This morning Jackie drove me for a short trip into the forest.
Bovines basked among the browning bracken of Bull Hill.
One couple sat talking on the gravel of Tanners Lane beach;
another walked their dogs across it.
With the Isle of Wight and The Needles on the horizon, gentle waters gathered in the regular rock pools;
rippled the twinkling surface of the Solent, lapped the reflecting breakwaters, and darkened their closest pebbles, while
at a higher level charcoal encircled by larger stones remained as evidence of an attempt at a fire, perhaps laid for alfresco cooking the night before.
This white butterfly flitted along the lane until conveniently coming to rest among stones and autumn leaves. Is it a Green Veined White?
This afternoon Jackie drove Flo and Dillon to Lymington Registry Office to give Ellie’s birth its official status.
We dined on Hordle Chinese Take Away’s excellent fare with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Monte Plogar.
Today we tuned into BBC’s broadcast of the memorably, monumentally, reverential funeral service, bearing some of her own touches; and subsequent procession of the coffin of Queen Elizabeth II through the central London streets I know so well yet have never before experienced, albeit through the television screen, conveying such awesome silence but for the steady drumbeat timing the respectful, restrained, marching of so many dignitaries and others moving in measured unison; every individual participant and assembled group – such as the phalanx of naval personnel in unwavering blocks who replaced the horses which would normally have drawn the massive gun-carriage carrying the coffin – so perfectly choreographed, made their own contribution to the flawless production transmitted around the world in far more an immediate and widespread manner than would be possible for my blog.
At Hyde Park Corner the coffin was gently laid into the hearse which would convey the Queen’s body by roads lined with humble humanity to her final resting place, once more alongside her Consort, Prince Philip, in Windsor Castle’s St George’s Chapel
The escorting convoy was led by a trio of motorcyclists.
This evening we dined on succulent soft centred haddock fishcakes, creamy mashed potatoes, piquant cauliflower cheese, and crunchy carrots. with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank Cariñena Monte Plogar Gran Reserva 2016. Elowen permitting, Flo and Dillon will eat later.
Late this morning Jackie drove me to Hockey’s Farm Shop at Gorley Lynch for brunch.
The crocheted decoration on the pillar box on Wootton Road is now a tribute to the late Queen Elizabeth II;
next door, an owl keeps watch over the community notice board;
the gate of The Poplars on the corner of Middle Road opposite bears its own royal tribute.
Deer grazed in the field alongside the road to Gorley Common.
Several cricket matches were in progress.
Can you spot the high flying ball in this one at Hyde? Note the donkeys on the boundary.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy chicken Jalfrezi, with pilau rice, plain paratas, and vegetable samosas, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Fleurie. Flo and Dillon will eat later.
The 1970s was a decade in which the IRA carried out numerous bombing attacks in and around central London. A full list appears in https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_terrorist_incidents_in_London. While living in Soho’s Horse and Dolphin Yard we heard numerous explosions from the safety of our flat.
When younger, our King Charles III was very close to his Great Uncle Louis Mountbatten whose home, Broadlands is in Romsey, not far from us in The New Forest.
On 27th August 1979, their relationship was ended by an IRA bomb. Details of the event can be found in:
‘The gruesome 1979 IRA assassination of a beloved British royal—which took place the same day as a deadly coordinated attack on British troops—led to outrage, heartbreak and a heightening of “The Troubles,” the decades-long Northern Ireland conflict.
The Provisional Irish Republican Army claimed responsibility for the August 27, 1979 murder of Lord Louis Mountbatten, 79, Earl of Burma, great-grandson of Queen Victoria, second cousin of Queen Elizabeth II and great-uncle of King Charles III. The World War II hero and last viceroy of India was aboard his 29-foot Shadow Vfishing boat with six others near his summer home in northwest Ireland the morning of the attack.
