derrickjknight

Through The Underpass

This morning I decided to walk through the Malwood Farm underpass and see how far I got before I gave up on what I expected to be a rather soggy terrain. It probably would have been a better idea to have stayed on the roads, or at least worn Wellingtons instead of walking shoes.
Even before I’d left our garden, I could see that more trees had come down, and the steep downhill track leading to the underpass confirmed this, so I was not surprised to see the extent of the damage wrought by the winds, once I ventured into the forest itself.

The large shrub that has fallen in the garden lies across the stump of the recently deceased cherry tree. I think it is a buddleia.

This is just one of the recent falls on the short stretch to the underpass.

The sight of Malwood Farm in sunlight at the end of the tunnel was welcoming, and the promised return of the wet, windy, weather did not materialise until this afternoon.

The terrain, however, was rather less inviting. It was indeed soggy. Pools lay, and new streams flowed, everywhere. Mud patches inhaled deeply in an attempt to snatch my shoes.

It would have been unprofitable to have tried to pick out one of last year’s safe paths. The way would be blocked by either a quagmire or newly fallen trees, or both. As is usual in these circumstances, I followed pony trails.

Fallen trees across path — Enter a caption

The animals are at least a little likely to attempt to avoid the suction underfoot, although I would not have been surprised to find one or two stranded in the mud.

I had thought to take a rain check on the sandbagged ford before deciding on whether to cross it or not. Forget that. I didn’t even venture across the mud bath leading to the sandbags. It seemed politic to stay on our side of the winding stream I call Malwood. I walked along it for a while, then retraced my steps and returned home.

Walking back through the forest to the side of the farm fences, I noticed much beautifully shaped pastel coloured lichen clinging to fallen twigs featherbedded by a mulch of deep dark brown autumn leaves.

My share of the five-egg mushroom omelette with toast that was for lunch, went down very well.

This afternoon I finished reading Voltaire’s story ‘Le Taureau Blanc’. Here the philosopher, in advocating the search for human wisdom and happiness, is having an ironic pop at the fantasy of the Old Testament. At least, that is the sense I make of this fabulous tale.

This evening we dined on succulent sausage casserole with creamy mashed potato, crisp runner beans and cauliflower, followed by creme caramel. I drank more of the Bergerac.

Jackie’s sausage casserole has an interesting provenance. What she has done is perfect my adaptation from Delia Smith. This is the tops.

For four to six servings:

Take 12 sausages; lots of shallots; plenty of button mushrooms; a packet of Sainsbury’s cooking bacon, chopped into bite sized pieces; 3 big cloves of garlic; 5-6 bay leaves; 1 heaped teaspoonful of dried thyme; 3/4 pint of pork stock (if pork sausages – today’s were Milton Gate pork and apple from Lidl which provide a touch of sweetness); enough red wine to cover the contents of the dish.

Red peppers provide a bit of colour, but are not essential. Similarly thickening with the help of gravy granules or cornflower may be required.

Method:

Fry the sausages until browned on all sides and set aside. In the casserole dish then fry the bacon and shallots with the crushed garlic. Add the stock and wine; bring to the boil, turn down the heat, add the bay leaves and thyme, pop the sausages back in and simmer for 3/4 hour. (The simmering refers to the cooking heat. It doesn’t mean you have to adopt a suppressed emotional stance).

Then add the mushrooms and simmer for further 20-30 minutes.

Jackie cooks this dish without a lid until the sauce looks rich enough, if necessary adding one of the thickening agents.

The final touch of the peppers may be added in the last few minutes.

Driving Hazards

This morning was cold and bright as I walked down to Football Green, up through the rear entrance to Minstead Lodge, and back home via Seamans Lane.
On Running Hill I was reminded that last year’s foals are catching up their parents in height. The black mane sported by the younger pony in the picture no doubt has been passed on by its all black father hiding behind the tree.
During my years of commuting from Newark to King’s Cross, I sometimes chatted with another tall traveller, just a little younger and shorter than me. One day, he noticed a still younger and taller man. ‘They are catching us up’, he said. It is, of course, true that, on the whole, each subsequent generation outstrips the previous ones. We have found this when looking at very old houses, like the crick-framed one in Kings Somborne, in our search for a new home. Centuries ago, people were considerably shorter, which is why King Henry VIII, at 6 feet 2 inches or 1.88 metres, was, in Tudor times, considered a giant.

