A warm wind swept through overcast Downton and across The Solent this morning when I took my usual walk to Hordle Cliff top and back. Sheltered among the hedgerows, perky periwinkle still trails along the ground.
On my return, I wrote the rest of my share of our Christmas cards and put them in the post.
Simon Jenkins, a former editor of The Times, having completed his six year stint, has recently retired as Chairman of The National Trust. It was in association with that body that Profile Books published his ‘A Short History of England’ in 2011. I finished reading it this afternoon. Jenkins has a thorough grasp of the story of how today’s England has emerged, from the Dark Ages of the fifth century, when the Angles arrived from Germany, to the date of publication.
He writes, in a clear, simple, elegant, and often humorous style, of the country’s heroes; villains; triumphs; disasters; conflicts, both internal and external; and its development into global prominence then partial eclipse. He unravels for the lay reader key individuals and events in our history. Anyone, for example, who can clarify ‘The Wars of The Roses’, as he does, is worthy of admiration.
This concise yet comprehensive single volume deserves to be read by anyone with a wish to understand English history. All is intelligible, and such quotations as are included are brief, illustrative, and pithy. Having sometimes thought their use in history books is rather more to fill out the text than to lend it credibility, I found this refreshing.
Packed with colour illustrations, all of which are credited, the book has a useful index and appendices of 100 key dates; Kings and Queens; and Prime Ministers.
Naturally the choice of the four personages chosen to adorn the book jacket could be debated, but it is interesting all the same. From left to right we have King Edward III, undoubtedly the greatest mediaeval king; Queen Elizabeth I, who gave her name to a Golden Age; King Charles I, who was executed by his people; and Prime Minister Sir Winston Churchill, who saw us through the Second World War.
This evening yesterday’s delicious curry meal was, with its beverages, reprised today. As always, it had improved with keeping.
The Reluctant Recliner
On another unseasonably warm, mostly overcast, day, Jackie drove Becky and me to Emsworth and back, so that our daughter, who, with her family is still with us, could keep an appointment. I wandered around the town, walking down Queen Street to Slipper Mill Pond, then back up the hill and round to the harbour and the Mill Pond.
First I came to Dolphin Quay, from which I took the footpath along the pond and watched gulls, an egret, and coots scratching around in the silt, or paddling in the shallow pools.
The tide was out in the Slipper Pond and the harbour, but the Mill Pond provided a good swimming area for various water fowl, such as elegant swans; further coots, one of which admired its reflection in a film of water on the concrete; and mallards parading in their colourful mating regalia.
Between the harbour and the Mill Pond runs The Fisherman’s Walk, part of The Oyster Trail which is described on an encased information board.
On our journey back to Downton, I bent my head downwards at some point. Knowing my propensity for falling asleep in the passenger seat, Becky, behind me, assumed this is what I had done. She went on to recount an occasion when, in 2007, she had driven me and Flo back to London from a trip to Newark. Apparently I had nodded off in the front seat and Becky directed Flo, who sat behind me, very, very, gradually to turn the wheel at the side of the chair so that I could adopt a fully reclined position. This had to be done inches at a time in order to effect a smooth drop so that I would not be woken. ‘Mum, Mum’, our granddaughter would whisper at intervals in order to indicate the inefficacy of the exercise. Flo was enjoined to continue until the seat was prone. I remained fully erect, unsupported, and fast asleep with my chin on my chest. Flo then was instructed to reverse the process. Keeping the necessary silence must have severely tested both mother and daughter.
This evening, before the Emsworth family returned home, we dined on Jackie’s superb chicken jalfrezi (recipe), egg korma, savoury rice, and paratas; followed by a choice sweets, mine being egg custard. I drank Reserve des Tuguets Madiran 2010. and Jackie drank Hoegaarden. The others chose sparkling water.
A Re-opening
This was a warm sunlit day. Not only were the last of the summer blackberries ripening in Downton Lane, but fresh blossom was turning to fruit, and a Japanese kaiga painter had reproduced a pattern of pink cherry against the clear blue sky over Shorefield.
Long shadows were cast, and the Isle of Wight, The Needles, and their lighthouse stood sharply alongside The silver Solent.
I am optimistic about the re-opening of our neighbouring pub, The Royal Oak. The new tenants, Debbie and Carl Millward, are experienced publicans who should be able to resuscitate the necessary atmosphere of a country hostelry. This evening they opened for drinks. Food should be available in a day or two, but this evening what was available was generous bar nibbles, so we all had an enjoyable couple of drinks and convivial conversation with the publicans and Debbie’s parents Jill and Ken. There was a good attendance of local people. .After this Jackie collected takeaway fish and chips from Old Milton and we enjoyed them at home with mushy peas and pickled onions.
