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A Square Meal

Last night Le Code Bar was very quiet. For this reason Frederick was able to offer me a complimentary glass of wine to drink with him, so I wasn’t quite as abstemious as I’d claimed. Apparently it is far too hot for people to come out. He and the staff are very concerned about the cat (see yesterday), which is disturbing for customers. If only some of the diners would stop feeding it.

After this I watched ‘Ground Control’, a gripping and heart-rending film in praise of Air Traffic controllers, in which Kiefer Sutherland was magnificent in the lead role. The supporting cast, including Henry Winkler (The Fonze in a previous incarnation) were excellent.

This morning my language skills were tested to the limit. I had new windows and shutters fitted by Huis Clos. Having been most impressed by their organisation and the fact that everyone I had spoken to so far, either in person or on the phone had pretty good English, I thought today’s communication would be a doddle. Two very friendly artisans from the deep South turned up. They spoke Spanish as well as their regional French, and had the tell-tale accent complete with lisp. Their understanding of me was better than mine of them. I knew I was getting somewhere, however, when there were no windows or shutters to the sitting room. We sat sharing coffee and talked Olympics. If they didn’t understand what I said, I found other words which did the trick. So, coffee over, I said they could leave the back of the house as it was because there was a nice breeze coming through. ‘As you wish,’ said the younger man, making as if to pick up his tools, and extending his hand ‘Goodbye Monsieur’, a broad smile on his face. That was the first and only time they sat down until they had finished. I am extremely satisfied with their work. I now have beautifully fitting shutters and secure French doors.

With 44 degrees on the garden thermometer and now no breeze, I spent the afternoon inside and finished John Le Carre’s Single & Single. This novel, still about the Intelligence game and still intriguing, seemed to me much more humorous than other works of his I’ve read. I enjoyed it.

At 4.15 I ventured out into the blistering heat and glare of sunlight. I took the circular route round the cemetery to La Briaude and along the Eymet road back into Sigoules. The French enjoy decorating their streets with flowers, and Sigoules has more than its share of artefacts from a bygone age filled with brightly coloured blooms.

Along the road to La Briaude a cock was crowing. Perhaps his clocks keep similar times to those in No. 6. Crickets were being broadcast in stereo. Various amphibians were splashing about in the now shallow roadside stream. Someone had extended their garden across the road onto the edge of a maize field. Our Morden neighbour (see 18th. May post) would be proud of them. I was relieved to benefit from the brief shade of the tree-lined road around the hamlet.

There was a bit of a wind by the time I got back. It did more to dry than to cool me.

This evening it was paella and chicken and chips from stalls in the market square and Stella Artois from Le Code Bar. As I have mentioned before, every Friday evening throughout July and August the square is covered in long tables and chairs; various food suppliers put up their stalls; Les Caves and others produce the wine; and people swarm in from miles around. There is a pop group singing a fair number of English songs. With respect to those who want to sleep, everything closes down around midnight. Given my proximity to the square I’d best join in. If I didn’t there would be no point in going to bed early. In any case these are delightful occasions, and at one we met Judith and Roger Munns.

The Paris Marathon

Last night I watched a DVD of ‘Burn After Reading’. In this film political thrillers and computer dating get the Cohen brothers’ treatment. That is, they make farce out of them. David Edwards of the Daily Mirror described it as ‘………comedy genius’. That is what Joel and Ethan Cohen are all about. George Clooney, Frances McDormand, John Malkovich, Tilda Swinton, and Brad Pitt must have had great fun playing their parts to perfection.

This morning I walked to Monbos and branched off to Ste Innocence from where I returned to Sigoules. This was a two and a half hour trek in the heat of the day. And I do mean heat. As I marched along, carrying a bottle of Perrier, a woman getting into her car told me it was very dangerous walking in this without a hat. She didn’t quote Noel Coward at me, and I didn’t mention that I was suffering a slight hangover after my second bottle of Adnam’s last night. I had not realised it is 6.7%.

The scratting of crickets in the hedgerows and of cicadas in the trees reminded me of the latter creatures at The Gite From Hell (4th. June). I could feel the heat rising from the tarmac, the tar of which was, in places, melting. It clung to my sandals, just as it had in Stanton Road in 1947, when I returned from play covered in it. I expect my poor mother had to scrap my clothes. Even the sunflowers turned their backs on the midday sun.

I have described the church at Monbos before (8th. June), but that was when I was not illustrating my posts.

At Ste Innocence I met a Dutchman called Emil who has a house there. We swapped stories of such impulse buys.

