derrickjknight

Preparing For The Hunt

An icy wind held this beautiful day in its grasp and ensured that my morning walk to Lyndhurst and back remained freezing. Even by one o’clock when I returned, much of the terrain was frozen, ice covered the pools, and a thin layer of snow remained in parts.

Misty and her mistress were dressed for the conditions. This whippet’s owner was pleasantly impressed when I complimented her on the colour coordination they were displaying. I don’t see how I could have missed it as their fluorescent glow gleamed in my direction from way down the road.

Tall pines sighed unceasingly when beset by the howling Easterly. The shorter hollies creaked, and flustered clusters of swaying ivy lent life to those deciduous trees that remained leafless. Serried rows of last autumn’s bronzed beech leaves wobbled a bit, but clung stubbornly, upside down, to their perches. Blackbirds, undeterred, went about their business in the hedgerows and ditches. Such a good job had been done of clearing the ditches (see 7th March) outside Sinefield that I doubt there would be much there to interest these foragers.

As I approached Emery Down, a group of barely visible deer scampered deeper into the forest.

The smoking chimney of The New Forest Inn was even more inviting than usual on this cold day.

Just as I had climbed up past Saint Michael and All Angels church on the way back, Jackie rang me to ask me to buy some carrots. It may have been cold enough for Christmas, but they can’t have been for Santa’s reindeer in March. I didn’t fancy trooping back down to Budgen’s where I had just done our shopping, so we agreed I’d divert to the Village shop to see if they had any. This meant using the church footpath, which is now just as muddy as ever. My reward for this was the sight of daffodils now joining the crocuses in bloom among the gravestones.

Having walked approximately eight undulating miles, as I passed the telephone box I wasn’t looking forward to the steep climb up Running Hill – so named for the number of streams it harbours – when Castle Malwood came to my rescue. An electrician asked me for directions to this conference centre which lies around the corner from us and has a very dangerous entrance onto the A31. He clearly needed a guide. So he had to give me a lift. Which was just as well because his Satnav was attempting to send him up a badly made up road that had no access to the building. And because I was a bit tired.

After lunch there was another job lined up for me. Jackie had had a wonderful idea for an Easter Egg hunt for Malachi when he comes tomorrow. Anyone familiar with these games will know that the searcher is presented with a clue that leads to the first egg which lies with the next clue, and so on until the end. The clues could not be in writing because my grandson is not quite four. When Flo was little Jackie had made drawings for the clues. But I now have a digital camera and a shiny new iMac. I expect you saw that coming.

Fourteen photographic prints of bits of household objects or equipment, all at four year old height level, were required. I expected this to take all afternoon. The photo-shoot was simple enough. Loading the results into the computer was now easy-peasy. Cropping and other adjustments that would have taken hours with Photoshop, could not have been quicker or simpler. The printer was already plugged in. Ah. The first problem was that I had not selected the printer or synchronised it with the Mac. Now where was the CD for the software? A box asked me if I wanted to download the software. I ‘accentuated the positive’. In four minutes the software was downloaded. No CD required. Fourteen prints took even less time. I think I love my iMac.

With this success I got rather trigger-happy and pressed ‘Publish’ instead of ‘Save Draft’ too early for those who like to know what we had for dinner. So now I’m having to ‘Update’ this post. Well, it’s going to be roast chicken. I will drink some more of the Cepa Lebrel, and Jackie will have some Hoegaarden.

Shirley Oaks

Snow swirled and settled in the garden throughout the day. Flurries flew about intermittently in Romsey this morning, but all that settled there was cherry blossom. This was when I walked around the town whilst Jackie attempted to track down fish for the visit of Sam and Holly and Malachi and Orlaith on Wednesday.

I wandered around the Abbey and its vicinity, including the War Memorial Park and the bank of the river Test. It was blustery and cold. Having just passed through a gateway onto the narrow riverside bearing a notice warning of deep water and asking for the gate to be kept closed, I came across two bouquets fastened to a tree bearing carved initials. I wondered what the story was. Certainly the river flowed very swiftly. Further along, a host of daffodils bravely rivalled the clumps of snowdrops now clearly more in their element.

At least around this area of Romsey there is a collection of plaques embedded at intervals in the pavement and on walls and copings, each bearing a different few lines of poetry. Since those by the river have been placed in spots relevant to their text, I imagine that is so of all of them.

