Ian returned to Southbourne for work this morning. After lunch Jackie and I drove to Tesco for some shopping, and continued into the forest.
As we turned into Hordle Lane yellow-brown ochre clouds flung a hatful of
every kind of precipitation at our windscreen as photographed by Jackie. Sleet and snow were lashed by brisk gusts of north wind making the 6C degree dropped temperature feel much colder.
During an apparent cessation I left the car to photograph an eponymous sculpture on Woodcock Lane, and was soon beset by further soft white flakes and ice-hard pellets which spared the ubiquitous laurel blossoms.
I wandered around the rippling Wootton stream alongside which a pair of discarded wellies aroused speculation. Lengthy striate arboreal shadows criss-crossed water surfaces and cropped banks alike. The last picture in this gallery is by Jackie.
Fluffy cotton clouds soon replaced the earlier heavily laden ones as cerulean skies returned.
The widening of the A35 bridge at Holmsley, scheduled to be completed next week will not now be finished before June. The causeway leading to it is not normally a road on which it is sensible to stop. Now it is closed we were able to sneak along it and I could nip out and photograph the woodland and its denizens below.
The landscape of Longslade Heath was dotted with grazing and reclining ponies.
South Sway Lane’s verges were enhanced by robins and primroses.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s beef pie meal and/or chicken and vegetable stewp with which I drank Patrick Chodot Fleurie 2019.
On this third dull afternoon as winter attempts a resurgence tomorrow Jackie and I took a forest drive after collecting repeat prescriptions from Milford Pharmacy.
Alongside Angel Lane, where we spotted our first clump of bluebells, a pair of forest horses lunched on hay heaps.
Silent crows perched beside Milford Road.
Jackie photographed me photographing oyster catchers and gulls against the backdrop of the Isle of Wight from Tanners Lane where she also pictured
blackthorn in a hedge, and I focussed on a friendly guide leading a young rider.
A couple of donkeys crossed from one side of the lane to the other in order to squabble over a row of chopped carrots. The loser didn’t get much of a look in.
When I disembarked in Sowley Lane to photograph a ploughed field. one pheasant nipped into a hedge and anther enhanced to field landscape. The fourth of this set of pictures is Jackie’s.
A pair of thirsty ponies enjoyed a meal of cold soup in the pool at the corner of St Leonard’s and Norley Wood Roads.
On the roof of the shed of a house opposite we noticed a boat weather vane, and while waiting for a tractor further along I photographed more blackthorn.
As we swung round Lymington River a cormorant stretched its wings atop a red buoy.
For dinner this evening the Culinary Queen produced her wholesome beef and onion pie; boiled potatoes; crunchy carrots and cauliflower; and tender cabbage with which she and Ian drank Hoegaarden and I drank Azinhaga de Ouro Reserva 2019.
Staircase locks are used where a canal needs to climb a steep hill, and consist of a group of locks where each lock opens directly into the next, that is, where the bottom gates of one lock form the top gates of the next. Foxton Locks are the largest flight of such staircase locks on the English canal system.
The Grade II* listed locks are a popular tourist attraction and the county council has created a country park at the top. At the bottom, where the junction with the arm to Market Harborough is located, there are two public houses, a shop, trip boat and other facilities.’
On the day Sam guided Pacific Pete down this staircase, family visitors were out in force. For once I was ahead of my son, and reached the locks in time to learn that the canal-side telegraph was buzzing with the news that a large rowing boat was on its way through.
The audience gathered to watch Sam use his giant oar to steer and propel the boat through the locks where there was no room to row.
Did you notice the Asian man gesturing to his family in the third picture, and shepherding them over the bridge in the last, in order to lead them down the slope to see the rower on his way?
There had been no shortage of helpers to push the long balance beams operating the gates.
There were plenty of narrow boats on the waters, but no other ocean-going rowing boats.
Much of this afternoon was spent on the administration required to access the funds from Mum’s estate. An hour was spent in Barclay’s Bank in Lymington. Before then, Ian, who had driven me, pointed out that I had erroneously entered Lloyd’s Bank. We then had to find Barclay’s. Next, I had to wait for the one available advisor who asked me for I.D. I had no satisfactory photographic evidence and my NatWest Visa card wasn’t acceptable. Furthermore I should be dealing with the bank’s bereavement team. The only three comparatively local branches capable of this were located at Southampton, Ringwood, and Bournemouth.
