derrickjknight

Islington

Early this morning an engineer came to fix our Kenwood dishwasher. Apart from a minor gap in its intelligence, there was nothing wrong with it. The problem was a kink in the pipe letting out the water. The machine didn’t know how to tell us this, so it informed us that there was some loose wiring and we should unplug it and call in an expert. After what was probably the man’s easiest job of the day, Jackie drove us to Christchurch in search of a small lawnmower. We reconnoitred both Stewarts and B & Q. As is was pensioners 10% discount day at the DIY centre, they won. We bought a small Bosch model. On the way back my lady dropped me in New Milton where I deposited a jacket at Johnson’s cleaners, and walked back via Ashley.

On this day of sunshine and showers I was hit by a deluge in Lower Ashley Road.

As raindrops formed expanding circles in the pavement pools a group of road menders gleefully continued their work in the refreshing downpour.
By the time I was walking along Christchurch Road the rain had stopped and the sun shone. Jackie had stopped off at Tesco’s for some shopping, and passed me. I did not decline her offer of a lift, and squelched into the car.

Our vine path sparkled in the sunlight.
This afternoon I delved into my slide boxes in order to produce another in my posterity series of photographs. When, on 16th March last year, I first wrote about our time at The Peel Institute I had reproduced a photograph of myself with a bunch of roses I had just picked from the garden that was taken by Jessica on Christmas Day 1974, I could not find the slide and used a rather poor copy of the picture. Here is today’s scanned version:

We had moved into the building in Lloyd Baker Street in August of that year.

A children’s playgroup could then be seen in the garden, and in

May 1975, Jessica was reflected in the window of the youth club. We learned later that the second husband of Jessica’s Aunt Elspeth had previously taken parties of boys from the club to climb Snowdon from the cottage in which we were staying when the photograph featured on 7th July was taken.

In August 1974 I photographed a sunset over the St Pancras skyline which is now changed beyond all recognition.
This evening’s dinner consisted of Jackie’s superb sausage casserole (recipe), mashed potato, and crisp Brussels sprouts and carrots, followed by choux buns. She drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Rawnsley Estate red wine.

Why Did The Donkey Cross The Road?

After a noisy thunderstorm during the night, the day dawned bright and clear. I walked the circular route to Milford on Sea and back. Indicative of the brisk pace I was able to maintain in the cooler weather, this round trip took just over 90 minutes.

The pines along Sea Breeze Way cast lengthy shadows across the terrain, and the sun that caused this also enriched the colour of the

leaves now beginning to fall in the Nature Reserve, where the footpaths are becoming rather soggy.

On my way back along the cliff top, watching very choppy seas, I leant into a very forceful head wind which made me think I should have taken this route on the outward journey. Then I would have been blown along. Perhaps I should have emulated the crow which, flying low, may have gained some shelter from the land. Not being able to fly, except in my youthful dreams, I would have had to walk along the shingle, and today I didn’t have time for that.

Back at home, I joined Jackie, who had already made a start on the continued clearance of the back drive. We have almost finished the task.

Later this afternoon Jackie drove us to the Montague Arms Hotel at Beaulieu where we met Elizabeth for a cream tea.

As we arrived at the hotel two donkeys left the forecourt, wandered around the corner and across the road and came to catatonic rest outside someone’s house.

The Montague Arms is a splendid building with a beautifully maintained garden. Whilst waiting for my sister I wandered out and spoke to the gardener who was pleased with my appreciation of his work. He didn’t stop all the time we were enjoying our refreshment. We could have played croquet on the immaculate lawn, had we felt so inclined.

For refreshment, the ladies each chose cream teas, Elizabeth’s beverage being Earl Grey and Jackie’s English Breakfast. The scones looked delicious, but I, thinking we would be eating out later, originally declined. My lady and my sister, however, each persuaded me to have half of one of theirs. With these I drank a bottle of Ringwood’s Forty-niner.

