In the vicious postprandial heat I ventured on a garden hunt for butterflies and bees, which had been more present earlier in the day when we were clearing clippings and bagging them up for disposal.
Only two Peacocks and one bee settled in view during the half hour in which I was prepared to stick it out.
This afternoon we drove to Helen and Bill’s home at Fordingbridge to deliver a birthday present for our brother-in-law. He appeared to be asleep and Helen was out, so we left it in the porch.
We returned home via the forest.
Outside The Fighting Cocks at Godshill a group of ponies queued for a drink until
one became frisky and was rebuffed, while
another joined those waiting for a bus opposite.
Two walkers with a dog passed ponies on the green at Hale.
We followed another little and large pair on Tethering Drove, until they entered Broughton Gorse and led me to other equines in the adjacent landscape, one of which had succumbed to sleep,
as had two of our regular friends the Gloucester Old Spots slumbering at the Cadnam end of Roger Penny Way.
This evening we dined on oven fish and chips, peas, and pickled cucumbers and onions, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank Banks’s Amber Bitter.
It was hot and sultry outside enough to prevent me from undertaking anything other than photographing
a few flowers which are named in the gallery.
This evening we dined at Lal Quilla with Becky, Flo, Danni, and Elizabeth. The meal was a very happy birthday party for Jackie, Danni and me. I haven’t registered who ate or drank what, but we all enjoyed the food, the conversation, and the event.
On a scorching 25th July 2012, Elizabeth drove me to Southampton airport where I boarded a plane to Bergerac to be met by Lydie, my very reliable French taxi driver, waving her arms and striding across the tarmac to embrace me. She is, incidentally, about a foot shorter than me with the grip of a bear. I had to drop my bag. Before paying I asked her to deliver me to the Credit Agricole cash machine in Sigoules market square. Still dopy from the plane, I entered the wrong pin number. I searched in my trouser pocket for the correct one, hidden in an electronic device. So well hidden, that by the time I had retrieved it I had run out of time. Lydie patiently waiting in the taxi. Me scrabbling in my trousers, concerned that I was keeping her waiting. An Englishman just off the plane. I had to start again. The machine gobbled my card.
I had given Lydie a list of trips for my friend Don, joining me next week, and me up to 14th. August, the first being in three days time. ‘No problem’, she said, ‘Saturday will do.’ Unfortunately this bank is only open two mornings a week , and the next day wasn’t one of them. Any visit there also had to wait until Saturday. Now, my French account is with Barclays. I originally opened this in Bergerac. Sometime the previous year I discovered that that branch no longer does everyday banking. Without my knowledge my account had been transferred to Paris. I could walk to Bergerac, but no way was I walking to Paris. There was, therefore, nothing for it that day but to telephone my personal banking manager in Paris. Despite what it says on his card he wasn’t there. There followed conversations with two different, very helpful, women interspersed with holding, biligual, messages. Thank goodness, with their English and my French, we got by. My card had been cancelled and I would be sent a new one which would cost 16 euros. So far, so good. But. They could only send it to England, not to my house in France. If I could get to Bordeaux, two and a half hours drive away, I would be able to collect my replacement card there. Patiently, oh, so patiently, I explained that Bordeaux was a very long way away, I had no car, and NO MONEY. Ah. I could, however, use my chequebook, I was assured, without the card, although some people would not accept cheques for small sums like 2 euros. Throughout this I naturally remained my usual calm, unflappable, self.
(It took nine months for me to receive my new card. The bank would not accept my Council Tax receipts as proof of residence because these documents gave a similar, incorrect address, and that is where Barclays insisted on sending correspondence. NatWest does not have French branches.)
I then drew 90 euros on my NatWest account. This, of course, will cost me a transfer fee. And I had just transferred almost everything in my current account in England to my French one in order to pay for replacement shutters and windows, the work to start in two days time. I may even go into overdraft, incurring another fee, despite having more than enough in a special interest bearing account which earns peanuts. Now I knew why NatWest had changed their Gold Account to a Black one. Somewhat stymied.
It was definitely time to visit my friend David in Le Code Bar. David readily allowed me to run up a tab for the duration of my stay and let me have cash if I needed it. Given that this is a very recent friendship I would call that a generous display of trust.
It was only a month since David and Frederick took over, renamed, and changed the face of what was La Renaissance. That establishment had been run by Joel and Nicole, an equally friendly, but more retiring couple. I believe they struggled because they were unable to keep the hours maintained by the current partnership, who are open all day and every evening seven days a week. They were perhaps less naturally gregarious than this new team. David spends much time chatting in a pleasantly unobtrusive way with the clientele. There is a lively, friendly, atmosphere and David and Frederick speak pretty good English. In Franglais we do rather well. The name, incidentally, is a wordplay on ‘barcode’. When David had explained that this was his idea I knew we would get on. A pool table upstairs attracts the younger element. The piped music is usually of French artistes performing English songs.Â
The lunchtime menu offered by Joel and Nicole was excellent and took some matching. I believe it had now been matched. This evening I began with classic French onion soup saved for me from midday, followed by a very good ham and egg salad. This was only the prelude to an enormous platter of chicken and chips which not even The Martin Cafe could have rivalled. Double-fried frites. Marvellous. In England the heart and liver are not included when you buy a bird to roast at home; I have often shredded and eaten the meat from the neck after boiling it up for stock; never have I had all three served up on a plate with a leg and part of the torso. Delicious. The chicken was not stuffed, but I was. I shouldn’t have finished the second basket of bread.