The very helpful staff member took all my details, filled in a form, scanned this and the grant application document, e-mailed these to the bereavement team, and gave me the direct line number to phone them. I did that when we returned home and was informed that Mum’s account would be freed and I would be sent confirmation of this with the final balance.
I then telephoned the Premium Bond offices to free our mother’s funds in their account. I will be sent forms to complete for this.
Later, I scanned the next three of Charles Keeping’s illustrations to ‘Bleak House’.
‘The Sol’s Arms’
‘ ‘My dear friend,’ says Grandfather Smallweed’
‘Miss Flite’
This evening we all dined on Jackie’s smoked haddock; creamy mashed potato; piquant cauliflower cheese; crunchy carrots and tender runner beans, with which the Culinary Queen drank M & S rosé and I drank more of the Tulga.
Last night’s concert by The Manfreds at Christchurch’s refurbished Regent Theatre was a wonderful event.
Becky had left a letter for my old friend Tom McGuinness, one of the two original members of Manfred Mann, the other being Paul Jones, both men defying their eighty years. My daughter had informed Tom that I would be in the audience. Taking a break from marketing their albums at the interval, Tom joined us briefly in the foyer before returning to the stage for the second half.
The audience consisted largely of the generations for whom the classic songs were all familiar, and, as such, it wasn’t too difficult for Paul, who worked us brilliantly to have the choruses ringing away by the end of the evening.
I was permitted to take photographs, but not to use flash. Consequently a great deal of culling of my images was necessary. Here are
the most salvageable. Individual performers are titled in the gallery.
Firm friends at St. Mary’s, Russell Road primary school, Tom McGuinness and I went up to Wimbledon College together and gradually drifted apart because our adolescent interests were so different.
We spent many happy hours in each other’s homes, often swapping gruesome American horror comics. We made forbidden trips such as once when, still in primary school we got lost on Wimbledon Common. We couldn’t find our way home, and I did not return until 9 p.m., by which time my parents had involved the police in a search. Had we had a dog then my dinner would have been in it. I was sent straight to bed without a meal, but fortunately Mum relented and brought me a delicious tray of home-cooked food. Somehow that beats breakfast in bed.
We swam in the public swimming baths in Latimer Road. In many ways we were inseparable.
On my 69th birthday 1n 2011 a small party gathered for a meal at the home of Andy and Keith at Saint Aubin de Cadaleche, not far from Sigoules. We had a spontaneous U tube game. Each, in turn would choose a song or piece of music. Keith would then bring it up on U tube and we would all listen or sing along. One of my selections was a Manfred Mann number. Up it came, and there he was, Tom in all his ’60s black and white glory, complete with Hank Marvin specs. This reminded me of my discovery that my old friend, so soon after leaving school, had become a pop star. Turning on the television one day in 1964, that very same number was playing. Tom was a member of the group. His own website and that of The Blues Band or The Manfreds can tell you far more about him than I can. I will confine myself to my own memories.
It was thirty years before we were, thanks to Jessica, to meet again. He was then playing in The Blues Band. This was a group got together by Paul Jones for a one-off blues gig. Several decades on, they are still going strong. On stage Paul and Tom continue to defy their years. This group made an annual trip to the Newark Palace Theatre. Jessica got in touch with their agent, told him I lived in Newark, and Tom came up early and spent the day with us, providing tickets for the show. As Paul thought Tom rather skittish during the performance, he told the audience that they would have to excuse him because he had just met up with an old friend after many years. On another occasion, reminiscing on stage about his time at Wimbledon College, looking straight up at me in Malcolm Anderton’s box, Tom said: ‘Where else can you get an A level in guilt?’.
A talented guitarist, lyricist, and composer, Tom is also the author of a book, still regarded as essential reading for would-be popular musicians, entitled: ‘So You Want To Be A Rock & Roll Star’, a copy of which he gave me.
Elizabeth gave me another for Christmas 2021.
On 26th March 2022 Tom and I were to meet again when he performed with The Manfreds at Christchurch’s Regent Theatre.
This warm and sunny afternoon I took a walk around the garden with my camera.
Two days ago Martin had returned to work in the garden after a three week Covid isolation period following a positive test. He began work on the west side of the Back Drive, then
cut the long overdue grass.
I also photographed the still blooming winter flowering cherry; a golden euphorbia; glowing hellebores and daffodils; an upright hyacinth and muscari; two of our many camellias; clumps of tulips and primroses, and
the Brick and Gazebo Paths.
