Ramblings
With today’s weather mirroring yesterday’s we stayed indoors and I made further progress with Germinal.
Here are the sample pages from Part IV. Again, clicking on any image will access the gallery enabling enlargement.
This evening we all dined on Red Chilli’s excellent home delivery which always arrives on time. My main course was Naga Chilli chicken, with which I drank more of the Shiraz.
This grey day was at least dry when we set off for my encouraging “all good” routine dental inspection from Dr Matthew Hefferan at Birchfield Dental Practice, followed by a forest drive.
This held good until, while photographing – judging by the dry sawdust – a clearly very recently fallen tree which must have straddled the lofty Braggers Lane earlier, I felt the first drops of what was to develop into steady heavy rain for the rest of the day.
Most field horses wore protective rugs in muddy fields.
Here are views from this high point of the lane.
Until we reached Thatchers Lane I stopped photographing the increasing circles dropping into pools, many completely crossing camber of lanes, but here we found their depths could not be discerned and Jackie was not about to chance discovering them.
We turned and headed to Ripley’s
water meadows now draped in the swollen River Avon.
Jackie parked on the entry to a private fishing area which we thought would stay closed for a while, while I got wet. She produced the last two photographs in this gallery.
This evening we all dined on piri-piri spicy marinaded chicken; creamy mashed potato; tender purple sprouting broccoli turning green when cooked; and a melange of mixed vegetables with which Jackie drank more of the rosé and I drank Mighty Murray shiraz.
I was out of bed and downstairs as quickly as I could be this morning, but
just missed the pinkest dawn.
These were, however, the clearest skies of a grey but dry day on which I made more progress on Emile Zola’s ‘Germinal’,
and scanned sample illustrated pages from Part 3, which can be enlarged with a click on any image to access the gallery.
This evening we all dined on meaty sausages; creamy white and sweet potato mash; piquant cauliflower cheese; crunchy carrots; tender spring greens, peas, and Brussels sprouts, with which Jackie drank Baywood Summer Berries fruity rosé and I finished the fitou.
With very few raindrops adding to yesterday’s deluge contribution on the roads, on the moors, and on the woodlands, despite the welcome sunshine, the gale force winds picking up made the temperature feel far more than the alleged seven degrees centigrade as we splashed out on an early forest drive.
It was round the corner into Hordle Lane that we first encountered tarmac awash with pools.
Having negotiated the Woodcock Lane junction, turning right into Silver Street,
Jackie deviated across the road into Agars Lane with its ancient high banked verges, where she was able to park giving me a good vantage
point for photographing vehicles spraying precipitation into the air.
After Barrows Lane reflecting the Parcel Force delivery van’s splash of colour I decided to focus on other scenes.
This meant a visit to Boundway Hill where we parked beside broken
limbs from an ancient oak tree that must have suffered the damage not too long ago.
Knowing that a fine woodland landscape would reward the effort, with some trepidation I ventured
down the soggy footpath towards
the welcome sight.
The surrounding woodland and its verges bore their share of reflecting pools.
On the way down to Brockenhurst, beside a gravelled road linking with the adjacent tarmac forming deep potholes,
foraged three ponies,
one sporting an erstwhile fashionable beard.
We hadn’t brunched at The Potting Shed in Redcliffe Garden Centre since before Covid and knee replacements, and thought it time to try it again. It is as good as ever, having had a tasteful makeover without changing its essential country garden character.
This popular venue was as packed as we always remembered it, which means that, in order to respect privacy I had to focus on one corner only when its occupants had left and before replacements had arrived.
In the top left hand corner of these two images appears an invitation to book a vintage tea party, no doubt served on the crockery displayed in the dresser.
The wood burning stove is protected by a fire guard with clear warnings.
Beautifully drawn decorations and artefacts decorate all the walls, and
very apt quotations are painted on the ceilings.
Many of my readers will agree with this one by Cicero.
Service was amazingly fast, efficient, and friendly. I was particularly impressed with how quickly, cleanly, and tidily vacated tables were cleared ready for the next customers, although no-one was rushed.
Jackie’s egg mayonnaise sandwich, served with fresh salad and crisps was well filled and moist;
My ham, double egg, and chips, was equally perfect, with eggs served sunny side up and soft enough to dip well browned chips.
This evening we all dined on haddock cheese-centred fish cakes; Jackie’s piquant cauliflower cheese; crunchy carrots; green peas, and white and sweet potato mash, with which The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I finished the fitou.
Before the rain returned for the day, a walk round the garden this grey, finger nipping, morning revealed
a good selection of camellias in a range of pinks;
plenty of flourishing lichen;
many still flowering snowdrops;
fallen leaves supported by Angel’s Wings;
dancing daffodils;
sheltered cyclamen;
mossy logs;
some hellebore heads held high;
even a bee clinging to clematis Cirrhosa Freckles.
Soon after 2 p.m. when we drove to Walkford for niece Jane’s 40th birthday party at Shelly and Ron’s, essential headlights bejewelled golden droplets in waves thrown up by other vehicles splashing through the increasing puddles, still more swollen by the incessant deluge on our return three hours later. We enjoyed a range of sandwiches, quiches, and other plentiful snacks; and a birthday cake made by Shelly. We enjoyed catching up with the various family members. A variety of beers and wines was on offer. No further sustenance was required later.
This afternoon I watched recordings of today’s Six Nations rugby matches between Ireland and Wales and between England and Scotland.
During intervals I finished the ironing backlog we had begun yesterday,
and drafted the illustrations and text samples of the next Part of Emile Zola’s ‘Germinal’.