A Sunny Day Turns Grim
Part of the wreckage of Lord Mountbatten’s boat the Shadow V after it had been bombed by the IRA in August 1979.Independent News and Media/Getty Images
August 27, 1979, a Bank holiday, had dawned sunny, following days of rain. “Dickie” Mountbatten and some of his family who had been staying at their holiday home, Classibawn Castle near the Village of Cliffoney, County Sligo in the Republic of Ireland, decided to take an outing on their boat to take in the good weather.
Fifteen minutes after setting sail, a planted bomb was activated by two members of the Provisional IRA, a paramilitary group of Irish nationalists who waged a terror campaign to drive British forces from Northern Ireland to create a united, independent nation. Known as “the Troubles,” the conflict raged for 25 years before IRA and loyalist ceasefires were initiated. By 1998, the year the Good Friday or Belfast Agreement settled the conflict, more than 3,600 people had died.’
This morning our friend Giles visited to collect me for a walk. Unfortunately his idea of flat terrain varied a little from mine.
The footpath from the Taddiford Gap was so narrow that when we met oncoming traffic, unable, like crows, to perch on a post, we needed to squeeze ourselves into rather awkward spaces.
Barbed wire fences lined either side of the path, so there was no point in grabbing theirs.
We walked along the path, watching others on the hilltops
and eventually arriving at the path alongside the clifftop with its view
across scintillating seascapes to the Isle of Wight and The Needles.
There we had the option of turning left
or right. This seemed the gentler route.
After we had passed the time of day with the walkers in the above two pictures, knowing that I had my limitations,
my concerned friend asked when I thought we would reach the halfway point of my capacity. “We’ve passed it”, said I. After a brief discussion we decided that turning back would involve slightly less distance than pushing on to Barton where it wouldn’t be very easy for him to pick me up.
It was no easier for him to pick me up outside the car park that was our starting point. At one point he suggested I rested on a tussock. “I wouldn’t be able to get up”, I replied.
Back I staggered and eventually with the end in sight, like the wobbling Italian Dorando Pietri in the 1908 London marathon, I fell over. And couldn’t get up. Considering the number of people we had met along the route, it was something of Sod’s law that no-one was around then.
Giles went hunting for a car driver while I turned myself onto my front, abused the knees of my pale fawn trousers and the elbows of my equally light hued linen jacket, and dragged myself to the the concrete post at the entrance to the car park. My hands clasping the top of the bollard I struggled, without success, to haul myself up.
Welcome voices heralded the arrival of my friend with Damien and his dog. The dog was confined to his owner’s car. The two men each took a hand and heaved – successfully. Back on my feet I was OK.
Now, when posting our trips over the last twelve months, I have not dwelt on the gradual decrepitude that has crept up on me. My knees really don’t work at all well, and remain painful, so any use after about twenty minutes is really tough. For “walk”, “stagger” should sometimes be substituted.
Today’s final photograph is of one of the last 6,000 surviving pillboxes of the 28,000 placed at strategic points across the country in anticipation of a German invasion during World War II. After that I needed all my concentration to end our journey.
You don’t have to know me very long to know that giving up is not in my repertoire. So I will continue to do what I can, but accept that I shall never take on such a walk again.
It was good to have done it again with my friend of more than 50 years.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s mild chicken jalfrezi, pilau rice, and parathas, with which she finished the Sauvignon Blanc, I drank more of the Fleurie, and Flo and Dillon abstained.
‘The Obscene Publications Act 1959 (c. 66) is an Act of Parliament of the United Kingdom Parliament that significantly reformed the law related to obscenity in England and Wales. Prior to the passage of the Act, the law on publishing obscene materials was governed by the common law case of R v Hicklin, which had no exceptions for artistic merit or the public good. During the 1950s, the Society of Authors formed a committee to recommend reform of the existing law, submitting a draft bill to the Home Office in February 1955. After several failed attempts to push a bill through Parliament, a committee finally succeeded in creating a viable bill, which was introduced to Parliament by Roy Jenkins and given the Royal Assent on 29 July 1959, coming into force on 29 August 1959 as the Obscene Publications Act 1959. With the committee consisting of both censors and reformers, the actual reform of the law was limited, with several extensions to police powers included in the final version.