As I staggered back into Sigoules, I thought of the Italian runner in the lead who was disqualified at the first London Olympics because, as he was wandering all over the place, someone helped him across the line. I wasn’t marching any more. The ice-cold water I had set off with was now almost ready for the cafetiere. I put what was left of it in the fridge and got out another bottle which I consumed pretty quickly. Rivulets ran down my neck for a while. My soaking T-shirt soon dried in the 40 degree sauna that was the back yard. I was in neither the shirt nor the garden at the time. I had been as relieved to enter the cool shelter of the stone-walled No. 6 rue St. Jacques as Jackie would have been. She wouldn’t have left it in the first place.

When running a marathon it is essential to drink water at regular intervals. If you wait until you are thirsty it is too late. This refreshment is taken in brief sips on the run. You become accustomed to this by carrying water in training. On one of our shared holidays with Sam and Louisa and our late wives Ann and Jessica, Don decided to help me out. Meeting me at regular intervals on a two hour run, he provided the drink stations. Driving to agreed points on the route, he brought me wonderfully cool, fresh, water. We called this service ‘Le wagon d’eau’. Don, where were you today?

That is why, in properly organised races, there are regular drink stations. In the Paris marathon, some time in the ’80s, there were refreshment stands like no others. The first was the only one at which I saw any water. From it were distributed large plastic containers of Evian. Those, like me, who managed to grasp one drank slowly and passed it on. Big mistake. Other tables contained nuts, bananas, and chocolate, none of which I could bear to think about. Only at the last oasis did I see anything resembling liquid. Huge containers of yoghurt. I grabbed one and guzzled the lot. Second big mistake.

I was quite used to congestion at the start of capital marathons. In the London one it would take me ten minutes walking to reach the start line and a futher ten to take up anything like my normal pace. Paris, however, just had to provide a blockage at the finish. Ten minutes in a situation that reminded me of The Drain (6th. July).

Marshalling during the race was equally chaotic. There are cobblestones around The Tower in one small stretch of the London event. These always need careful negotiation by the runners, who are left in peace to get on with it. Not so in Paris, which had far more cobbled areas. Any spectators wishing to do so seemed welcome to try their luck pacing alongside the contestants. Cyclists were granted similar freedom.

A French friend, Arnoux, claiming to be there to meet a famous English runner; which, I hasten to add, I am not; smoothed my final passage through the drain. As I was taking a welcome bath in our friends’ home, up came the yoghurt. It supplemented the bath water. I then had to explain why my ablutions had taken such a long time. It was with considerable relief that, on the ferry home, I learned that even the elite runners had suffered similar embarrassment. I never ran Paris again.

This evening I exchanged the back garden sauna for the one outside Le Bar for a deliciously tasty fruits de mer pizza with a plentiful side salad. This was complemented by one glass of rose and a bottle of fizzy water. After last night I thought I’d be careful. An excellent creme brulee followed.

The problem with dining alfresco is that it tends to attract the local fauna. Flies can be dismissed with a wave of the hand, or Australian salute as they tell me in Perth; ants need a well-aimed flick; the cat needed a little more persuasion to desist from climbing up my bare leg in search of my fruits de mer.

Friends To Bank On

On another scorching day Elizabeth drove me to Southampton airport where I boarded a plane to Bergerac to be met by Lydie, 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 the market square. Still dopy from the plane, I entered the wrong pin number. I had to search 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 tomorrow isn’t one of them. Any visit there also has to wait until Saturday. Now, my French account is with Barclays. I originally opened this in Bergerac. Sometime last 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 am I walking to Paris. There was, therefore, nothing for it today 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 has been cancelled and I will be sent a new one which will cost 16 euros. So far, so good. But. They can 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 can, however, use my chequebook, I am assured, without the card, although some people will not accept cheques for small sums like 2 euros. Throughout this I naturally remained my usual calm, unflappable, self.

I then drew 90 euros on my NatWest account. This, of course, will cost me a transfer fee. And I’ve 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 know why NatWest have 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.

Never mind. The house is as I left it in early June. The agapanthus is blooming for the first time; the lizards are basking in 38 degrees; and I am growing my own tomatoes on a plant which has forced its way through the boards of my compost bin. There are potatoes coming up in a bed I composted last year.

I’ve just missed the annual wine festival, the bunting for which will stay in the village for the rest of the summer. UK, of course, has been similarly festooned since the football world cup and the Queen’s jubilee, and now awaits the London Olympics, for which I will also be absent. I have exchanged Union flags for floral flourishes.

