February 2024 – Page 3 – derrickjknight

Saltgrass Lane

After an early trip to Sears Barbers for my haircut we continued into the forest, now even damper after another twenty four hours of incessant rain still falling at the start of our drive.

Gulls played in the rippling pools on the surface of a car park with views of

waves through the eroded cliff top and the misty Isle of Wight and The Needles and its lighthouse.

Before we moved on Jackie photographed salty spray soaring over the sea wall. Her last image was produced immediately after the penultimate one, this time obscuring the distant view of the island.

Knowing that Saltgrass Lane at Keyhaven is prone to flooding at high tide and consequently closed at the best of times we decided to visit that narrow road running alongside the shore line. In the event we could not pass through Keyhaven Road,

which was well flooded.

While I photographed this scene Jackie produced images of me doing so, of a woman wading through the pools leading her dog behind her,

and of the van pictured last in my gallery splashing swirling rainwater.

A friendly local resident told us that this was the fourth time her environment had been flooded in a month, and that we could probably reach our goal from along New Lane.

The narrow, potholed, New Lane was not flooded, but was full of birders with cameras on tripods and their vehicles parked on such verges as there were, or exercising multiple-point turns in order to leave. They must have been alerted to a special visitor.

Saltgrass Lane was indeed flooded.

Back at home, rain fell all afternoon.

This evening Ian joined us for an even more enjoyable than ever meal at Lal Quilla, during which Ellie was her most beguiling. Friendly and attentive staff, excellent food, and efficient service is all one could ask for. My main course was prawn pathia with mushroom rice; other favourites were also enjoyed, and we shared onion bahjis, egg paratha, peshwari naan, and various rices. Kingfisher, white wine, J20, and Diet Coke were imbibed.

More Than Somewhat Damp

Heavy rain fell throughout the day, unrelenting when we drove to Elizabeth’s home and back

through mid-afternoon headlights-gloom.

Although the celebration meal is planned for Saturday, as it is my sister’s 70th Birthday today,

we sloshed through the sodden lanes. The last two of the pictures in this gallery were produced by Jackie, who also photographed

sheep behind a dripping fence,

and a swathe of snowdrops.

Our intention had been to surprise Elizabeth, but, despite her car being in her drive she was not at home. Obviously someone had taken her out, so we left her Gertrude Jekyll potted rose and card in her conservatory.

These are pictures from our own garden taken in September 2022.

This evening we all dined on baked gammon, piquant macaroni cheese, and tender green beans, with which Jackie drank more of the rosé and I drank more of the shiraz.

A Day To Defeat The Dreariness

After another enjoyable and positive chiropractic session with Eloise it was decided that my next appointment could be in two weeks time.

We then deposited four waistcoats and a jacket with White’s dry cleaners in New Milton, afterwards visiting the very friendly, helpful, and efficient Robert Allan, jewellers.

Even I have three devices which, adjusting for break in service, changes in time zones, and British Summer Time six monthly tinkering, automatically display the time of day the minute the screen has been switched on.

So why do I need watches?

First, because I am of an era before digital technology and have always looked at my wrist to tell the time – even when I am not wearing a ticking dial strapped there.

Second, because each of my wrist watches and my one fob watch have emotional significance for me. It will be ten years in October

since my brother Chris bequeathed me his fob watch presented to me in a box of her own making at his funeral.

Possibly 30 years ago, having been sent to walk around Oxford Circus for forty minutes in order to let eye drops settle after an optometrist’s examination at Dollond and Aitchison, I spotted a closing down sale at a jeweller’s which is now a Shelly shoe shop. In the window, at half price, was my

Longines battery operated chronometer which has kept time to the second ever since, unless it runs out of battery. Incidentally, when the optometrist told me there was no change in my sight, I asked why, then, could I see very little in my left eye? This prompted the check. The reason for the deterioration was the result of damage incurred by a cricket ball when I was 14.

Finally, when I retired in 2010 our friend Jessie gave me my kinetic Tissot watch, again a perfect timekeeper, which is beginning to need extra winding.

Within twenty minutes Robert Allan had replaced the batteries and told me that the winder could be operated manually.

We then lunched at Camellia’s restaurant in Everton Garden Nurseries, where we enjoyed excellent, perfectly cooked meals, at very reasonable prices. We joined a fast moving queue where we could see trays of all the meals being presented, making for simple choices. Friendly service at the till was followed by our food being brought to our table by equally pleasant waitresses. The wait was not long, especially considering how fresh the cooking was.

