Late yesterday afternoon Jackie had photographed the porcine weather vane on Bull Hill. Gloomy as it was there was no mist.
We began the day by visiting the Royal Mail Delivery Office very early. Jackie parked outside on Lymington High Street while I entered the office to do battle about the non-delivery card featured yesterday. This related to a package which had not born sufficient postage. I plonked the card on the counter, simply stating that I had followed directions and posted the card to them only to receive it back in our own letter box the next day. Saying nothing, the gentleman I had spoken to walked away and returned with the ‘package’ which bore no postage at all.
When I expressed surprise at what this was I did receive an apology and was not asked to prove my identity. Returning to the car I handed Jackie the item and made my sister Jacqueline’s morning by, through gritted teeth, thanking her kindly for her Christmas card which undoubtedly cost us more to collect than it had cost her to buy.
While waiting for me Jackie had photographed a foggy High Street.
She pulled over at Undershore Road while I continued my conversation with my sister and
photographed some boats on Lymington River.
A pack of cyclists emerged from the mist on South Baddersley Road.
We diverted to Tanner’s Lane
where I stepped out to photograph the beach and its environs, including a flotilla of geese and solitary silent gulls. The honking of the larger birds drew my attention to how quiet the morning was. The only other sounds we heard on the whole trip were the mournful notes of foghorns and the plops of mizzle moisture dripping onto soggy leaves.
Jackie photographed a corner of the beach, and me on the silently sliding shingle.
The drips rippling the eponymous Lake made no sound as we made our way along Sowley Lane.
We drove along St Leonard’s Road to the relics of the Grange. Cattle peered through the gloom, and pigeons perched on the roof of the barn.
Our familiar group of ponies with their Shetland acolyte trotted briskly past, close enough to become more visible.
Those at East Boldre remained obscured.
At East End the thatcher’s fox still kept its quarry in sight.
It was not yet 11 a.m. as we returned home along Southampton Road.
For dinner this evening we enjoyed another helping of Jackie’s delicious beef pie served with similar, fresh, vegetables to yesterday, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Tempranillo.