Once I’d settled in, I paid a visit to my friends Garry and Brigitte who live next door. Unfortunately for me their magnificent house is up for sale; sadly for them the market is depleted. We had what, for me, is essential, a pleasant conversation with people who speak the correct French I learned at school with a Parisian accent, delivered at a pace I can understand. It is good for my ears which cannot pick up the local accent. Rather like a French speaker trying to understand a Geordie.

In Carrefour I had a cheque accepted without a card.

This evening I dined alfresco at Le Bar. I sat under a lime tree sadly devoid of caterpillars (see yesterday). There were, however, a number of flies seemingly interested in my steak and chips; and the occasional wasp attracted by my Adnams Innovation. Take note of the latter, Don. Creme brulee was to follow. I was well satisfied.

From Lattice To Web

I began this extremely hot cloudless day with a walk through Telegraph Woods. Alongside Telegraph Road, into which Beacon Road forms a T junction, lies this ancient elevated woodland. I believe the name comes from the fact that the fire beacons prepared as a warning against the Spanish armada (see 7th. July post) were superseded by the telegraph system. There is, however, alleged to be the remains of an armada beacon surrounded by Douglas firs just inside the woods. Even older remains are said to be those of an Iron Age hill fort. Using the steps set into parts of the very steep terrain one could believe it would have been difficult to penetrate.

Hearing a rhythmic rustling I looked up into an extremely tall beech tree in time to see, descending in stately fashion down the trunk, a curled up leaf looking like one of the caterpillars that did a trapeze act from the leaves of the lime trees that lined the Stanton Road of my childhood. These creatures only had feet at the beginning and end of their lengths and therefore formed a series of arches as they rolled down the trunks. Are there any entomologists out there who can identify them?

Given that woodland once extended to the very boundary of Elizabeth’s home and that today’s deer may have a collective historical memory it is perhaps not unusual that in some years her garden has been invaded by ungulates devouring her spring shoots. I was nevertheless surprised to see a fossilised stag embedded at the foot of a tree.

I walked through the woods to Hampshire County Cricket Club’s Ageas Bowl. At the back of the cricket ground lies what looks to be a very serious golf course. Some golfers were already out playing, or dragging their caddies into position. Others were gathering for the fray. Some riding in golfing cars, which must have a name I don’t know; others with bags of clubs slung over their shoulders, or carried on wheels. What they all had in common was an air of material comfort. From the central mound in the wood there is an amazing view through the trees onto the rolling landscape and beautifully tended greens.

I finished off a new edge to a bed this morning, then had a coffee with Elizabeth. We got talking about how far photography has come in the years since the second third of the nineteenth century. I often wonder what William Henry Fox Talbot in particular would think if he knew that photographs produced with the press of a button could, through the intermediary of a bit of wire and a box you plug into a wall, be immediately transmitted around the world and instantaneously printed. In 1835, when he obtained his tiny grey picture, just over an inch square, with his own little wooden camera obscura, of a latticed window at Lacock Abbey in Wiltshire, little could he have known what would be done with a thumbnail in today’s computer. Fox Talbot referred to his cameras as ‘mousetraps’, which is indeed what they look like. For many years to come, sending photographs to others had to be carried by ‘snail mail’ or personal delivery in gradually developing forms of transport. Now we have the world wide web.

My header photograph today comes from the municipal dump where Elizabeth and I took the garden refuse left over from the weekend’s bonfires. We decided on this over lunch, for which, fortuitously, I ate a Sainsbury’s latticed pork pie. Bonfires, now that we have long sunny days at last, have been upsetting the neighbours. Instead of burning our pruned material we bagged it up and took it to the recycling centre. It needed two trips and the first thing we saw as we re-entered the drive after the second was one we had left behind.

The sun was so strong that it appeared to be burning the colour out of Cotinus leaves.

For our evening meal Elizabeth and I drove out to The Phoenix in Twyford where we had good basic pub food in a cask ale establishment. I had faggots, chips and peas augmented by one of Elizabeth’s sausages, which still left her with two. My starter of stilton and broccoli soup was excellent. We both took a chance on Punter beer, which paid off. Noticing two Stanton Road lime trees, I was disappointed to find no caterpillars.