One of the casualties of the recent winds has been a rose bush bent so far across the verge as to screech against the car passenger window when we drive past. Experiencing this in the dark reminds me of M.R. James’s spooky story ‘The Ash-Tree’, in which the eponymous intruder scratches at a bedroom window. At close range in daylight the hips look quite harmless really.
Ever since I saw so many rooks in Morden Park when we lived in Links Avenue, I have tried, with very limited success, to photograph one in flight. Normally they are up and away at first glimpse of me. Today, unless they were crows, I managed it at Football Green. Wherever there are ponies these birds gather together and peck at the grassy terrain.
Like a number of others in the area, the cattle grid to Minstead Lodge is currently filled with ochre-coloured water.
A group of students from the Minstead Training Centre, in the charge of volunteers, were making excellent progress in the building of the goat shelter. I took the opportunity to pop in and visit Noura, who had given me an open invitation to do so on 7th December. Apart from being very personable and friendly, this Head of Care is quite smart. I was given coffee, introduced to the Volunteers Coordinator and the Director, and presented with a volunteers application form. And I’d only popped in because she had asked me to ‘come for a cup of tea’.

On the drive leading to Seamans Lane, the very large sawn stump of a fallen tree now bears reflectors to alert motorists of its comparatively recent presence. It is another driving hazard not quite clear of the tarmac. The ponies, of course, such as those featured in ‘Shoo!’, are permanent encroachers onto the roads. But then they own them, don’t they?
This evening we dined on a selection of our choice from chilli con carne and mixed meat curry with pilau rice, followed by creme caramel. Of course we each had some of everything. I opened a fresh bottle of the Bergerac. The coriander that was already at least three weeks old on 22nd, was, having been kept according to Jackie’s method, still reasonably fresh today.
In order best to extract the flavour from cinnamon sticks when using them in her rice, Jackie softens them by boiling them first in some of the water.

Classic Cars

Through the kitchen diner window at yesterday’s party we witnessed a very brief thunderstorm, with one flash of lightning, one roll of thunder, and heavy rain. Afterwards all was clear, and we arrived home to a starlit sky with winds getting up. Soon the rains returned, for the night and the next day on which our soggy, windswept, lawns were festooned with broken pine branches. The less brittle oaks swayed with the gusts. It was a day for concentrating on vintage photographs.
In case anyone is unaware, the reason we British talk about the weather all the time is that we never know from one day to the next what we will experience. And certainly the last couple of years have been exceptional.
In the Bernard Gardens years Dad would take us all for a day at the seaside. I don’t know where number 44 in the ‘through the ages’ series was photographed, but Hayling Island and West Wittering were favourite destinations. This scene, the ancient print of which needed considerable retouching, was probably captured in 1960, by a person unknown. Here Dad and Joe are building a sandcastle and I seem to be adopting the role of Clerk of Works.
It was at that time that our father bought his first car, which, according to collective memory – at first – may or may not have been a Sunbeam Alpine. Mum reported that whatever it was as a ‘big blue very dangerous car’ that had to be replaced by a Singer Hunter.
A few phone calls and long-distance ploughing through Google images jointly with brother Chris, and we came up with what we think is the definitive answer. The car that Mum remembers had seen better days was an Austin A40 Devon. We all survived the trip.
After this came a Daimler Consort that was used as Elizabeth and Rob’s wedding car driven by brother-in-law Jack Jewell on 25th August 1973.
In these wedding photographs Elizabeth and Dad stand beside the splendid car as he prepares to give her away, and the chauffeur stands beside the bride and groom, the two men in full 70s sartorial elegance. Dad, you will notice, had the sense to dispense with flares, and wasn’t quite up to the fashionable hair lengths.
The Daimler was eventually sold because of the expense and limited availability of parts. After this, Dad’s vehicles became rather less ambitious.
I spent much of the afternoon on a secret archive project.

This evening’s meal was a mixed meat curry with pilau rice and cauliflower bhaji. The meats were lamb, pork, and chicken. Although the ingredients of the curry and the rice were different from those described on 22nd, Jackie tells me that the methods are roughly the same. The meal was delicious, even though not a combination one is likely to find in a restaurant. Once you have the basic recipe under your belt you can really do anything with it. Bread pudding and custard was to follow. I drank more Bergerac, and Jackie drank Cobra.