This evening we all dined on tender roast duck; crisp roast potatoes; crunchy carrots; firm broccoli and Brussels sprouts; and flavoursome gravy followed by Jackie’s tasty gooseberry and apple crumble with which I drank les quatre vents fitou 2021.
With the weather milder and drier, after a brief splash through the streets of the New Forest, Jackie and I enjoyed another excellent lunch at Camellia’s restaurant in Everton Nursery.
Primroses, like these on a Boldre bank, are now appearing everywhere.
Many streets like these at Pilley still bear pools that most drivers would prefer to avoid;
greens there also provide mirrors for ponies,
some of whom find damp grass to lie on.
We were slow enough entering Lymington for me to snatch this shot through the windscreen.
Becky and Ian returned home to Southbourne this afternoon, and were therefore unable to partake of this evening’s sustenance consisting of our usual variety of prawn preparations and Jackie’s savoury rice with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Nero d’Avala
Yesterday’s wind has dropped, but the incessant rain was much fiercer today. I therefore continued with Germinal.
This work by Emile Zola is widely acclaimed as one of the finest French novels.
There are 7 parts to the book. Because of the number of illustrations and their positions on the pages, offering the opportunity for readers to sample extracts from Zola’s sublime poetic prose as it frames the pictures, I am diverting from my normal practice and publishing these sheets as I work my way along my rereading, leaving my review until the end.
These are the leaves from Part One. As usual, clicking on any illustration will access the gallery facilitating enlargement.
Late this afternoon, although much colder, the skies cleared; the sun emerged to share the cerulean canopy with the moon, and set over the still water-laden Christchurch Road.
This evening we all dined on barbecue spare ribs, and Jackie’s colourful savoury rice with garlic; she drank Hoegaarden, Ian drank Erdinger weisbier, and I drank more of the Nero d’Avola.
With steady rain and strong winds returning today, as we splashed our way along Christchurch Road dodging spray from our own and passing cars to New Milton we were rather regretting it was to be a packed morning, beginning with a dental hygienist session at 9.30; followed by collecting dry cleaning from White’s while trying to keep it that way as I carried it across the road back to Morrison’s car park; a brief brunch at Quench which – no doubt because market day appeared to have been rained off – was virtually empty, allowing us to be served quickly enough to finish with another encouraging chiropractic session resulting in a three week interval before the next one.
During the afternoon I made progress on my re-reading of ‘Germinal’ by Emile Zola,
This evening we all dined on Jackie’s nutritious chicken and vegetable stewp and fresh bread with which I drank Corte Aurelio Nero d’Avola 2022 and Ian drank Hoegaarden.
Such was the critical outcry labelling the first serialisation of this novel entitled “Un Mariage d’amour” in L’Artiste between August and October 18th pornographic, that Zola provided a preface to the second, 1868, edition explaining his object and refuting the accusations. Certainly anyone seeking prurience would have been disappointed.
I finished reading my Folio Society edition of the work this morning.
Here are the front boards and spine;
and the title page and the frontispiece;
“The Passage du Pont-Neuf…” in which the story mostly takes place “is no place to go for a nice stroll”. “At night the arcade is lit by three gas jets in heavy square lanterns. These gas jets hang from the glass roof, on to which they cast up patches of lurid light, while they send down palely luminous circles that dance fitfully and now and again seem to disappear altogether. Then the arcade takes on the sinister look of a real cut-throat alley; great shadows creep along the paving stones and damp drafts blow in from the street until it seems like an underground gallery dimly lit by three funeral lamps. By way of lighting the shopkeepers make do with the feeble beams that these lanterns send through their windows, and inside the shop they merely light a shaded lamp and stand it on a corner of the counter, and then passers-by can make out what there is inside these burrows where in daytime there is nothing but darkness. The windows of a dealer in cardboard make a blaze of light against the row of dismal shop-fronts, for two shale-oil lamps pierce the gloom with their yellow flames. On the opposite side a candle in a lamp-glass fills the case of artificial jewellery with starry lights. The proprietress sits dozing in her cupboard with hands under her shawl.” Thus the author sets the scene reflecting the generally stifling mood that keeps the main protagonists trapped.
Thérèse has spent her childhood and adolescence suppressing any normal emotional and physical needs to the oppressive atmosphere created by her aunt and husband. Continuing into her young adulthood it is poignant that regular Thursday evening dominos with characterless acquaintances offers the only relief from crushing boredom and unconsummated marriage, until her passions are unlocked by the brutal advances of one who becomes her lover.
Desirous of freedom to marry each other the adulterous pair devise a not unexpected solution, the setting of which offers far more pleasant bucolic descriptions along the banks of the Seine.
Zola’s narration of the deeply destructive effect that guilt and delusional experiences have on these main protagonists careers along at breakneck speed displaying deep understanding of complex characterisation, in particular the part played by thoughts of terrified minds in tune with each other. Locked together in violent passion they can no longer make love.
Two characters who light the way to the ultimate conclusion are the now paralysed aunt who has no speech and can only use her eyes; and the not uncommon device of a haunting painting.
Far from being pornographic this is a grim tale of selfish transgression and inexorable retribution with few personnel and minimal physical activity.
Leonard Tancock’s introduction is useful and informative;
and the lithographs by Janos Kass in a powerful contemporary style.
This evening we all dined on Jackie’s classic beef and onion pie; boiled potatoes; crunchy carrots; firm cauliflower and broccoli, and meaty gravy, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Cabernet Sauvignon.