This evening, after snacking on pasties, Becky, Ian, and I will set off to Christchurch’s Regent Theatre to watch https://www.themanfreds.com
Should anyone wish to follow this link, my old friend Tom is in the centre of the header picture.
Later I scanned the next four of Charles Keeping’s inimitable illustrations to ‘Bleak House’
‘Rolling up the slip of paper, Mr Guppy proceeds’
‘Mr Jellyby groaned, and laid his head against the wall again’
‘ He went bareheaded against the rain’
‘O Horror, he IS here!’ depicts the discovery of an incident of spontaneous combustion.
‘One of the true believers in spontaneous combustion was Charles Dickens, who even killed off Krook, the alcoholic rag dealer in Bleak House, by means of a fire that left nothing of the old man except an object looking like a “small charred and broken log of wood.” Dickens had read everything he could find on the subject and was convinced that its veracity had been proved. His description of the demise of Krook was based closely on that of an Italian aristocrat, Countess Cornelia di Bandi, who was consumed by a fireball in her bedroom. Her case was reported in 1731 by a clergyman called Giuseppe Bianchini, and subsequently translated by a famous Italian poet and Fellow of the Royal Society, Paolo Rolli,’ whose version appears in full at https://www.mentalfloss.com/article/564288/charles-dickens-bleak-house-spontaneous-combustion-death
Dickens’s description follows that of Rolli to the letter.
Ian rejoined us this afternoon. Jackie produced tasty liver and bacon casserole; creamy mashed potatoes; crunchy carrots; and firm Brussels sprouts, cauliflower and broccoli with which she and Ian drank Hoegaarden, Becky drank Zesty, and I drank more of the Tulga.
In March 2004 my son Sam completed a solo row of the Atlantic, covering 3,000 miles in 59 days. In doing so, at the age of 23, he became the youngest person ever to have rowed any ocean and won the solo race. The previous summer he had taken delivery of his specially crafted boat at Henley and, with his friend James on board, rowed it to Newark along the linked canals and rivers. I had walked alongside collecting sponsorship. This was an 11 day trek over a distance of 215 miles.
En route Mum telephoned me. As often when someone rings a mobile phone her first question was: ‘where are you?’. Now, Mum didn’t realise what we were doing, so she was somewhat surprised when I replied: ‘well Mum, I’m in the middle of a field of head high thistles and stinging nettles – and I’ve got a dustbin on my back’. I then went on to explain that what I had thought was a simple matter of a stroll along towpaths involved some pretty scary diversions, one of which I was in; and the dustbin was meant to collect donations from all the people we would encounter en route. Unsurprisingly there were no donors in this field. I had got myself into this predicament as it had seemed a better option than a field with a bull in it. Upon encountering the bull I had crawled under a barbed wire fence, chucking the dustbin over first, and come to this. I then had to waste more precious minutes ferreting around for those few coins that had been in the dustbin. As I couldn’t see above the undergrowth to gather how far it stretched there seemed nothing else but to press on. Going back would have meant more of the same. Of course, I hadn’t got a clue where I was when I eventually emerged, so I knocked at the nearest house for directions. The woman who answered the door took one look at me, dashed inside, and bolted the door. When I reflected that, quite apart from wearing nothing but sandals and a pair of shorts, and being covered in bleeding scratches, I was sporting a dustbin, I began to see her point.
Just to add insult to injury, t-shirt-and-shorts-clad Louisa and her friends, in a couple of hours outside Nottingham’s waterfront pubs, collected far more money than I had managed on my magnificent effort.
Sam took delivery of the specially designed rowing boat at Henley on Thames, and off we set on a fine Summer’s afternoon around the time of my 61st birthday. He and his friend James took the boat, whilst I walked along what I had hoped would be the footpath. I soon discovered that the banks of the River Thames and the Oxford Union canal were not as smooth and foliage free as that branch of London’s Regent’s Canal alongside which I had trained for the event.
The stretch along which I followed this couple was plain sailing in comparison with what I had to battle through when talking to Mum.
Elderly lock gates, green tresses dripping with possibly unsavoury water, were to be a regular feature of the journey. This was quite useful, as it gave me an opportunity to catch up.
Waterfowl were plentiful;
a woolly goat, or perhaps a sheep, suckled its young;