‘All Is Flux, Nothing Stays Still’

After a night of steady rain following an unrelentingly graphite-layered day on which the sun never got out of bed, it stirred itself this morning, weakly lifted its head, peeped through the trees on the Eastern side of the garden, sent exploratory fingers across the lawn, then stared through the living room windows.
Just before noon, when the sun was making its way painfully to its evening resting place on the Western corner, I wandered around the garden before we set off in the car for Clapham and Wolf’s 85th Birthday Party. Not always managing to penetrate the cloud cover, it did manage a feeble salute for Gladstone’s sequoia.
Yesterday, on the forest verge of Upper Drive I had noticed a recently exhumed skull of some forest creature. I wondered how it had found itself there, and, indeed, what it had belonged to. It is still in situ.
Our journey to Wolf And Luci’s home for the afternoon party took just over three hours, sixty five minutes of which was a slow crawl from the moment we left the A3 at Shannon Corner near Raynes Park on the A298 straight through to Clapham on the A24. We hardly ever reached above 7 miles an hour. Consequently we had the opportunity to look about us and see the changes to the landscape that is rows and rows of buildings on either side which are constantly undergoing evolution. Tooting, which had just a few Asian shops when I lived there thirty years ago is now dominated by establishments reflecting the Indian sub-continent. The Colliers Tup opposite Colliers Wood tube station has, in just over a year since we left Morden, had a complete facelift and been renamed the Charles Holden. As recently as 31st October 2012 I photographed Delhi Heights which had, before it was that fusion establishment, been an English pub. It is now Istanbul Meze Mangal, offering Mediterranean Cuisine. On the 16th of that same month The Emma Hamilton in Wimbledon Chase was no longer operating as a public house. I photographed it in its reincarnation as a car wash enterprise. It has now been pulled down and has developers’ hoardings surrounding the space it had occupied.
Even the Nelson Hospital, where our children Matthew and Rebekah were both born, has now disappeared. One part is, the boards tell us, allocated to a McCarthy and Stone residential enterprise. The rest, retaining its facade, but otherwise demolished, bears the NHS logo on its protective barriers.
To the side of the Istanbul restaurant in the picture above can be seen the ‘black elephant’ of Colliers Wood. This is a building which is apparently unsafe either to use or demolish because it stands over the underground railway. It has, I am told, been empty for many years.
It was the ancient Greek philosopher Heraclitus who said: ‘All is flux, nothing stays still’.
Some things however, do remain constant. One of these is my forty-five year friendship with Wolf Blomfield, whose party it was today. At a small and convivial gathering Jackie and I enjoyed the company of the great man and his wife Luci, and renewed some old acquaintances, notably Wolf’s children Vishvapani and Sarah who Jackie and I knew when they were children. Grandchildren were represented by Leo and Anna. Some others there have known Wolf longer than I. One goes back seventy years.
We were provided with a feast of tasty sandwiches, samosas, scones with jam and clotted cream, and finally chocolate birthday cake. A variety of drinks was on offer. I enjoyed some very good red wine.
Kiti, who managed the catering, and Luci took a number of photographs. If our friend can take a hint she may e-mail some to me so that I can add one or two to this post. In the meantime, here is one Luci took of Wolf and me not so long ago.