Roots

This was another beautiful, hot, summer’s day. Having spent a large part of yesterday reducing the span of a wandering Philadelphus, or Mock Orange, this morning I tackled its rambling roots. Armed with a large fork, an axe, and a back, I set to. It wasn’t until three and a half hours later that I was satisfied I had reclaimed this tiny patch of land. My back’s OK but my right wrist feels the strain of trying to pull up obstinate, well embedded arborial foundations. First I dug all round them, then had a tug. When they wouldn’t come, sometimes I had to dig a bit more, or, as a last resort, wield the axe. I had to remove a lovely old blue brick from the path through the pergola, so I could get at lateral growths underneath it. That was easily repositioned. I imagine John, from yesterday’s post, would have had everything out, and the area replanted, in no time. As it was, Jackie had to wait until I had staggered to a halt before she could put her wilting plants to bed.

It is Alan Warren’s fault that my wrist feels the strain at such times. This is because, for the last thirty five years or so the third finger of that hand has been prevented from bending by calcified material on the first joint. It was Alan who put it there. We were both playing rugby for the same side, The Old Whitgiftians. We both dived for the ball at the same time. Alan got the ball; I got a broken finger. Alan, dear soul, has completely forgotten about it. I remember every time I try to pick up a handful of change in a shop; or when someone assumes that unscrewing the top off a jar would be easy peasy for me. I have to bring the wrong fingers into play when performing basic tasks. Come to think of it, even handling a mouse is a bit awkward.

Rambling roots is, of course what this blog is all about. Roots are important to us all. Alex Hayley wrote a seminal novel about them. I would not have met Pauline Lines had it not been for Sam’s mother-in-law Gay O’Neill’s desire, from Australia, to trace hers. Pauline turned out to be a cousin living in Cheam, to whom I was introduced at Sam and Holly’s wedding. In fact, Gay’s Facebook identity is Geneholic O’Neill. My brother Chris has a similar keen interest in genealogy, and is tracing the family membership back through several generations. My mother is the custodian of our living memory bank. It was she who could identify the huge portrait I have of Elizabeth Franks, my maternal great grandmother. I may not be around long enough to give out similar information to the next generations, but maybe this project of mine will help.

What I am focussing on is my own life, current and past; and others who have been part of it. This is why I write about what I see and experience today, coupled with sometimes rambling memories which come to me. Memories aren’t usually summoned in order, but appear as and when they feel like it. They are like a random photograph album without captions. They are what the recipient makes of them, and no two people’s recollections of the same event are likely to be the same. Sometimes it is their memories that are divergent; sometimes they just experience the event differently. Elizabeth, twelve years the younger, and I have often noticed how we had different experiences of upbringing in the same family. It is serendipitous that I should be living in Morden in a period of life when I have both the time and the ability to go rambling. Morden wasn’t a large part of my childhood, but it is near enough to Wimbledon and Raynes Park to give me easy access to those places that were. Mum tells her stories in her own way. They are informative, but when she and I recount the same event, our versions may differ in immaterial or significant detail. So is it with my recollections. They are mine, not necessarily the gospel according to anyone else. I, of course, think they are infallible.

This evening Jackie returned to Morden and I stayed on at The Firs as I am off to Sigoules on Wednesday. We went off for an Eastern Nights meal, only to find that they are not open on Mondays. The Purbani in Hedge End provided an acceptable alternative. We had been there before and liked the food but thought the place was desperately in need of a facelift. We particularly remembered the carpet which had appeared so worn and greasy in parts as to have been lino. As we entered Jackie said: ‘You never know, they may have a new carpet.’ They had. And all new linen. And the meal was just as good.

Mudlarking

On this, the first hot summer’s day we have enjoyed this year, we gardened all day. I had an unfortunate hiatus of about two hours during which I vainly tried to get my printer to produce the right colours in a print I was attempting to make of the picture of Harriet featuring in yesterday’s post. I needed to get back to digging to work out my frustration. If I know the equipment is at fault, I can cope with it. If I am the problem I can live with it. If I don’t know which it is it does my head in.

Jackie focussed on planting, and Elizabeth and I on clearing an overgrown area and re-discovering a lost bed. One result of this year’s weeding and pruning has been exposing paths through the cruciform pergola. We are now hoping to position features visible through these walkways from different parts of the garden. The bench containing plants ready for their final homes, somewhat blighted by the washing cradle in the background, gives some idea.

One of Geoff’s garden sculptures, now clearly visible, generously provides a feeture at the opposite end of this section. The unobtrusive boundary fence mentioned yesterday is about to be stamped on.

Especially on a day like this, showers for the workers are necessary, as is frequent washing of hands in order to partake of drinks and snacks. This involves visits to the bathroom, which contains a glass cabinet which Elizabeth uses to show her collection of old glass artifacts.