The Act created a new offence for publishing obscene material, repealing the common law offence of obscene libel which was previously used, and also allows Justices of the Peace to issue warrants allowing the police to seize such materials. At the same time it creates two defences; firstly, the defence of innocent dissemination, and secondly the defence of public good.’ (Wikipedia)
My schooldays ended in July 1960, but even then, like every other schoolboy in the country I had keenly awaited the outcome of a trial due to take place later in the year of Penguin Books as the publisher of Lady Chatterley’s Lover, which publication in August had been prevented under the auspices of the above quoted legislation, thus ruining our summer holiday reading. All copies distributed before 16th were immediately withdrawn, pending the trial opening in November.
An entertaining and informative article from the New Yorker by Mollie Panter-Downes (surely an apt name) https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/1960/11/19/the-lady-at-the-old-bailey, gives an excellent eye-witness account of the proceedings which demonstrated how far certain sections of the judiciary had become distanced from the national mood.
In his summing up, the question put to the jurors by Counsel for the Prosecution, Mervyn Griffith-Jones, who was later to become a judge, as to whether they would wish their wives or their servants to read such a book, said it all.
Lawrence’s really rather mediocre novel was first published privately in Venice in 1928, but not until November 1960 could it be published in UK. Naturally the trial’s publicity boosted Penguin’s sales enormously.
This morning I shared https://www.thefeatheredsleep.com/grief-in-faces/ which is a sensitive and insightful tribute to Queen Elizabeth II and to all who have their own reasons to mourn. Such sharing is not my normal practice, but this most definitely warranted it.
Afterwards Jackie drove me to The Bridges, an historic area of Ringwood, where we met Helen, Bill, Shelly, Ron, and their friends Maggie and Pete, for lunch in what should be the picturesque Fish Inn.
the pub, in the process of thatching, is surrounded by protective scaffolding,
and oppressed by the road widening works on the A31.
It is possible for pedestrians to cross the bridge featured by Trip Advisor above
and look down on the rippling River Avon and its surroundings but as the 21st Century encroaches I fear for the future of this attractive area and its environs.
Everyone enjoyed our lunches. I restricted myself to one course in order to keep fit for tonight’s dinner. My battered haddock and chips was excellent, but I didn’t like the minted peas that came with it, so swapped them for some of Jackie’s onion rings. She likes these definitely non-mushy pulses. The other meals and desserts looked very good. I drank Butcombe best bitter, since it was good enough for Ron.
This evening we dined on racks of pork ribs with Jackie’s savoury rice with which she drank Diet Coke and I drank Patrick Chodot Fleurie 2021. The young couple ate later.
As a child I was acutely aware of grief in faces my grandmother staring into forest as they carried my grandfather’s suicide aloft, tarpaulin sagging where he gave up his struggle grief when my mother bowed her head at the foot of my bed telling me she was leaving, never to return you can’t claim…
This morning was again sunless, but this time rainless, as Jackie and I once more filled our Modus with soggy garden refuse which we unloaded at Efford Recycling Centre (otherwise known as the dump) and continued on a forest drive.
We turned left off Camden Lane into
another, which soon ran alongside private woodland. Clearly we were lucky to have progressed along this route, for a large tree had recently fallen across it.
Some pig farmers, responding to the early fall of acorns, had already loosed their animals in order, snuffling and snorting, to root them up.
Seven gleeful piglets dashed across the green, snouts to the ground.
The Gloucester Old Spot intent on dogging my heels must have been their mother.
I am not sure what she did to one youngster when their nose-rings clashed on one apparently tasty morsel, but the youngster leapt with a squeal in the air and swiftly trotted to a safe distance.
Its face made clear its shocked innocence.
Further on a Saddleback sow scavenged for mast.
Nearby it seemed clear that pigs could fly – up a tree at least.
The lane narrowed as we left the farm section and tracked the woodland. Suddenly I exclaimed “There is something red in there. I don’t know what it is but it might have legs”. We had by now passed it. My long-suffering Chauffeuse reversed with some difficulty until we reached the small gap in the hedge.