Our Christmas Fairy
Our fairy helper was very busy overnight, embellishing every corner of the house with Christmas decorations. Here is a selection:
One string above the photograph of Flo on the sitting room wall is particularly pertinent to the season. Beginning with our granddaughter’s first conscious Christmas Jackie, for a number of years, produced an annual fairy dress for her. This, the second, was the first of a series Granny actually made from scratch. As the festive season progressed, her tiny tummy expanded, and the garment became gradually tighter, but the little fairy adamantly refused to take it off.
Ragged robin straggled among fallen autumn leaves on Downton Lane when I took my 
Hordle Cliff top walk this morning. Apart from the presence of its avian namesake perched 
on a clifftop post it was hard to believe that this was mid-December in Albion.
Two pairs of mallards scooted along the Shorefield stream, where I had to be quick to take this shot.
Feeling rather smug at having written half our Christmas cards in time for second class post this afternoon, I flourished my fountain pen, the top of which flew across the room and under the sofa. This meant, I thought, a painful grovel underneath for its retrieval. Our lithe Christmas fairy, however, was much more up (or down) to the task, and fished it out for me.
This evening Becky and Ian came to stay the night and take Flo home tomorrow. We all dined on Jackie’s superb roast lamb meal followed by rice pudding covered in raspberry jam and/or evap. I finished the Madiran, Jackie drank Hoegaarden, Ian Leffe. Becky drank rose wine and Flo J2O.
Decorating Day 2
For some reason best known to themselves Flo and her family take a perverse delight in occupying my chair on their visits. This reached its pinnacle on March 31st 2013. On that occasion Matthew’s Oddie joined in on the act. He was often the sole occupant but the post ‘Whose Chair Is It Anyway’ describes how this did give him logistical problems. When I 
came downstairs this morning I found that the chair had been festooned with decorations. Since our granddaughter goes to bed much later than we do, there can only have been one culprit.
I reversed my Hordle Cliff top walk this morning. In Shorefield Country Park, where the tilt 
of trees adjacent to the footpath to the sea demonstrated their vulnerability to the ocean breezes, blackbirds scurried in the hedges and foraged on the lawns.
A lone kite surfer sped skimming over the surface of The Solent, the horizon of which bore a silver lining.
On Downton Lane the MacDonald’s balloon had floated under the bridge and become snagged further along the stream. A few feeble blackberries in the hedgerows were continuing their attempt to ripen.
Decorating the house continued throughout the day. By the evening my study area, through the arch in which could be seen the Christmas tree in the sitting room, was looking quite festive. The colour combination of Flo’s leaves and the warming pan was particularly inspired.
The kitchen carried its own bunting, and also benefited from the lighting on the wisteria arbour outside.
Further projects will not be fully ready for publication until tomorrow.
This evening we dined on the rest of the plentiful Happy Wok meal. Jackie drank Stella, Flo chose water, and I began a splendid bottle of Reserve des Tuguets Madiran 2010.
A Tradition Upheld
Ever since she was a small child, Flo has helped her Grannie put up flamboyant Christmas decorations. Festive trees, having priced themselves out of the market last year, are now half the cost they were then. We all got up early to buy one from Ferndene Farm Shop.
It has also become tradition that Grandpa has to be ‘put’ somewhere whilst the ladies create their masterpieces. I was therefore dumped in Vaggs Lane to walk home. As you will know, this was no hardship. I walked the length of this thoroughfare, along Everton Road, and right into Hordle Lane to home.
Burnished beech leaves brightened the sunlit hedgerows along the verges in Vaggs Lane, 
where a herd of alpacas were outlined by the sunshine.
A Great War memorial stands in Everton Road. The incised names of the Hordle fallen are accompanied by those of the relevant battlefields, some more infamous than others. 
This morning red roses and cyclamens, and yellow tulips bloomed alongside the wreaths.
The now rather soggy unclaimed bear in Hordle Lane still sits on the wall opposite the 
children’s nursery, and another tot has dropped the case from her Peppa Pig mobile phone. 
Further on, an upturned mushroom revealed a pattern of purplish striations.
When I returned home, the front door was furnished with a more joyful wreath than those I had seen earlier
. Apart from the dressing, this had been made from foliage from our garden and branches trimmed from the Christmas tree.
By the time darkness had arrived, we had a string of coloured lights in the front garden, 
and somewhat later the indoor Christmas tree was embellished to Flo’s satisfaction.