Not shown in the header picture is the Victorian ceramic cold cream pot, complete with lid. It is mainly this which, every time I see this display takes me back to the days of The Mudlarks. No, not the pop vocal group of the 50s and 60s. Us. The early 1980s were our mudlarking years. Strictly speaking I think mudlarking is confined to activity on the Thames. Scavengers would, in Victorian times, and probably long before, search at low tide for anything valuable that may have been dropped in the river. Waterside taverns provided rich pickings. When Matthew and Becky were small I would take them off to a site near the river at Kingston. This wasn’t actually on the riverside. It was a patch of land, owned by the Council, which was about to be built on. It covered the site of a Victorian midden, or rubbish dump. We, and some other enthusiasts were given permission to dig here for lost treasure. The only proviso was that we must fill in our hole when we had ransacked it. Except for John, we all found the returning of the soil pretty tough after having dug it all out.

John was a small, wiry, immensely strong Jack Russell of a man who would grab a shovel, get stuck in, and disappear down his hole sending up showers of earth like a terrier down a foxhole. John’s bag would be full of finds while I was still thinking about it. His hole would be filled in before mine had been dug. For a time this was wonderfully exciting family entertainment. We found lots of stone beer bottles and hot water bottles, marked with the names of brewers and manufacturers long since part of history. Most prized by the children were the lozenge-shaped lemonade containers with marbles in their necks. The fizz would force these glass balls to seal the bottles. We did not find many complete ones because Mat and Becky’s Victorian predecessors had already had the marbles. And, of course, we found little ceramic pots like the one in the photograph. Medicine bottles, and Mexican Hair Restorer were often blue. We saw how the shapes of Bovril and ink bottles had changed over the years. I am looking at a James Keiller & Sons Dundee Marmalade pot from that era as I type, and Matthew and Becky still have some of those early spoils.

Only on one occasion did we go mudlarking in the true sense of the word. If you dig a hole on the side of the Thames it is even more imperative to fill it in. Sometimes people avoid this process and allow the action of the tide to do it for them. Then you get a quagmire. As we found out. We went hunting below a waterside pub. All we managed to find was a few ox’s jawbones and teeth, and heaps of oyster shells. No gold coins, nor even silver ones. When we decided the tide would soon be coming in we made for the safety of the embankment. Jessica, pregnant with Louisa, went striding off in her billowing Monsoon skirt and green wellies. And disappeared. She was in a quagmire. With great difficulty, I fished her out. I suppose you could say that was our only successful find that day.

Jackie decided at one point this afternoon to take a break, sit on a garden chair, and survey the scene. She was joined by this little chap who flew down and sat on her knee. Thereafter he was quite fearless in his foremanship.

Rather late in the evening we sat down to a meal of chicken in barbecue sauce, cooked in the oven. Why anyone would ever want to cook outside, over a grill most difficult to keep alight and smelling unpleasant when they could use kitchen equipment, I will never know. Elizabeth and I drank Gran Familia Las Primas 2011, and Jackie had the Coop’s French Lager. Whilst eating Jackie’s fluffy and tasty bread and butter pudding, we reminisced about Dad’s bread pudding . The only dish Dad ever produced was a real command performance. We never knew what he would put in it. Probably neither did he. Elizabeth and I decided that the year it was inedible was when he applied a liberal sprinkling of Galloway’s Cough Syrup. Elizabeth is convinced that one year Mum prevented him from adding boot polish. This surely has to be apocryphal. But just in case it isn’t I’m not asking Mum.

Quiet Days

We woke up this morning in The Firs to very pleasant weather, bright, cloudy, and with intermittent sunshine. I took myself off to West End Road, part of the A27, and walked down this still generously tree-lined thoroughfare until I came to Haskins Garden Centre in Swaythling Road. Just beyond this establishment I crossed the road, took a likely-looking side track and came to the River Itchen, along the bank of which I walked for a while. Immediately behind the building in this idyllic looking scene soars the M27. The roar of the traffic on this motorway drowns the sound one would usually expect to hear from the rushing water. Having wandered around here for a while and noticed the mix of probably Stuart period and modern buildings blending together, I followed another track a little further along, and discovered a sixteenth century farmhouse. The marvellous garden, with its screen of tees surrounding the house could not keep out the noise. This struck me as rather bad luck. After all the house had been there a lot longer than the motor car.

Taking a public footpath leading off Swaythling Road turned out to be an unsound idea. It was gloomy and squidgy. Soon after availing myself of the towelling stepping stones laid down by some resourceful person, I took advantage of a public recreation ground leading to the comparative safety of the main road. The A27 is much quieter than the motorway, but still pretty full of traffic.