After this, having all agreed to go on afterwards to The Family House in Totton for our evening meal, we took Elizabeth on a tour of Beaulieu, which, of course, doesn’t take very long. We introduced her to Patrick’s Patch which contained more seasonal produce than last time we visited in November last year.

Chard and dahlias were still in their beds, and an attractive arrangement of miniature pumpkins was on display.

I travelled with Elizabeth to the restaurant to be sure she would find the car park where we arrived at the same time as Jackie, and had our usual excellent meal in homely surroundings. We all drank T’singTao beer. Afterwards we parted company and Jackie drove me home.

The Uses Of Enchantment

The gales are back in force. As the wind howled and the rain lashed at our window panes, tearing down the wisteria outside the kitchen door, I felt like a little pig.

One of three, that is. Fortunately in a house made of brick. Had it been of straw we would have woken up exposed to the elements. I refer, of course, to the fairy tale featuring a big bad wolf who huffed and puffed and blew down two of the houses, built of insubstantial materials, with disastrous consequences for the piglets. The wiser, better prepared, porker survived. Other versions have the third brother rescuing his siblings. Either way, it is an entertaining fable, which has given generations of children scary delight.
Not everyone today would agree that this, like many other such tales, is a suitable story for young children. I cannot now remember whether this one featured in Bruno Bettelheim’s 1976 book, ‘The Uses of Enchantment: The Meaning and Importance of Fairy Tales’. ‘Little Red Riding Hood’, also featuring a frightening wolf certainly did. All children have fearful fantasies that they need to come to terms with in a safe atmosphere and environment. Bettelheim’s thesis is that folk tales featuring death, destruction, witches and injury, help children to do so. I have more than once referred to the Brothers Grimm’s ‘Hansel and Gretel’, which some people, as with much of this duo’s work, consider too dark. I am, however, in agreement with Bettelheim.
Heinrich Hoffman, for me, is another matter.

His ‘Struwwelpeter’, of 1845, at one time the most prolifically published children’s book in the world, is aimed at scaring infants into behaving themselves. The cover of my 1909 copy of Routledge’s English translation illustrates what happens to Little Suck-a-Thumb. There is no possibility of redemption in these cautionary tales – just horrific punishment. Contrast this with what must be universally the most popular children’s book of today,

Maurice Sendak’s ‘Where The Wild Things Are’ from 1963. Max, punished for ill-treating the family dog is banished to his room, indulges his fantasies, and is finally forgiven by his mother. It is one thing, although not good, for a child to wave a fork to frighten a dog, quite another for an adult to snip off thumbs.
By mid-afternoon everything had calmed down and I could cease my internal rambling and walk the Hordle Cliff top route in reverse.

Water bubbles balanced on nasturtium leaves sparkled in the sunlight.
When we arrived at Downton at the beginning of April a flood around a manhole cover on a bend a short distance from our back drive was being pumped out.

Today the lake is back. The flood warning sign has lain in the hedgerow all summer.

I fished it out and leant it against a tree. Without this warning the car in the picture would have rushed through the water the driver would not have seen on the blind bend, and given me a cold shower. Other pools reflected the skies at regular intervals.

The skeleton of an umbrella no longer fit for purpose lay abandoned in a bus shelter that has also seen better days.

Even the dogs on the cliff path showed no interest in descending to the shingle below.
This evening’s dinner consisted of rack of pork ribs marinaded in chilli sauce, served with pilau rice and green beans, followed by ginger pudding and custard. Unless you are of a certain age you will not remember the runner beans that, by the time they reached the greengrocer’s, had tough skins with strong cords running down the sides. If you do remember, you may have helped your mother top and tail them, deftly stripping off the stringy bits. Now, the young vegetables reach the supermarkets in tender condition and you just toss them into the boiling water or the steamer. With our meal Jackie finished the Pedro Jimenez, and I began the Rawnsley Estate shiraz grenach mourvedre 2012. Incidentally, it was competition from the Australians that forced the French to name the grapes on their wine labels.