St George To The Rescue

I took an early walk of the postbox loop this morning, and because we were promised intense rain all day from 11 a.m. onwards, settled down to scanning old positive film. In fact the day was extremely dark and dingy with no rain, no light source penetrating, and the forecasters putting forward the timing of the storm by the hour. It began at 5 p.m.
My last foray into my ‘posterity’ archives produced a colour slide of Vivien, Michael, and friends from the Yorkshire Insurance Company.
Vivien, Derrick & Michael 5.64 Mike Vaquer, one of those present, took this one of our little family in May 1964.
It won’t need very close inspection to see one of my cauliflower ears, the result of binding down in the second row of the scrum, and grating them against props’ thighs. I am happy to say that once my playing days were over these blemishes subsided somewhat. I also appear to look rather like Jack Palance, but I think my broken nose is simply a trick of the light. Palance was an American professional heavyweight boxer of the early 1940s who became a film actor with a career spanning fifty years. He had great presence.
Archie, an appropriately named architect, was our neighbour in Gracedale Road in the 1980s. On our first meeting in the street, I glanced at this South African born giant’s ears and asked: ‘Second row?’. ‘You too?’, he replied, nodding. We hadn’t even mentioned rugby. I wouldn’t have fancied my chances against him.
Three months after the family shot was taken, we visited my grandparents in Staines. Grandma is seen here among Grandpa’s roses giving Michael his first taste of ice cream. Just as I had been Annie Hunter’s first grandchild, my son Michael was the first of her next generation of offspring. My sister Elizabeth, photographed on the same day, looks as if I probably prevailed upon her to admire another rose as a prop.
Three years on, in July 1967, I discovered St Botolph’s Church at Hardham in East Sussex. A simple two-cell stone building of very early Norman style that is Grade 1 listed, this place of worship, dating from the 12th century, contains the earliest almost complete series of wall paintings in England, and in particular the earliest reproductions of St George, the patron saint of England. Like many such wall decorations these lay under whitewash for centuries until they were uncovered in 1866.
Wishing to photograph the paintings in natural light with my Olympus OM2, I only found one scene that I thought would be in receipt of sufficient illumination. To me, at that time, it was just a man with a rather long spear on horseback. The light coming from the single east window on that day must have been shining on me as well, for I had unwittingly photographed St George fighting at Antioch in 1098, at which engagement he was believed to have made a miraculous appearance to help the Crusaders, about which I have only read comparatively recently. Here he smites the infidels with a lance. He was thought to have turned the battle.
We dined this evening on roast pork and the vegetables you see here. The crackling was crisp, crunchy and scrumptious. Spicy bread pudding and custard was to follow. I finished a bottle of the Bergerac.
Should you wish to emulate the crackling of the woman I am fortunate enough to have cooking for me,
The method is:
Rub salt into the skin some hours beforehand. Roast the joint on very low heat, gas mark 1-2 or 150C for about three hours. Then for the last 20/30 minutes turn the heat up to the maximum when the crackling will bubble up and live up to its name.
Jackie says that had she know this meal would be on display she would not have served the roast potatoes and parsnips in the dish in which she cooked them.

By Appointment: Photographer To The Tourists

Just before midday Jackie delivered me to Southampton Parkway for the London train. Wandering along the car park, killing time because I was early, I contemplated car wheels, many of which were reflected in the numerous puddles. This reminded me of a recent conversation with Jackie’s brother-in-law Ron, in which he had informed me that no cars had been built with hub caps for many years. I had not noticed.
I got talking to a taxi driver who told me that the aluminium alloy wheels were made with a mixture of aluminium and rust. He didn’t know what the special properties of rust were, but said the reason we didn’t see that any more either was that scrap metal merchants collected it for the manufacture of this material.

From Waterloo, I walked across the modern version of the Hungerford Footbridge from which there was a clear view of Waterloo Bridge and the skyline beyond, in which St. Paul’s still holds its own among the taller modern buildings.
Passing through Charing Cross Station and across The Strand, I skirted Trafalgar Square of which the fountains sparkled splendidly in the sunshine. I took the pathway by the left of the National Gallery to Leicester Square and carried on up Wardour Street which sported vibrant decorations, no doubt in readiness for the Chinese New Year at the end of this month.
At the entrance to Gerrard Street a tourist couple asked me to take their photograph with the gentleman’s mobile phone. As usual in these situations, I asked if I could capture them on my camera. They were happy to oblige.
From Shaftesbury Avenue I proceeded to Piccadilly where I shopped in Waterstones and the market in St James’s Churchyard.
I continued to Green Park intending to travel the one stop to Victoria by tube to visit Carol. This was not possible. The Victoria line was closed because of flooding at the terminal station. I took the Piccadilly Line to South Kensington, and the District one to Victoria. Chaos prevailed as the crowds seeking alternative routes struggled to understand the several options open for various destinations given out on the public address system. I didn’t get a seat, but I did get to Carol’s. After my time with her I took my usual journey back to Southampton whence Jackie drove me home.
On the 507 bus a gentleman with a stentorian voice who was clad in a greatcoat and a candlewick bedspread provided us all with information about food; alternately expressed true sorrow and profound gratitude for what he had become; and spared a thought for elderly people with arthritis, which, thankfully he hadn’t come to yet. He staggered off the vehicle struggling with a huge, cumbersome, laundry bag. Most other passengers silently focussed on their electronic devices.
Back home, we dined on lamb curry and pilau rice, every bit as tasty as yesterday. I drank sparkling water.

A Link

This morning was another splendidly spring-like one. I walked down to the Village Shop and back, to collect my dry cleaning. In an open-necked shirt and unbuttoned jacket, I raised a sweat. Not bad for January.