We had to dine on a takeaway this evening because the kitchen was full of boxes of decorations. It fell to the Ashley Chinese, The Happy Wok, to provide it. Jackie chose Stella, Flo sparkling water, and I the last of the cabernet sauvignon, to accompany it.
Helen’s comments on yesterday’s post have enabled me to add details of others present in our wedding photograph.
Two Weddings
Hampshire Window Surgeon, Jason, visited this morning, fixed our Velux window, and took details of the necessary Everest window maintenance from which to send us a quotation. Over coffee we also had a good conversation with this engaging gentleman.
After this, postman Mike, noticing I was walking down Downton Lane, clutching a letter, on my Hordle Cliff top walk, stopped his van and relieved me of it. Such is his friendly service.
Our friend Judith Munns had commented on Facebook that she recognised the family likeness between her mother and Jackie in the Statuesque Beauty post. These two, 
and two more worthy of that description, appear in our wedding photograph, taken on 2nd March 1968, that I scanned and retouched on my return. Sisters Sheila and Helen flank the group. My Dad stands next to Sheila, and Mum peers over my right shoulder. Jackie’s Mum stands next to Chris, and her Dad smiles between them. My sister Elizabeth and the bride’s Auntie Maureen each succumbed to off-stage distractions in different directions. In the back row Mum Rivett’s brother, the sisters’ Uncle Dennis, cranes his neck to see above my mother. His wife Elsie stands beside him, and his son, cousin Patrick is at the other end of the row. Patrick now successfully directs Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, notably those of the Godalming Operatic Society, the performances of which it is a family tradition to attend. Michael, festooned with confetti, looking up quizzically, holds Jackie’s hand. She was more or less the same age in this photograph as was her mother in the picture that prompted Judith’s observation.
I have today become Facebook friends with my cousin Yvonne Burgess whom I have not met since we were small children. From Spain, where she now lives, she sent me a 
photograph of her parents’ wedding, taken some time around 1940, coincidentally the possible date of the Statuesque Beauty picture. My mother is the standing bridesmaid, and my maternal grandparents are on the left, Grandpa Hunter stands behind my seated Grandma. Uncle Ben was a Military Policeman during the war, so Dad had to be very circumspect when he went AWOL whilst courting Mum.
Late this afternoon Jackie drove us to Emsworth to collect Flo for the weekend. Before returning we, with Becky and Ian, dined at The Spice Cottage restaurant in Westbourne. Ian and I walked there, and the others joined us by car. The meal, with which most of us drank Cobra, was excellent, and the service friendly and efficient.
Touches Of Gothic
Ripped by a fierce cold wind pines creaked against fencing as, taking the Shorefield section first, I reversed my Hordle Cliff top walk. With howling gusts forcing me backwards, turbulent waves crashing against the shingle, and swirling clouds looming overhead, there was a 
truly Gothic feel over The Solent. One only had to imagine the light came from a midnight moon to fancy one had stumbled into a Hammer film set.
Soon after midday we arrived at Shelley and Ron’s for the annual laying of a wreath on the ashes plot of the mother of Jackie, Helen, and Shelley featured in yesterday’s post. After the trip to the Walkford Woodland Burial Ground, we all, together with the two brothers in law, enjoyed a delicious meal cooked by Shelley, with various red and white wines. Leak and potato soup was followed by a wonderful chicken casserole, potatoes, and vegetables. Then came a suitably tangy lemon meringue pie, coffee and mints.
A game of Trivial Pursuit took us into the evening, and further enjoyable conversation.
Beautiful as are many of the unusual trees in the garden, a number have been misplaced, causing a certain amount of overcrowding. An example is an interesting fir plonked in the front garden perhaps two metres from the house. At this time of the year there is only one use for it. Jackie has festooned it with white lights, which, when viewed through a piece of Giles’s stained glass present glowing colours. This treasured artwork is based upon my initials, DJK, in Gothic script.
A Statuesque Beauty
Jackie dropped me at Silver Street again this morning. This time I walked along this road, which, like many local ones has no pavement. I the turned right into Woodcock Lane and crossed Everton Road into Hordle Lane and, eventually, home.
Peterson’s Folly is visible from our front bedroom windows, but there was a much clearer 
view from Silver Street, where moon daises were still blooming.
The ditch in Woodcock Lane, that is liable to flooding, is beginning to fill up.
A creature appears to have taken up residence in a dead tree stump.