On another very hot, yet progressively overcast morning we drove to Otter Nurseries where Jackie bought herself another very long hose – this time on wheels to reduce carrying it about – for the garden.
We travelled on to Barton on Sea where I stationed myself
on a bench in order to attach my longest camera lens, while Jackie stayed nearer
of the grasses and the thrift that I pictured on the cliff edge from where I
beamed down on a number of visitors wishing to scorch themselves. I wonder what Barbara, Book Club Mom would make of the couple reading in deckchairs?
We each photographed sailboats in the haze against the Isle of Wight, Jackie,
who also picked out the beach huts at Mudeford, choosing The Needles and their lighthouse as her backdrop.
This evening we dined on starters of Chicken in Nando’s Lemon and herb sauce on Jackie’s savoury rice; followed by her spicy paprika pork, boiled potatoes and tender runner beans, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Shiraz.
Our Waterboy feature had been reduced to a mere trickle by the narrow pipe feeding the fountain from the pump being clogged up. Jackie spent much of
the morning clearing the blockages and restoring normal working order.
I dozed over an Iris Murdoch for most of this very hot day until 5 p.m. when I
adjudged it cool enough for a walk around the garden with my camera. These images all bear titles in the gallery.
Jackie had slept upstairs for a couple of hours, and, refreshed, suggested a drive to Puttles Bridge to investigate the condition of Ober Water, which,
although far shallower than usual contained just enough liquid for
a dog chasing a stick to create a splash.
Unfortunately the first thing I saw as I disembarked in the car park had been
a heap of discarded rubbish. There is of course a bin nearby.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy paprika pork served with boiled potatoes and tender runner beans, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Shiraz.
Jackie spent much of another very hot morning watering plants; I rendered some assistance with this, but mostly concentrated on dead heading and weeding down the Back Drive.
Along Sowley Lane we followed a tricyclist approached by a motorcyclist and bicyclists whom he acknowledged.
From St Leonard’s Road, with its dry verges,
beyond browning fields we had a clear view of the Isle of Wight and yachts on the Solent.
Tails twitching, cattle clustered, probably as protection from the irritating flies, in a field along Lodge Lane. One bothersome bovine, attempting to mount others, was repeatedly rebuffed.
Sunlight dappled treelined lanes like this unnamed one, which is why vehicles often keep their lights on as they constantly drive from darkness into light, and vice versa.
Among the moorland heather, gorse, and brambles, ponies – also coping with flies in the heat which seems to have exhausted a sleeping foal, consumed their vegan lunch.
After our trip we watched the Wimbledon men’s final between Novak Djokovic and Nick Kyrgios.
Our dinner this evening was similar to yesterday’s except that the Nando’s sauce was Peri Peri Lemon and herb with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank Swartland Shiraz 2020.
Before lunch Shelly visited with presents of what looks an excellent Penfolds Shiraz Cabernet and a box of Lily O’Brien’s delicious chocolate liqueurs.
After lunch I watched the Wimbledon Ladies’ Singles final between Elena Rybakina and Ons Jabeur. I then carried out dead-heading and weeding while Jackie watered numerous containers, facilitated by Flo’s having filled all the cans before she left on Tuesday. The Head Gardener then refilled them ready for the next session which will certainly be required tomorrow during our current very hot weather.
While touring the garden Jackie noticed and photographed
the myrtle blossom on the bush which has grown into a tree;
sunlight across the path to the Westbrook Arbour;
and the arrival of the still blind goldcrest chicks.
This evening we dined on chicken breasts in Nando’s Chilli and Garlic sauce on a bed of Jackie’s savoury rice with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the guv’nor.
As will be apparent, my scanner cannot take the entire width of the book so I have, perforce, trimmed each side taking care to nip off the less important elements.
The small volume was published in 1975 and therefore contains much nostalgia for one who grew up in London from 1942.
In order not to swamp readers today, the second half of the pages will be held over until tomorrow. All can be enlarged by accessing the gallery.
Yesterday morning Jackie was startled by a thud on the sitting room French windows. Knowing it would have been a bird she investigated and found a
stunned young thrush on the other side of the panes. After a while it flew off to the squawking of alarmed parents who could spot Mrs Knight inches away. They presumably could not see the glass either.
Service here was of variable quality. We were led to our table and served drinks by someone who was either not very well or would rather she or we were somewhere else. After a lengthy wait a much more friendly personality took our food order, giving us the useful and accurate advice when we each ordered sides of onion rings that one portion would be enough for both of us.
My choice was haddock, chips, and peas with Wadworth’s 6X beer; Jackie’s was beef burger and chips with Diet Coke. The peas were served chopped up, possibly without cooking, and so strongly minted that I chose not to eat them all. My Culinary Queen agreed with me.
Along the woodland lane at Bramshaw we encountered two donkeys with their foals grazing and suckling among the dappled sunlight,
which also cast shadows across healthy living trees and dead and broken trunks lining the route on the way to Nomansland,
where ponies seemed intent on blocking the road.
One mare and foal took their differing sustenance on the moorland beside Roger Penny Way where, as in many such a location,
ponies and foals clustered to shelter from heat and flies in their own dappled shade.
This evening we repeated yesterday’s dessert of fruit, cheesecake and cream with which I drank another glass of the guv’nor.