When I arrived back at The Firs there were a number of people engaged in silent contemplation in the garden. Jackie was quietly trimming the lawn edges, and small numbers of strangers were wandering around drinking in the flower beds and the pond; sitting silently, eyes open or otherwise; or, in the case of one young woman, Harriet, painting in acrylics. It was a peaceful scene which has been all too infrequent this stormy summer. I did, of course, know the visitors would be present by the time I returned.

Another Jackie and Geoff live in The Tardis. This is a small bungalow built at the bottom of the garden that once all belonged to The Firs. Geoff sold The Firs to Elizabeth and Rob, and built the bungalow in the part of the garden that he retained. The couples came to a very satisfactory mutual arrangement that they would have access to each other’s gardens; thus offering Elizabeth, now alone, access to Jackie and Geoff’s well, and the others an extension of their space when necessary. The very low boundary fence is unobtrusive and has two gaps for access.

Quiet Days are an example of occasions when Elizabeth shares her garden. The lawn lying at the front becomes a car park and visitors come through from the other garden. As I understand it the object is to allow people to ‘just be’ in mutual solitude, whether through meditation, thoughtful reflection, or an artistic activity. There is clearly a call for this opportunity for spiritual nurture, and the events seem to be well attended. It was apparent today that the beauty of the garden is much appreciated.

Jackie and I spent the afternoon weeding, planting and edging the borders. There is a creature in the large wisteria trunk keeping an eye on things. By early evening, having had no rain, we felt confident enough to light a bonfire. Elizabeth and I continued with this, and with pruning to supply it, while Jackie cooked our evening meal. This was a tasty and spicy concoction involving onions, pork, pepper and paprika. Jackie drank a Becks and Elizabeth and I shared a bottle of Marques de Montino 2007 reserve rioja.

37 Rougemont Avenue

On this much calmer day, with a significant diversion, I made a tour of Morden Park. The white cloud in evidence today was perhaps fulfilling the promise we have that the jet stream mentioned two days ago has finally exhausted itself. Grey cloud, heavy rain, and the disappearance of the patches of blue later belied this. A postman was cycling along one of the postpersons’ regular routes through to Hillcross Avenue. I walked up the footpath to the London Road side of the park and along to the registry office where a wedding was in progress. Shirtsleeves and skimpy dresses were on display among the guests. I stopped and told them about the goose-pimpled bride I had seen in the pouring rain happily enduring the photographer’s attention on 29th. June (see post). They clearly felt they were fortunate. At this point I left the park, crossed London Road and continued on to Rougemont Avenue, where, at number 37, my parents had enjoyed their last London home.

As I stood outside the house, a very attractive and elegant young woman opened the front door, locked it, and came down the steps making for her car. I told her what I was doing there and said what a shame it was that she was on her way out because I had hoped to photograph the back garden. She told me she had only moved in a week ago and that the previous owners had landscaped the garden beautifully. I mentioned that my parents had, in retirement in the 1980s, created the terracing, having mixed their own concrete. That was it. I got a result. She smilingly invited me inside, unlocked the door and took me through to the back of the house. The first thing I noticed was that there was no formica on the banisters. I ran my hand along the carved struts and told her about Dad’s obsession.

When he retired Dad got seriously into DIY. He was also seriously into the laminated surfacing which he was convinced would make everything easier to clean. And I do mean everything. Anything made of wood was carefully covered in beige and brown formica. Even those struts were sheathed in two-tone carefully applied laminate. As the new owner unlocked the back door I pointed to the picture window to the side and told her of my quip during one of our Sunday lunches. Gazing through the window I had said: ‘Dad, it’s a pity you can’t get transparent formica.’ Puzzled, he asked me why. ‘Well, then you could cover the windows’, I replied. Guffaws all round, including, of course, from Dad.

We stood in the garden and I took this photograph for Mum. As we left the house and the young woman finally got to her car, the last thing she said to me was: ‘Tell your Mum I will look after her memories’. Elizabeth will make sure she reads this.

The Sunday lunches were a feature of our elder children’s lives. On most of these days we would turn up, unannounced, for a veritable feast. Oval plates, which the proprietors of The Martin Cafe (14th. May post) would have envied, were piled with roast meat, usually lamb, Yorkshire pudding, and all the trimmings; always followed by apple pie and custard, with, if you had room for it, jam tart made with the surplus pastry. Matthew still calls white pepper Grandma pepper. Although now I don’t know how we managed it, there was a plentiful salad tea before we went home fully satisfied, not to say stuffed.