Swampy

A family gathering at Chris and Frances’s home in Wroughton, a rare event in that all the siblings were present, led to much reminiscing. Many of the stories, such as when Chris broke his leg the first time, have featured before in this blog.
Joseph, however, was enlightened to learn that when a baby he had been taken on numerous outings by Vivien and me, notably to watch cricket at Cottenham Park, seen here in 1962. Later, Jackie and I had done the same thing. In the second picture he stands between her and Michael, fascinated by the budgie cage at Cannizaro Park in October 1967.
Discussion about the various routes we had taken to reach Wroughton led to mention of the Newbury bypass in Berkshire. Elizabeth travels from West End near Southampton via Newbury, a way previously avoided by Jackie because the town had been such a bottleneck. The bypass was free to be built after Swampy came down from his tree. This man, otherwise known as Daniel Hooper is or was an environmental activist who, in 1996 led a group of hundreds of villagers who set themselves up in tree houses in a vain attempt to prevent the construction of the road taking traffic outside the town. Thousands of people from all over the country joined in this protest which, to the delight of the media, and at least one reader of The Times, lasted for three months. Mr Hooper, who now lives in a yurt in Wales, and spends his time running marathons, is a Newbury man.
After Jackie had driven us back home we dined at the Rivaaz in New Milton and both drank Kingfisher.

Narrow Lanes

The day began less than delightfully. Two days ago, our dishwasher was delivered. That was an excellent service. Disappointingly, the Kenwood machine developed a fault on our first wash last night. The booklet advised us to contact a qualified technician. I tried that this morning. Curry’s customer service number produced one of those maddening systems that asks you to repeat everything before moving on to the next robotic question. Eventually I reached a person who clearly knew what he was doing, but, unfortunately for him, could only offer a visit in five days time with no specific time frame. Rather less than calmly, I expressed my frustration. ‘We are not the retailer’, he politely replied. He did sound a little upset. Of course I said it was not his fault, but I had expected to speak to the people who sold the equipment, not an engineer engaged to conduct repairs within the guarantee period. That is asking too much in our progressive age.
I then tried the number of the Christchurch store given on the receipt. This connected me to the same system. It looks as if I will be washing up for a few more days.
After this I needed a walk. It is a long time since I undertook one of these in the rain. We have enjoyed such a long dry summer that it is difficult to remember the two years of almost incessant rain that ended this spring. I took my circular route to Hordle cliff beach, along which I crunched with no other company. The few dog walkers there were preferred to stay on the cliff top. One small terrier stood at the top of the steps insisting he be led down. His master complied with the request, but the young lady with him remained aloft.
Often, on these narrow winding lanes, a mirror is fixed to a suitable structure on the opposite side of driveways so that residents emerging are able to see anything coming up the road. One of these in Downton Lane gave me the opportunity to take a selfie. Although the term for these images has not yet reached the dictionaries, they are photographs taken at arm’s length by the subject with a mobile phone. Certain politicians, such as David Cameron, are partial to their photo opportunities. Actually I don’t believe my effort is strictly a selfie, since it is a reflection and taken with a digital camera that doesn’t send or receive messages. Perhaps the lexicographers will eventually elucidate.
A controversy rages in The New Forest over cyclists. One faction encourages them into the area, so they may enjoy their exercise and patronise the tourism facilities; whilst another regards them as a nuisance, often creating dangerous obstacles on the roads, causing long backlogs where they cannot be overtaken. A sign at the corner where Downton Lane meets the coast road states ‘Caution Cyclists’. I think this is to encourage car drivers to be on the lookout. It could also be alerting pedestrians to the fact that a two wheeler could come hurtling round the bend on the footpath. On the other hand it may be suggesting that the cyclists themselves should be careful.
By mid-afternoon the day had brightened. The clematis Carnaby has flowered for the first time, as has a pale blue morning glory, clearly fooled by the dull morning into blooming still at 5.30 p.m.
This evening Jackie varied her smoked haddock and cauliflower cheese meal photographed on 2nd May last year (recipe for cauliflower cheese), by using cod. The green element in the palette was provided by spinach. This was followed by sticky toffee pudding and custard. We both drank Cimarosa Pedro Jimenez 2013.

