Jacqueline du Pré rose which was being choked by Japanese anemones. Jackie removed the invaders and bagged them up for the stack of garden refuse destined for the dump. I carried them across to join the others, and

photographed them while I was at it. These, containing material too woody for compost, have all been packed in the last fortnight.

Hydrangeas and hanging baskets need frequent watering during this hot weather which now warrants a government Amber heat warning.

Phlox of various hues are really flourishing; Rhapsody in Blue flowers again.

One day lily has penetrated the aluminium latticework of a bench on the lawn. Rather like a ship in a bottle it would have been neatly folded to facilitate entry before its sails were unfurled.

Before settling down to drinks in the Rose Garden, Jackie photographed a ladybird, perched higher than either of us, waiting for a sunflower to open.

We dined on flavoursome liver and bacon; boiled potatoes; cauliflower and carrots al dente; and tender cabbage, with which Jackie drank more of the Sauvignon Blanc and I finished the Shiraz.

Signage

This is the footpath to the centre of the Palm Bed that we cleared yesterday.

On another scorching hot day we began the gardening early. My contribution was a dead heading tour, a certain amount of weeding, and a little clearing up.

After lunch I scanned the next five of Charles Keeping’s illustrations to David Copperfield.

‘She drew the harp to her, and played and sang’

‘Mr Peggotty smoothed her rich hair with his great hard hand’ displays such tender emotion’

‘Mr, Peggotty, with his vest torn open, his hair wild, and blood trickling down his bosom, looked fixedly at me’ depicts horror and despair.

‘Miss Dartle gently touched her, and bent down her head to whisper’

‘I drank in every note of her dear voice, and she sang to me who loved her’

After this, I wandered around with my camera, picturing

various scenes, each of which is titled in the gallery;

a. bee clambering onto an eryngium;

planters that currently need watering twice daily;

the water fountain that Jackie cleaned;

and the brick pillar in Elizabeth’s Bed that the Head Gardener removed from further back in this plot and rebuilt with a refurbished sign. Other refreshed signage includes the Old Post House and Aaron’s Garden labels placed on the arch taking us into the garden from the Back Drive. The kitchen table is a makeshift studio.

This evening we dined on Thai prawn and pollock fish cakes; smoked haddock; oven chips; and toothsome cauliflower, runner beans, and peas, with which Jackie drank more of the Sauvignon Blanc and I drank more of the Shiraz.

Drivers’ Guide

Knowing how hot it would be today we began early in the garden. My contribution was dead heading and a little clearing up.

Bees were early risers, too. Here one lands on lavender and another homes in on salvia.

Lilies are now blooming in the Patio Bed, and Special Anniversary rose has responded well to the recent care.

Later this morning we bought eggs, vegetables and salad ingredients at Ferndene Farm Shop and continued for a brief forest drive.

This picture of cyclists pushing their steeds up Holmsley Passage demonstrates why there is no safe passing space on this much-nibbled road.

In the silence of sun-dappled Bisterne Close, a trio of ponies tore hungrily at their breakfast grass. An unusual bird cry I think may have been an owl, answered by another from quite some distance.

Walkers and cyclists passed me on Cotts Lane while I photographed foraging ponies. It became crowded enough around the Modus for me to wonder whether I would able to return to my seat. Eventually Jackie shifted the car.

As usual in very hot weather, ponies gathered under the trees providing a canopy across Forest Road. This caused considerable consternation among visitors, and I found myself guiding some drivers through their necessary slalom. The woman in the header picture needed to clear the equine legs not quite visible in the left foreground, and straighten up without butting the rear of the animal to the right. She was quite grateful.

After lunch we tackled more path clearance, and this evening Jackie occupied herself watering many of the plants and containers.

We dined on a second helping of yesterday’s Red Chilli takeaway meal with which I drank Kingfisher and Jackie drank Haraszthy Suvignon Blanc 2020.

Motherhood

Traffic jams are a rarity in The New Forest. This summer we can expect many more on account of Covid-induced staycations. We learned this on our way to Helen and Bill’s at Fordingbridge this morning as we took the direct route through Ringwood to give Bill his birthday presents. We stayed and chatted for a while with sister and brother-in-law and our niece Rachel before returning home through the forest where we spent an equally lengthy period driving in circles around bewildering diversions.

As a bonus Helen and Bill gave me my birthday presents that they had not yet been able to deliver.

Soon after leaving Walkford on the Ringwood Road, queuing to cross the A35, I had plenty of opportunity to photograph the roadside verges. It was clear that vast numbers were travelling between Bournemouth and Southampton. This was underlined when it took 45 minutes to traverse the major roundabout feeding the A31 – ten times what would normally be expected. Much impatient graunching of handbrakes and honking of horns rent the air. Once more I enjoyed leisure to focus on the

varied verge-flora, discarded food packaging, municipal hanging baskets, and streaming traffic. Once past the roundabout we experienced a smooth run to our destination whilst pitying drivers “creeping like snail unwillingly” to the blockage from the Salisbury direction.

On our return journey we found ourselves fairly frequently at the top of Blissford Hill, where outside The Foresters Arms donkeys gathered as they often do.

Three proud mothers guarded their foals; another’s time had not yet come. Another relied on vehicles to skirt her offspring occupying the tarmac.

Ponies at North Gorley grazed among buttercups.

In order to avoid Lyndhurst we took a lane through Midhurst, along which I had regularly walked miles in my more able-bodied days.

This evening we dined on another excellent takeaway meal from Red Chilli. My choice was Tandoori King Prawn Naga, special fried rice, and plain paratha, accompanied by Paarl Shiraz 2020; Jackie’s was sag chicken, sag bhaji, and sag ponir, with which she finished the Sauvignon Blanc.

Hoverflies Can Stand The Heat

This afternoon seemed even too hot for bees. Jackie continued her garden maintenance work. My contribution included trimming the edges of the lawn, a modicum of dead heading, and acting as the Head Gardener’s bagman, to and fro the compost bins.

We enjoyed, however, a host of hoverflies, seen here on For Your Eyes Only, Verbena Bonariensis, red carpet rose, Rosa Gallica, and a Marguerite.

One of the few bees in evidence took a rest on a somewhat chewed hemerocallis leaf.

Later this afternoon, I scanned the next four of Charles Keeping’s illustrations to Dickens’s David Copperfield.

Writhing as Dickens describes, ‘He sat, with that carved grin on his face, looking at the fire’.

‘Miss Murdstone marched us into breakfast as if it were a soldier’s funeral’. Keeping’s portrait is true to his earlier ones.

‘The street was not as desirable a one as I could have wished it to be’

‘Traddles cut the mutton into slices; Mr Micawber covered them with pepper, mustard, salt, and cayenne’

This evening we dined on tender roast beef; fried potatoes and onions; crisp Yorkshire pudding; firm carrots, broccoli, and runner beans, with which I finished the Shiraz and Jackie drank more of the Sauvignon Blanc.