As I approached the Trusty, dazzled by the high sun, I was uncertain, until she’d passed me, whether the driver of the trap pulled by a familiar white pony clopping up the road was my friendly acquaintance from Seamans Lane. It was. She slowed the horse to a walk, and we exchanged smiles and waves.
The weather reverted to white cloud this afternoon, and I had a trawl through my posterity collection, coming up with colour slides from 1964. Two members of the group of friends pictured with Vivien and Michael in May of that year were to provide a link with the next stage of my life of which I was unaware at the time. Seated in one of our two rooms in my parents’ house at 18 Bernard Gardens, from the left next to Vivien are Felicity, soon to marry Tony Dowdle who is beside her; Mike Vaquer; and David, whose surname I have forgotten. The three men were work colleagues at the Yorkshire Insurance Company. It was Mike who had introduced me to photographing the West End Christmas lights.
Three months later we attended the wedding of Tony and Felicity in a church in Killieser Avenue, Streatham. Felicity looked all the Bluebell Girl she was. Interestingly, she seemed a great deal more happy to be photographed then than she had appeared in May. Alan Murray, best man, I think, and company seemed rather determined to ensure that Tony was covered in confetti.
Vivien was to live barely a year after this wedding.
A further year on and I was to return to Killieser Avenue for visits to Jackie who was then sharing a flat with her friend Janice. Who could have known?
Even less predictable was it, given the intervening years, that Jackie would be feeding me a wonderful dinner this evening of lamb curry and pilau rice, accompanied in my case by more of the Bordeaux.
For her fans, she has provided a description of the preparation of first the curry, then the rice.
Lamb curry (serves 8):
For the sauce finely chop 4 medium onions; 4 fat or 5 medium cloves of garlic; 3/4 bird eye chillies, and fry them in a little mustard oil mixed with vegetable oil.
When this mixture is softened and golden, throw in 3 tsp ground turmeric, 2 tsp cumin, 2 tsp coriander powder, 2tsp garam masala; 2 tbsp white vinegar, 2tbsp red wine and stir until a lovely paste is formed.
Stir in 2tbsp tomato puree and 500g Passata
The lamb (1lb), which has been pre-cooked should then be added. Our chef has used trimmed rump steaks boiled, with a little water and a lamb stock cube, in a pressure cooker for 6 minutes. If you have no pressure cooker simmer in stock until tender.
Add the lamb and its juices to the mixture above and simmer on a low heat until you have a nice thick sauce.
At some stage before then add a cupful of broad beans.
Pilau rice:
Take 8 oz basmati rice and one pint of water. Pour a little of the water into a small saucepan with 4/5 bay leaves, 2 inches of cinnamon stick, 8 green cardamoms and 8 cloves. Simmer until soft and squashy and water full of flavours.
In the meantime fry another finely chopped onion with a couple of cloves of garlic in 2oz butter then stir in the rice and throw in the saucepan of wonderful spices, the rest of the water and 4 good shakes of Maggi seasoning. (Jackie may have been a bit carried away here. For ‘throw in’ I would substitute ‘gently pour in ‘, but what do I know? Make up your own mind. PS you can leave out the saucepan itself).
Boil until all the water is gone. Garnish with toasted almonds and chopped coriander leaves.
Anyone caring to zoom in on the rice may well spot a few peas, sultanas, and yellow pepper. That is because you can add a little of whatever your fancy dictates and you have available.
Finally, a tip on keeping coriander fresh. Neither freeze it nor leave it in water. Wrap it in cling film and leave it in the fridge. That which garnished today’s meal had kept its youthful quality for at least three weeks, and there is more in the fridge.

Now You See Them……..

On this cold but crisp morning, the sun only managed to penetrate the mist at midday, by which time I was home. Gone were the delicately tinted skies of yesterday, but by the time we were lunching on Jackie’s sublime chicken broth, fluffy white clouds adorned a clear blue sky.
I walked directly through the forest from Upper Drive, turning right when I reached the road through London Minstead, and back up Running Hill.