Ponies, some wearing jackets, could be seen through a hedge. Their owner, a young 
woman, noticing me poking my lens through the shrubbery, politely enquired as to whether I might be recceing the joint with the intention of returning to steal the ‘rugs’, which I took to mean the jackets. Apparently this is a common occurrence. We had a long, enjoyable conversation in which she told me that the horses were all foresters, and became very 
inquisitive and advanced on watchers, thus alerting her to their presence. She pointed out the unclad grey, which she thought the most beautiful.
Further along, sheep in a field were colourfully stained, perhaps decorated for Christmas.
A public footpath on Hordle Lane, where I met another inquisitive pony, has been blocked with barbed wire. Perhaps the doggie poo bag had been tossed beside it to indicate what a rambler thought of this.
This afternoon we visited New Milton for some banking and postage stamps. After this we went on to Milford on Sea to make an appointment at the GP’s. On my left hand I have a Dupuytren’s contracture which has been progressing nicely for about five years, and is now becoming a little awkward, so I need a referral to a surgeon. Patient.co.uk has this to say about it:
‘Dupuytren’s contracture causes thickening of tissues in the palm. If it progresses, one or more fingers bend (contract) into the palm and you cannot straighten the finger. The cause is not known. In many cases it remains mild and does not require treatment. If the condition becomes more severe or the function of the hand becomes affected then a specialist may recommend treatment.’
Jackie’s sister Helen has discovered an early postcard photograph of their mother and her friend, Sheila. My lady volunteered my services for producing a set of prints for Sheila’s daughter Margaret and various family members. I scanned the original and, after a considerable
amount of retouching, made six copies. This photograph was probably taken around 1939/40 when Veronica Rivett, my delightful late mother-in-law, the statuesque beauty to the viewer’s left, would have been about eighteen.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s scrumptious cottage pie; roast parsnips; crisp carrots, cauliflower, and brussels sprouts; followed by bread and butter pudding and custard for me, evap for her. She imbibed Black Tower B rose, whilst I did the same with Longhorn Valley cabernet sauvignin 2012.
Optical Aids
As the dawn sun emerged behind the trees in our back garden, the moon still occupied the sky at the front of the house.
By the time I returned from my Hordle Cliff top walk the bright, cold, day had warmed up a little because these skies had clouded over.
Framed by a leafless arched bough, Ivy Cottages, dating from 1897, with their neighbours beyond Downton Service Station on 
Christchurch Road, could now be seen from the hedgerow on Downton Lane, where bracken has browned, and a Coca Cola tin blends with red berries. Most cans and bottles similarly discarded are not so happily juxtaposed.
Shards of ice shattered by passing cars had been tossed onto the verges.
The Isle of Wight, The Needles, and their lighthouse were silhouetted against a pale pastel palette.
On a small piece of ground at the top of the steps leading into Shorefield from the path to the beach, fresh cow parsley still blooms. Some of this has begun to seed.
It is time to return to the ‘through the ages’ series. Today I have chosen to reproduce three, being 
numbers 53, 54, and 55, the first two from 1980 and the third from the following spring. These photographs 
were all taken by Jessica, the first two at Gracedale Road, the month of the second being indicated by its background Christmas tree.
The indentations left by over-tight nose pads in the first photo show that I was wearing specs in those days. Having been somewhat short-sighted since I was eighteen, vanity had led me to contact lenses in my twenties, but I managed to play Rugby without them, until, into my thirties I needed them to see clearly across the field. This was rather crucial for a second row forward, one of whose tasks was to cover the corners. I therefore began to wear lenses during the games. Until I lost three in a fortnight, that is. Quite apart from the cost of replacements, the search for little pieces of plastic in cold and soggy mud became somewhat disruptive. So I returned to spectacles.
The story of my first embarrassing visit to an optician, and of the accident which, many years later, resulted in a cataract operation, was told on 13th July 2012. Whether I have the eye specialist’s prediction or the new lens inserted more than fifteen years ago to thank for it, I just use varifocal lenses in specs with the close up element being plain glass, only for watching television or drawing from life. Until I purchased these about six years ago I had to choose between viewing either the model (with specs), or the texture of the paper (without them). Either that or keeping taking the glasses on and off. I have never needed such assistance to read, and don’t even take them with me on my rambles with the camera.
The third picture was taken at the very attractive Owl House Gardens at Lamberhurst near Tunbridge Wells in Kent. It was from one of the photographs in that day’s set that I made the drawing featured on 4th May.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s Cottage Pie, to which she had very successfully added a touch of garam masala; cauliflower, carrots, cabbage, runner beans and brussels sprouts; followed by blackberry and apple crumble and custard. She drank Stella, and I finished the malbec.