As has become customary, Jackie made these internal photographs

of the outlet itself, making sure not to include any of the customers in the extensively packed dining area;

of the menu and the specials board;

of the splendid cake displays, and the free bottles of water,

and, of course, our meals – her warm panini with tuna, cheese, and onion stuffing, fresh salad and crisps –

and my tender steak in red wine casserole with freshly cooked vegetables.

After lunch we took a trip to the east of the forest where we

encountered damp ponies at East Boldre, but not much else worth photographing.

The header picture is to make Ian wish he were here.

This evening we all dined on pork spare ribs in barbecue sauce and Jackie’s colourful savoury rice with which she drank Reserva Privada Chilean Rosé Cuvée 2021 and I drank Mighty Murray Shiraz.

A Phone Conversation

Today the rain fell down and the wind got up, so I spent it making good headway on Emil Zola’s “Nana”.

For any other child of her age, if it is a small black oblong device, it will be a magnet. So it is with Becky’s mobile phone carried about by Ellie late this afternoon.

I rang the number and, photographed by Jackie, entered into conversation, her granddaughter being assisted by Becky. Click on any image in either of the two pairs above to enlarge in the gallery.

This evening we all dined on Ashley’s crisp fish and chips; mushy peas; and curry sauce; Lidl pickled sliced gherkins, and Garner’s pickled onions with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Languedoc- Roussillon.

Printer Troubleshooting

I guess we have all experienced visiting a doctor when feeling unwell only to find we are miraculously improved when we start to recount our symptoms. I discovered this morning that this can also work with computer printing problems.

Just before Christmas 2023 my Epson SureColor P600 suddenly failed to produce anything but sure colour. I had followed all the suggested procedures for discovering the problem and printing images which did not appear to have been through a mud bath. James began by testing the print head nozzles. This was the first move I had made, with the same result, namely that there was nothing wrong with them.

We then made some test prints of the image above which produced the correct colours.

James also discussed the problems with loss of pictures following the change of site. This seems to be what he called broken links. He will continue working on this manually with the aid of an app which will automatically scan all my existing posts to find the affected ones. He is also going to draft a more user friendly page to ease access to archives and categories.

On another dreary wet afternoon I posted:

The Song Of Triumphant Love

This evening we all dined on roast pork, boiled potatoes, carrots, Bramley apple sauce, and meaty gravy, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Languedoc-Roussillon.

The Song Of Triumphant Love

This last in the Folio Society collection of Turgenev’s stories, ultimately keeps us guessing, with “What did it mean? Could it be …”

The author’s descriptive skills, replicated by the lithograph of Elisa Trimby’s, are exemplified in “First of all Muzzio [on his Indian violin] played several melancholy – as he called them – folk songs, strange and even savage to Italian ears; the sound of the metallic strings was mournful and feeble. But when Muzzio played the final song, this very sound suddenly grew stronger and quivered resonantly and powerfully; a passionate melody poured out from beneath the broad sweeps of the bow, poured out in beautiful sinuous coils like that very snake whose skin covered the top of the violin; and the melody burned with such fire, was radiant with such triumphant joy….”

Almost reflecting the tempo of this passage Fabio and Valeria, the as yet childless couple whose home this was, gradually, initially imperceptibly, became beset by disturbing dreams suggesting mysterious sorcery. It was as if their very essence had been subjected to the influence of two uninvited guests.

The author’s device for narrating this story of a sixteenth century tale was an historic manuscript which ended with the question quoted in my first paragraph. Was this prompted in Valeria by her “first trembling signs of a new life about to be born”?.

Thatching With Cider

After a shop at Tesco this dreary grey morning Jackie and I drove up to Hockey’s Farmyard Shop for lunch.

A few ponies foraged on the moorland flanking Holmsley Passage. while a familiar pair harnessed to their trap trotted down the hill.

Well before noon weekend traffic illuminated headlights along the Burley Road at the top of the Passage.

Thatching had been begun at The Elm Tree on Hightown Road and some wit had chosen to place a banner advertising Thatchers cider across the work. (access the gallery with a click on any image for enlargements) The thatchers themselves had clearly taken Sunday off but the handwritten notice proclaimed that the pub remained open. Soon after the new owner took over this establishment last summer the ground floor was flooded. The local residents set to and participated in the clearance work.