There was not much point in trying to reuse the paths I had discovered last summer, because there were many freshly fallen trees, or their recently amputated limbs. Consequently,as I sought new ones, I often had to extricate myself from the evergreen holly branches, which seem to have proliferated.
As usual I followed pony tracks. Especially on the steep downhill slopes, when I had no skis, I found that the animals were surer footed than I. There was often a definite possibility that I would lose a Wellington boot to the suction of the mud.
The forest was silent, except for the squelching and crunching of my boots, the snapping of twigs, and the steady pit pat of moisture dripping from the trees. The general dampness of the season had produced emerald green moss and golden orange fungus with incredible richness of colour.
A tall beech tree had holes bored right through its trunk. It seemed to be surviving. Others, seemingly supported by their neighbours, lurched at alarming angles.
As I emerged from the forest and walked through London Minstead, I was aware of different sounds. The cackling of geese and hens, a cock crowing, a wood pigeon crying out for a mate, rooks cawing, and smaller birds chirruping. Until I reached the bottom of Running Hill I had seen nor heard no sign of human life. Then, a sound I recognised from last year, followed by fog lamps glowing in the distance, emanated from Jeremy’s hoover which he could only just squeeze through the railings by the stream opposite Hungerford Cottage. As friendly as ever, the man charged with clearing up the pony droppings, was only too pleased to turn off his engine, wind down his window, and have a chat.
In fact Jeremy was almost the only living creature I encountered this morning. But not quite. Through a gap in the holly bushes ahead of me in the forest I had seen the shadowy movement of possibly three deer. They are probably accustomed to the sight of my camera now, for they seem to enjoy a game of catch us if you can, as they prance fleetingly from view. This last picture had them in it when I pressed the shutter. I swear it did.
We had a brief, entertaining, visit from Jackie’s sister Helen, and niece Rachel early this afternoon. Rachel brought Jackie’s Christmas present and Helen brought some coffee and vanilla shortbread biscuits she had made. Artistic culinary expertise runs in the family.
This evening we dined at Totton’s very friendly Family House Chinese restaurant. The M3 set meal, which we chose, begins with plentiful starters of prawn toast, seaweed, and chunky lean spare ribs; shredded duck is then served with the usual additions, except that there are more pancakes than we are accustomed to; mixed vegetables, chicken and black bean sauce, shredded beef, and special fried rice share the top billing. That is quite enough for two. We both drank T’Sing Tao beer. We were the only diners, although the takeaway trade was, as we have noticed in more than one local restaurant, thriving.

Why?

Photograph number 43 in the ‘through the ages’ series was probably taken by Vivien and printed by her brother Bernard in 1962. Bernard always used a square format. Here, I sit on a cast iron and wooden-slatted bench in the garden of 18 Bernard Gardens to which we had moved as a family a couple of years before, alongside my brother Joseph.
In a fascinating coincidence, my parents and I each produced five children with eighteen years between them. Unlike my Dad, I needed three wives to achieve the round handful.
Dad was a man, of his time, who would never borrow money for any purchase. When, in the late sixties, the large Victorian house began to suffer from subsistence damage, the quotation for repairs was £400. My father could not be persuaded to borrow that sum on mortgage, so it was sold and the remaining members of the family moved to Morden.
This morning I received a phone call from Sam and Malachi in Perth, Western Australia, and had long conversations with each of them. My grandson chuckled away when I asked him: ‘Why?’. He has, so far, despite distinct O’Neill genetic traits, retained his English accent. The attached photograph is taken from Holly’s Facebook page of 26th December last year.
Snowdrops have arrived in our garden. I spotted some as I began my walk of the Football Green/Shave Wood loop this afternoon. They were not far from the sawn-off cherry tree stump, which is all that remains of the casualty that was taped off in December.
A trail of white plumage, reminiscent of Hansel’s breadcrumbs, on Running Hill led to the remains of a large, now unidentifiable, white bird.
At the bottom of the hill, the gentleman who lives at Orchard Cottage opened his gate and crossed to give a pony on the green a tasty morsel. He had to be quick to return to his garden. The dark brown creature and its white companion, having had their interest aroused, wanted more and were intent upon laying siege. That is one of the hazards of that particular kindness to animals.

Further on down into Minstead, alongside the pedestrian safety path that runs by the most dangerous stretch of road, the smoke rising from a bonfire in an adjacent field blended with the subtle greys of the clouds above.
On Lyndurst Road, just before the junction with Football Green, a number of fairly large trees have fallen recently. Huge tyre tracks provided evidence that some rather heavy machinery had been used to clear them from the road.
Foraging ponies are looking a great deal more healthy than they did this time last year, when they were so cold and wet and their ribs were beginning to protrude.