(In January 2014, I discovered a photograph taken in December 1985 at the famous meal table. Mum and Louisa are having a discussion about an apparently questionable item hidden from view. I sit on the other side of our daughter. Uncle Norman is opposite, and we see the backs of Joseph and his girlfriend, who obscures Sam from view. Dad’s initial formica efforts can be seen. Jessica must have taken the picture.)

Returning to the park I continued my circumperambulation, passing the car park where my parents left their car before taking their own walks in this ancient landscape. One day Mum had gone walking on her own. Dad must have been at work. When she returned for the car, it was gone. She walked home, thinking that Dad had perhaps come and collected it. He hadn’t. Some young men were caught engaged in a burglary. The car was to be their getaway vehicle. Their misfortune was my parents’ good luck.

In the early evening Jackie and I drove to The Firs, stopping for a meal at The Farmer’s Home, a pub in Durley. Until we arrived in deepest Hampshire the evening was clear and bright. The nearer we got to our destination the darker the sky became. Eventually we met more heavy rain. The meal was very good, but, as you have already been treated to Mum’s Sunday lunch I will not describe it.

When we left the pub mist was rising from all the fields around.

Conversations

Mrs. Reynard is looking most uncomfortable lately. Perched on her pile of sticks this morning, she was gnawing away at her rear end, which is now on one side completely devoid of fur. The patch the magpie was pecking on 26th. May (see post) is now rather raw.

On my normal route to Colliers Wood to catch the tube for lunch with Norman, in Morden Hall Park, I met Benjamin and his mother. This eloquent and cheerful little chap was on a dinosaur hunt. He was taking his task very seriously and wanted to know if I’d seen one, especially ‘a big one’. He declined to produce his hunting roar for the photograph. Perhaps because I am not a dinosaur, although some people may quibble with that. Well, Benjy, I didn’t see a dinosaur, but I did find a very big slug. His picture is at the top of this page.

One of the most amusing regular announcements on the Underground was given out at Green Park. A long list of severe or minor delays is intoned. This is always followed by: ‘There is a good service on all other lines.’ ‘Which are they?’, I ask myself.

Seated reading on a bench near the mainly Somali area of Harlesden, I picked up one cent of an euro, thinking it might come in handy in the Sigoules supermarket. I hoped it wasn’t a Greek one. It was fortunate that I wasn’t on my feet, for these days I wouldn’t bend down for anything less than a tenner. I remembered once diving for a ten-bob note at a bus stop in Worple Road in case Chris got there first. For anyone too young to remember, that’s 50p in today’s money. But, then, you could do a great deal more with it.

A middle-aged woman came and talked to me. She began by saying I looked so peaceful that if she had a camera she would photograph me. I hoped she wouldn’t notice the one hanging round my neck. She went on to eulogise about the beauty of the thousand year old church that lay behind me. She spoke of recent renovations, and I realised that the graveyard is looking much better kept these days. It is a sad reflection of our times that the building was not open for my inspection. She was on her way to visit her father, now suffering from dementia, in a care home. On her regular visits she does a lot of the feeding and caring herself. This woman was not complaining and initially spoke appreciatively of her father’s carers. She did, however, say it would be nice if they thanked her, because they were paying the full ‘feeding rate’. According to her this former Southern Cross establishment has been taken over by a Methodist organisation. It has a new manager who is trying to improve things. From the sound of it she has her work cut out. Once this daughter learned that I had been in Social Work she told me about some of the attitudes and systems she found problematic, asking me what I thought. For example, did I think it unreasonable that he was not allowed to ‘poo’ until 11 a.m? I most certainly did. Apparently the staff would rather he ‘pooed in his pad’, which they could clean up afterwards, than disrupt other morning routines. She felt that his personal dignity was suffering. My beard didn’t put her off expressing her conviction that it was normal to want to shave every day. Presumably there are days when her father can and cannot shave.

Norman served up a dish of delicious Catalan chicken accompanied by a fine rioja, and followed by apple strudel. Perhaps not entirely by coincidence we discussed the writing of Iris Murdoch. I have not read her philosophy, but have most of her novels, except the last. This was so badly reviewed by critics who could not make any sense of it that I decided to give it a miss. Some time later we learned that she was suffering from the same condition as my conversationalist’s father. For anyone working with dementia the biopic ‘Iris’, starring Jim Broadbent as the long-suffering and somewhat bewildered husband, and Judi Dench as Iris, is essential viewing. No-one living with the condition would need, or probably wish, to watch this fine portrayal of the slow realisation that all is not well and the gradual decline into frustrated helplessness.