The Lady Plumber

It was Homer in The Odyssey who first described dawn as having ‘rosy-‘ or ‘rose-tinted fingers’. This morning we saw how apt his description was. There is, of course, as much controversy about the identity of this ancient Greek, or even Greeks, as there is about our own William Shakespeare’s. Something else the two have in common is that their phrases have become part of international language without speakers necessarily knowing from where or from whom they originated. I expect you can all think of examples. For starters, here is one I learned only this morning: ‘Manners maketh man’. We must have all heard this one, but where does it come from?
‘William of Wykeham’, according to Barrie Haynes, ‘was not a bad lad’. This is how my friend began his ‘Between Ourselves’ column of 22nd July 2009, in a Lincolnshire newspaper, Target Series. He then goes on, among other pieces of information, to tell us that William founded both Winchester College and New College, Oxford. The phrase quoted above has been adopted as their motto by each of these educational establishments, for it was their founder who coined it. Thank you, Barrie, I didn’t know that.
Barrie’s column ran for 76 weekly issues from 2009 to 2010. It is entertaining, sometimes provocative, and a mine of information. I am slowly working my way through the collection he sent me. I am not tempted to skip anything. The man is a delight, and I hope he soon succumbs to my pressure on him to start writing a blog.
During an hiatus in the work of Sam, The Lady Plumber, who fitted our dishwasher this morning, I walked the route through Roger’s fields, along the side of the wood, left along the bus route, and back up Downton Lane, pausing as usual to admire the cottage garden on the corner. Cosmos, marigolds, and nicotiana were the plants I could identify.
A crow, with another in the distance, tracked the hang glider that reflected the deep blue of the Solent, visible from the fields at our end of the lane.
As I walked along the side of the wood, my face tickled by spider’s strands stretching across the footpath, I felt thankful that I was not a fly, one of which basked in comparative safety on a dead branch.
To return to Sam, she is not phased by any problems she encounters. On each occasion she has worked on our plumbing, she has found the need for another piece of equipment, and has happily gone out and shopped for it. Today the pipe leading from the dishwasher to the water supply was too short, so she bought an extension. Sam is also willing to sort out other problems. Whilst testing the machine she spotted a leak in one of the sinks, unscrewed the elbow and found a broken washer. This meant another trip to the suppliers. She had other jobs to complete first, but undertook to come back to us afterwards, which she promptly did. Matching the washers had been a difficult task, so Sam was justifiably triumphant when she had fixed the new one to her satisfaction.
Work continued somewhat sporadically in the back drive. We are slowly getting there.
The Happy Wok at Ashley once again provided our evening repast, liquid refreshment being Hoegaarden and Bishop’s Finger.

Beach Hut Maintenance

This morning Jackie and I continued work on the entrance to the back drive. This involved another bonfire. I had anticipated saving the brushwood until November when we will celebrate Guy Fawkes day with the Mapperley grandchildren. We already had far more than we will need then.
The still hazy noon, following an early morning mist meant that The Needles fog alert was still sounding as I took my now circular route to Hordle Cliff and its beach. The Isle of Wight and lighthouse were still invisible.

At the bottom of Downton Lane, a ladybird clung to a mare’s tail.

The field on the left of the coast road also belongs to Roger Cobb, whose tell-tail perfect ploughing lines alerted me to his standing Massey Ferguson tractor whilst he repositioned the hinge on a five barred gate. I held it steady as he applied his hammer.

Crows foraged among the crumbling turned-up soil.