The “something red” had moved behind branches but it did have legs. Was it a young red deer? It unexpectedly displayed the curiosity of
This evening we dined on well cooked roast lamb, roast potatoes, carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli, followed by moist bread and butter pudding. Jackie drank more of the Sauvignon Blanc, I finished the Burgundy, and Dillon and Flo drank fruit cordial.
During the early 1990s Jessica and I enjoyed a number of holidays in Cumbria.
Our August 1992 holiday was spent at Towcett with Ali, Steve, and James.
On 18th August we climbed the fells from Haweswater where we made the acquaintance of
mountain sheep who looked rather more comfortable than I felt.
The youngsters, Louisa, naturally taking the lead, ascended with the help of mountain bikes
and the rest of us hiked.
As we know, Louisa is game for anything, but it looks as if she found this banana split, consumed at Tudor Restaurant, Penrith, rather daunting.
We stayed at Teal Cottage, one of the holiday homes in the grounds of Towcett House, the home of Jessica’s cousin Angie, and her then husband Viscount Hugh Lowther. There, Sam manufactured a bow and arrow and an archery contest soon got under way.
Louisa was first at the butts;
Sam followed;
and James brought up the rear.
Readers may be surprised at the tale of Hugh’s microlight. I was. Viscount Lowther was a microlight fanatic. A microlight is a very flimsy looking flying machine designed for two people. Hugh would study his route, fill up with fuel, and set off, like Baron Munchausen, in the direction of the moon, reappearing some hours later. He was quite keen that we should all have a trip. As I watched each member of the family in turn strap themselves into their seat, tune in their walkie talkie radio, and glide into the firmament, I determined that no way was I going to do the same. Eventually, of course, I was the only person who hadn’t been up. So I had to. I didn’t want to be thought of as chicken. After all, I had seen, and smelt from a great distance the battery chicken farm in Lowther Castle. Lowther Castle had, many years before, lost its roof, as a not uncommon measure to avoid paying a roof tax; it had post-1960, been converted to the rearing of battery hens.
You will have to excuse that little diversion. I didn’t really want to be reminded of my turn in the air. Hugh’s flying machine, in which he did become a remarkable man, was of the type in which the passenger sits above and behind the pilot. There is therefore nothing above the victim but the propeller system. In my case, I didn’t even have the shoulder strap, because it wasn’t long enough for me and had to be secured around my waist. I still have difficulty believing I actually did this. Then came the surprise. Communicating with Hugh by means of the portable radio kit, I had the sense that this rather unusual man was in complete control of his element, which made me feel safe. It is still not an experience I would wish to repeat, but the only slightly queasy moment I remember was when he directed me to look down onto the miniature cattle below. Actually it was rather more than slight queasiness, but subsided somewhat once I refocussed on the top of my driver’s head.
Another tale from this era concerned our attendance at a show event in the grounds of Hugh’s father, the 7th Earl of Lonsdale. Willie, Viscount Whitelaw of Penrith, was one of the dignitaries I recognised within the secure palisade surrounding the area.
When wandering around, I passed the entrance to a marquee just as an elegant gentleman dashed out unable to avoid a collision. Thus I met the Consort of the late Queen Elizabeth II. Neither I nor Prince Philip was harmed in any way.
Hugh Lowther inherited the Earldom of Lonsdale on the death of his father in 2006.
Perhaps following the principle exemplified by the raising of the castle roof mentioned above, ‘In May 2014, in order to pay an inheritance tax bill, he placed Blencathra, a mountain in the Lake District, and the title “Lord of the Manor of Threlkeld” for sale.[5] Ultimately, Lowther found other means to pay the bill and withdrew the mountain from sale.[2][3]
[The 8th] Lord Lonsdale died on 22 June 2021, at the age of 72.[2] As he had no sons capable of inheriting his titles, the earldom passed to his half-brother Hon. William James Lowther (born 9 July 1957) who is the son of the 7th Earl by his second wife.[3][6]‘ (Wikipedia)