While I photographed the thatching Jackie focussed on a mossy roof.

As usual a number of donkeys abounded in this northern part of the forest. Jackie produced the first of these images at Ibsley, where I photographed the third,

and another trimming a hedge on

Blissford Hill where two clusters of the currently ubiquitous catkins can be seen.

As we joined Roger Penny Way it seems scraps of a metal fence have been blown up a bank.

On our way back down this road a troop of ponies ambled across it.

Ian returned to Southbourne for work this evening and was sent home with a doggie bag prepared by the ladies as he was unable to stay for dinner which consisted of Jackie’s wholesome cottage pie; crunchy carrots; tender runner beans and stem broccoli, with which the Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I drank Saint-Chinian Langudoc- Roussilon 2021.

King Lear Of The Steppes

In this fifth story of the Folio Society’s collection of Ivan Turgenev’s stories, the author, with his usual descriptive detail, has in essence, translated Shakespeare’s tragic king to his own time and place, with the identity of the massively strong giant landowner, Harlov, brought down by the response of his two daughters to his generosity prompted by confronting thoughts of his eventual death.

There is no Cordelia to remain loyal to Harlov and to die in his arms; this hero has only two daughters, one of whom does at least repent for taking advantage of the old man’s division of his wealth and household, possibly, as suggested by the narrator, to the end of her days.

Driven mad by the self-interested isolation and suppression of his personal needs by his family the larger than life owner of a number of serfs to whom he is not himself kind, brings about his own early death, in this way earning their sympathy and disapprobation towards the family.

In bringing his conclusion to an increasing crescendo our author has deviated quite a bit from Shakespeare’s own ending.

As usual, Turgenev’s exquisite, simply and fully detailed characterisation; pictures of the changing landscape, the weather and its effects, clearly sets the scene and carries along the narrative.

Elisa Trimby has produced faithful, ultimately dramatic, illustrations.

In addition to reviewing this book, this morning I watched a recording of last nights Six Nations rugby match between France and Ireland; and this afternoon, today’s matches between England and Italy and between Scotland and Wales.

This evening we all dined on Jackie’s classic cottage pie; crisp carrots; and firm Brussels sprouts, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Carménère.

Early February Flowers

Against the soundtrack of the nesting raucous jackdaws I took a short walk around the garden, photographing

some of the many clusters of snowdrops;

more recent hellebores, unusually holding up their heads;

a few more camellias;

trailing vinca, a survivor of last year’s primulas,

and a white cyclamen.

Jackie’s numerous pelargonium cuttings are happy in the greenhouse.

This evening we all dined on tasty pork and garlic sausages; creamy mashed potatoes; fried onions; crunchy carrots; firm cauliflower and its chopped leaves, with meaty gravy. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank Mayu, gran reserva Carménère 2020.

First Love

Based largely on Turgenev’s own experience, this story uses the device of three friends undertaking to recount theirs. The first to take on this task chose to write his history and read it out – no doubt because it was ultimately so fraught.

Perhaps no-one forgets their first love; although many are temporary in nature they are brought to a close with more or less pain through disillusionment, through other interests or developments, or through developing maturity. Grief may take some time to pass through.

So it was with our narrator, a boy of 16 falling for a young woman of 21. The bitter-sweet story of a romantic, unfulfilled, attachment is beautifully portrayed with deep understanding of the minds and emotions of the couple; the young man idealising his coquettish loved one who plays forfeits with several rivals. Zinaida loves Vladimir, but without the passion of the lad who”could feel a kind of effervescence in [his] blood and a set of aching in [his] heart….. [whose] imaginings played and darted continually like martins at twilight around a bell-tower”, and who could to this day recall her physical charms.

Slowly it dawns on the boy that his chosen one is probably in love with someone else, and, unless we pick up the one nebulous clue, we share his angst as he speculates about who it could be – in fact I did understand who the rival must be, but i still eagerly anticipated confirmation.

The eventual discovery is a catastrophic bombshell scattering destructive shrapnel.

This is Turgenev’s acknowledged masterpiece in the genre,

faithfully illustrated by Elisa Trimby,

This evening we all dined on more of Jackie’s chicken and vegetable stewp with fresh bread and butter.