Down at the beach a spider lurked between beach huts, and a solitary swimmer surfaced on the smooth water.

t has not been unusual this summer to to see beach hut maintenance being carried out. Observing an example of this from the water’s edge I walked up to the building being repaired and spent some time with Marcos, the craftsman, and his dogs. We sat and chatted enjoyably for a while. His two spaniels seemed more sure-footed than his woolly black dog, which kept slipping down the bank until coming to rest against some part of me or another.

Marcos, who also does household decorating, had replaced the whole of the front of the hut which was rotting in parts. this is an attractive example of the work of milfordandhordlecliffbeachhuts@yahoo.co.uk

Jackie had continued work on the back drive entrance, and I joined her later on. She is exposing a brick edging to a narrow border beyond the gate, and I have reached half way into the fuchsia hedge. This is what the area looked like as the sun was going down. The No Parking sign is the handiwork of the previous owner of our home, and the plastic bag is to gather up what people chuck out of their cars.

The Happy Wok at Ashley provided our Chinese Takeaway meal this evening, with which I drank Shepherd Neame Bishop’s Finger Kentish Strong Ale. Jackie’s drink was Hoegaarden.

The Prize Pumpkin

Jackie drove me to and from New Milton for my trip for lunch with Norman.
The trains to Waterloo are very cramped. Space has been designed to accommodate people of, at best, average height and girth. Opposite me in a cluster of four seats without a dividing table, a young woman squeezed her legs around a huge piece of airline hold baggage which was wedged against the seat alongside mine, ensuring that no-one would be able to occupy it. There was room for her luggage neither in the overhead racks, nor in the corridors. When she invited me to use her hard-cased pink carrier as a perch for my coffee I remarked that it was impossible to imagine that this line served an airport. She replied that she was travelling all the way to London and was going to work. She said she had been informed at the ticket office that this was a commuter train, and people using the airport, with the consequent large baggage holders, should not be availing themselves of it. Our conversation took place while the stationary train was loading and unloading passengers at Southampton Airport (Parkway) station. I have, in the past, used these same trains on my journeys from London to the airport.
Taking my usual route from Waterloo, and passing Tenterton Gardens allotments on my way from Preston Road to Norman’s, I watched a gentleman tending a rather splendid array of pumpkins. This reminded me of the teenaged Matthew who lovingly nurtured an enormous example of these in his allotment at Cottenham Park in the early 1980s. One morning our son was devastated to find that his prize exhibit had been stolen by intruders overnight. These North London gardeners’ plots are enclosed within a vast and lofty strong metal cage, and can only be entered by use of a key. Would that Mat’s more established facility had been similarly protected.
I have mentioned allotments on several occasions now. Today, for the benefit of those not familiar with the term as used by gardeners, I reproduce the following explanation from Wikipedia:
‘An allotment garden (British English), often called simply an allotment, or a community garden (North America) is a plot of land made available for individual, non-commercial gardening or growing food plants. Such plots are formed by subdividing a piece of land into a few or up to several hundreds of land parcels that are assigned to individuals or families. Such parcels are cultivated individually, contrary to other community garden types where the entire area is tended collectively by a group of people. In countries that do not use the term allotment (garden), a community garden can refer to individual small garden plots as well as to a single, large piece of land gardened collectively by a group of people. The term victory garden is also still sometimes used, especially when a community garden dates back to World War II or I. [This comes from the slogan ‘Digging for Victory’ which encouraged people to grow their own food]
The individual size of a parcel generally ranges between 50 and 400 square metres, and often the plots include a shed for tools and shelter. The individual gardeners are usually organised in an allotment association, which leases or is granted the land from an owner who may be a public, private or ecclesiastical entity, and who usually stipulates that it be only used for gardening (i.e. growing vegetables, fruits and flowers), but not for residential purposes (this is usually also required by zoning laws). The gardeners have to pay a small membership fee to the association, and have to abide by the corresponding constitution and by-laws. However, the membership entitles them to certain democratic rights.’