This evening Jacqueline came over for meal, and, given that she had recommended the Watch Me to us, we just had to take her there. The food was as good and reasonably priced as always. As I don’t normally eat another meal after a Norman lunch, this was stretching it a bit for me.

Directions

On another wet morning I set off to visit Amerland Road in Wandsworth. I chose the route up to Wimbledon Common, along Parkside, and down West Hill. Apparently it is the jet stream which normally strikes north of Scotland that is responsible for our stormy summer. Having learned this I reflected that it is hardly surprising that there is a deal of depression in those countries even nearer the pole.

In Mostyn Road a mother was guiding her small daughter on a scooter across the road. Hearing an approaching taxi, she led the child back to the safety of the pavement. The cab came to a halt to allow them to cross.

A painting job in Fairlawn Road in Wimbledon, begun yesterday, was nearing completion. Whether the weather eventually put a stop to this I am not sure.

Rounding Tibbet’s Corner, Parkside had been part of a three lap twenty mile road race I had run in the late eighties. This involved three plods up Copse Hill. I had fallen in with another runner and we continued in tandem for most of the race. On the third climb up the hill my companion started to flag and doubted that he would be able to finish. I went on ahead, completed the run, backtracked, and encouraged him to reach the end.

One of the many traffic signs warning of congestion during the forthcoming Olympics is on Parkside. And I thought we had succeeded in our bid because of improved transport facilites. Arriving at Tibbet’s corner I was uncertain which of the major roads off the roundabout was West Hill, and asked the way at a portable burger bar. The two men serving and their two customers had conflicting ideas as to which one it was, and even whether I needed to use the underpass. I gambled on one and soon found myself trotting down Putney Hill, which I knew to be wrong. Realising I should probably be taking a right turn which should take me through to West Hill, I asked a woman with a dog who confirmed this. Walking down the correct hill I thought of Phyllis Holman Richards who had set up her Adoption Society in that street after discovering a young woman giving birth in a phone box. I never knew Phyllis, for my time as a consultant to her Society came after her death. However, others fondly remembered her. Since the establishment, with its short term mother and baby home, was almost opposite Amerland Road, I wondered whether the delivery had taken place in the predecessor of the kiosk in the header picture.

Yesterday’s post describes my grief at the loss of Vivien. Eventually this subsided somewhat, and my brother Chris and his great friend Mike Ozga took me in hand and out with them to various venues. We rode around in a little mini. I don’t remember whose it was. As we were all six feet two or three we caused great amusement when we unfolded ourselves from this tiny, yet surprisingly roomy, vehicle. One evening they drove me ‘creeping like snail unwillingly to’ Helen’s twenty first birthday party. Never, at the best of times, a party animal, I stood in the Amerland Road flat not knowing where to put myself. There were a couple of girls in a corner and I thought I might put myself there. One of them said to her companion: ‘You’re in luck, he’s coming over.’ Unfortunately I only had eyes for the disinterested party. Jackie.

Although she was, in spirit, rather like Shakespeare’s schoolboy, she was definitely female. Claiming to be eighteen, Jackie, I learned later, was awaiting that birthday before taking up her post as a housemother in Shirley Oaks. This was one of the old style self-contained residential villages that existed in those days for children in local authority care. Visiting her there, I got to know the young people and their stories. How did they get there? Who was responsible? What could be done to prevent it? These were the questions which exercised me and gave me my direction. I soon left my insurance desk and began working as an Assistant Child Care Officer in Tolworth Tower in the Royal Borough of Kingston Upon Thames. That was December, 1966.

Since today’s perambulation had been quite a trek, I returned to Links Avenue by 93 bus from Putney Hill. Having been a bit uncertain of the way to Putney Hill from Amerland Road, I asked a young woman how to get there. She knew neither the hill nor the bus route. However, standing in the pouring rain, she insisted on connecting to the internet on her mobile device and consulting it. Asking me for my postcode she finally came up with a route. I was to take the 270 bus from stop D in Armoury Way. This would decant me at Tooting Broadway tube station whence I could travel by underground to Morden. If you are bored with this detail, imagine how I felt. Well, she had been so kind I could hardly set off in the opposite direction. I therefore followed her advice until out of sight, then took a diversion which led me to a postwoman. She soon put me right, but said it was quite a long way. When I told her where I had come from, she laughed.

Tonight we had salad, courtesy of the man at Hillier’s Garden Centre mentioned two days ago; boiled eggs; tinned corned beef and tuna from the larder. I finished the Roc des Chevaliers, and Jackie, being out of Hoegaarden, had a Peroni.