As I turned the corner at Shave Wood, the skies, having been somewhat obscured by the trees, came back into view. How they had altered since I first saw the bonfire blend. Big skies are a feature of the countryside, and I find their constant changes of hue and formation fascinating. At that moment the artist had laid gentle brush strokes of yellow and indigo over the bright blue base wash.

Visible from high up on the hill approaching London Minstead, Minstead Lodge, like the Gothic pile it is, stood out against the rainbow trout tints in the sky. From Bull Lane I could look down on the still burning bonfire I had seen from the other side of the valley. The cloudscape painter had changed his or her palette yet again, as the setting sun slowly turned the gold to pink.
A BT Openreach technician high on a ladder clamped to a telegraph pole opposite the Minstead Lodge drive in Seamans Lane was applying some kind of testing device. He agreed that he was quite busy at the moment.
Further on I met Oliver. Not my grandson. A greyhound. His owner’s mother informed me that he had not been fast enough to pass muster as a racing animal, so was in fact a rescue dog. He seemed friendly enough, and ignored the baying of neighbouring hounds who had picked up either his or my scent.
For dinner this evening, Jackie produced roast belly of pork with sage and onion stuffing, roast potatoes, and vegetables. This is a most underrated cut of meat, that, when of Lidl quality cooked long and slow, offers a most flavoursome meal. Creme brûlée was to follow. I drank more of the Bergerac.

Candid Camera

From mid-morning to mid-afternoon today was a bit of a struggle. I had taken on a project with my computer which had best be kept under wraps for the moment. It did my head in. For some reason each time I tried to send an e-mail with attachments my work disappeared from the screen and I was being informed there was no e-mail activity. The messages, complete with attachments were lodged in my outbox.
Eventually I telephoned my recipient who confirmed she had received the e-mail. We decided I should employ the classic IT Crowd device of turning the machine off and turning it on again. My Mac wouldn’t let me turn it off. This was because Mail was blocking that activity. Then I remembered Force Quit, so I forced Mail to be off and was then able to shut down my computer, wait a bit, and turn it on again. This whole business was repeated several times before, inexplicably, everything was back to normal and I was able to send my work off.
By this time I needed a draught of sea air. Jackie obligingly drove us to Mudeford. She sat in the car park with her puzzles and the waves in front of her, whilst I turned left and walked along Avon Beach for a while, then back to, and around, the quay.

There is a strong riptide at this crabbing and yachting village, where the River Stour comes into contact with the English Channel. The collision sends shockwaves to thump against the sea wall and slide quickly back over the concrete and shingle.

At first I walked in an Easterly direction. The sun was lowering in the Western sky, so that when I turned to face the way I had come, everything and everyone was backlit. This made for some interesting silhouettes, but sometimes that large orb, dominating an almost clear sky, blinded even the camera.
There was a very clear view of the Isle of Wight and the needles. Shells, seaweed, and shingle blended beautiful pastel shades on the surface of the beach which was pretty densely populated on this most springlike Sunday. It seemed that families and working people were taking advantage of the first splendid weekend day we have had for some time. Children, dogs, and beach balls were in evidence. Crabbing being a favoured activity along this stretch of water, the seagulls showed great interest in groups that, like the mother and daughter hugging the sea wall, made their way along to the higher levels to dangle their lines into the water.

Pleasure and working craft were on the river and the sea. Outboard motors, clear of the riptide current, sped into the harbour, and a rower made his way around the quayside. The motorboat, Aquila, however, having come from the Island, struggled against the current.
Shadows, especially by the time I was wandering around the quay, were long, as shown by those cast by a little girl struggling along on roller skates, and her mother.
I was intrigued by another photographer who scoured the crab baskets area taking photographs very similar to those I had taken last September. When she turned up reflected in water on the quay, I couldn’t believe my luck. I showed her the result which pleased her, and she exclaimed: ‘Candid Camera’. This is a classic TV show based on ordinary people being filmed in unusual situations. Only after the filming is completed are they told: ‘Smile. You’re on Candid Camera’.
We dined an hour or so after our return home. Some dishes, such as chilli con carne have enhanced flavours the second time around. We normally prepare enough for multiples of two, and either eat more the next day, or freeze it down for later consumption. Yesterday’s production was both enjoyed this evening and had a share added to the freezer. It was delicious. The rice was prepared in the same way as yesterday, but with the addition of glistening fried onions and yellow pepper. A side dish of green beans completed the first course, and bread pudding was to follow. I drank more of the Bergerac, while Jackie’s choice was Hoegaarden.