Norman produced a roast chicken meal with crisp roast potatoes, tomatoes, and spinach in a cheese sauce, followed by blackberry and apple pie and custard. We shared a bottle of Reserve de Tugets 2010.

Jackie had not been idle in my absence. At the entrance to the back drive she had planted a row of flowers on the bank between the brushwood and the gate on one side, and carried out some heavy pruning on the other.

A New Camera

Jackie and I spent the morning continuing the clearance of the back drive. I reached the fuchsia hedge on the North side, while she began redesigning the entrance at the Western end. She has finished pruning the conifers, weeded the bank that extends onto Downton Lane, and used the cuttings to lay on the soil as a weed suppressant and nesting areas for insects and other wild life. The next step was to line the edges with concrete transported from the former kitchen garden. That was my task.
When I came to photograph our work, disaster struck. My camera lens stuck and I couldn’t use it. A Call to Curry’s and an examination of the Canon website revealed that my trusty little S100 has been superseded by the S120. Knowing that any possible repair would require a return to Canon and some time without a camera, I decided to investigate the possibility of a new one.
After lunch, Jackie drove me to Curry’s where I conducted my investigation. The helpful assistant confirmed that I would have to send my now apparently obsolete device to Canon myself. I came away with an SX700 HS, which has the kind of 30X zoom I have been looking for in a compact camera.
Knowing how long it took me to find my way around the S100 by trial and error, this time I downloaded the manual from the internet. The starter guides that come with electronic devices now are really very basic indeed, but I have always been ‘more than somewhat’ (Damon Runyon) phobic about downloading something I probably wouldn’t understand. Well, this one was very useful. The first photograph I took was an accidental close-up of the surface of my desk. That in itself sent me to the page about deleting images. So I managed that.
We have a crab apple tree in the front garden. That seemed a likely subject for testing out the zoom. Even pointed through a not too clean closed window, the resultant picture seemed reasonably satisfactory. I have not cropped the photo, so that the range of the camera can be displayed.
I then trotted down the back drive and took the aborted photograph of our improvements. One problem I had with the S100 was not knowing how to take the frame without a wide angle being employed. This made for the occasional weird effect that often required some cropping. I don’t have this with the SX700.
There is a layer of gravel under the grass. But that is for another day.
This evening’s dinner began with vegetable samosas in tamarind sauce, followed by Jackie’s chicken jalfrezi (recipe) and pilau rice, and a flaky parata. Chocolate eclairs were for dessert. I drank Cobra, and Jackie drank Hoegaarden

Nina Simone

The sunflower seeds that Frances sent us as part of a house-warming present have now produced fine blooming plants. I photographed these this morning in order to show them to our sister in law when we visited her and Chris at their home in Wroughton, near Swindon, this afternoon. Then I forgot, but when you read this post Frances, I hope you like them as much as we do.
Jackie, as usual, drove us there and back, most of the way along the A338. This is not the quickest route, but the prettiest. We stopped for lunch at the excellent Plough Inn at Chiseldon. The fact that it was very busy on a Monday out of the holiday season was no doubt due to the superb food and Arkell ales. I drank 3BB and Jackie drank diet coke with our meals. Mine was a tasty and succulent home made steak and ale pie with crusty pastry, delicious gravy, and crisp chips and vegetables. Jackie’s was a plentiful mushroom stroganoff with a fresh salad. This establishment is to be highly recommended.
It was good to see our nephew Peter who had spent the weekend with his parents and was about to return to his home in Cheam, driven by his father in law, also Peter. Reminiscing with the young man included the time of the discovery in the 1990s at Newark that we shared an appreciation of the ‘timeless’ (his description) Nina Simone. Peter would appreciate the photograph on the wall of Tess’s Village Shop in Upper Dicker.
Before we left, Frances’s friend Steph, who had once spent a holiday with us in Sigoules, arrived for a short stay, and we chatted with her, with Chris and with Frances for a while.
Back home in Downton I walked down to the Shorefield post box as a crescent moon hung above indigo clouds turning pink in the West.