Our other reason for choosing Romsey as today’s shopping centre was the toyshop. Before leaving the town we spent ages trying to decide on Malachi’s birthday present. Hopefully we got it right in the end.

We then had to find the fish, for there had been none available in Romsey. Perhaps I should have tried my luck in the river. Aiming for Totton, to continue the search there, we missed the turn-off, which turned out to be fortunate, for we stumbled across a Morrison’s superstore where we found the smoked haddock we were seeking.

Photo number 4 of ‘Derrick through the ages’, in which I seem to be attempting to simmer, was taken by Jackie in 1966 at Shirley Oaks. These were the old children’s village style homes for young people in Local Authority care. Near Croydon, this was a laid out estate of forty two large houses, called cottages, each accommodating twelve children. At that time the project also included a swimming pool, an infirmary, a laundry, a general store, a junior school, and even an unused mortuary. The individual houses were staffed by ‘housemothers’, many of whom offered ‘families’ of children long term consistent care. Jackie was one of these carers, in ‘Laurel cottage’, and my introduction to the world of Social Work that was to provide me with a new direction ( see 18th July 2012). Long since out of fashion as a method of child care, these buildings were sold off to form an exclusive, expensive enclave. The seclusion that had been considered too institutional, isolating and ghetto-like for troubled children, had become an attraction for those wealthy enough to buy their homes. Shirley Oaks children were given no experience of life outside the institution until they were thrust into secondary school. They didn’t go to the public baths and pay their entrance fee. They knew no launderettes. A daily truck provided an eneuretic service for the wet sheets which were left outside the back door. Their shop issued the housemothers with weekly order forms on which they ticked what they needed and collected it once a week. No money was handed over. No ‘outsiders’ attended their school. When a group of boys from outside began to visit a girl in Jackie’s care, a bunch of Oaks boys attacked them with such violence that there was blood on her doorstep. I was inspired to attempt to do my bit in changing all this. Perhaps I made a difference to some young lives.

Those children’s housemother made a very tasty chicken jalfrezi this evening which she ate with Hoegaarden and I with Cepa Lebrel reserva rioja 2008.

Lunch At The Tower

It only took an hour this morning to get BT to reset my personal password. I tried it out on the Apple. Cor, it worked. I then transferred all the photos from my My Passport to the new Mac, so I can now operate the whole of my posts directly from the new machine.

After a welcome mother’s day call from Becky, the doorbell buzzed. As Jackie opened the door, a bunch of glorious daffodils entered. The hand attached to the arm following them was Matthew’s. To her great delight, he came with it.

We spent an enjoyable day together, during which Mat and I took Oddie for a walk down to the village shop and back. The thirsty little dog emulated the ponies, which he otherwise actually ignored, by drinking from roadside rainwater.

On our return I watched England scrape a rugby victory against a much improved Italian side. Neither Mat nor Jackie is a fan, so we also conversed about other things, with the TV volume very low.

I then came to select the third photograph in Elizabeth’s ‘Derrick through the ages’ series. It was then that I received a most pleasant surprise from my iMac. The chosen photo is from a 1960 print about two inches square with a crack across the middle of it. I had worked on it with the Photoshop application in my older Mac about three years ago. It was still in need of considerable improvement when I gave it to Elizabeth last year. It was that still blemished version that my sister used for her slideshow. When I bought my new computer a few days ago, Joe had shown me that it was possible to enhance pictures with it. Today, I hadn’t much confidence in my ability to find that facility, but in fact it was quite straightforward. Not only that, but it was far simpler to use than my six year old Photoshop. I was able to produce a version of the damaged portrait that is beyond all recognition.

This photograph was taken by Vivien and printed by her brother, Bernard. As will be instantly apparent, I was leaning on a rail near the Tower of London. This was on one of our lunchtime walks from our workplace at Lloyd’s of London during the year we met. Vivien typed my work in the General Average office of that celebrated Marine Insurance establishment. We would walk around the City during our breaks. Little did either of us then know that I would, more that twenty years later, run three London marathons which included the cobblestones by that very spot. Or that she would have less than five years to live (see 17th July 2012).

Oven fish and chips was our evening fare. Treacle sponge and custard was to follow.

My First Match

Today Helen and Bill, and Shelly and Ron came for the afternoon and an evening meal. One of the underlights had blown, so we made another trip to Homebase at Edge End, for replacements. It seems that we need replacement bulbs or strip lighting on an almost weekly basis at the moment, and, although we always buy some spares as well, the next one we need is invariably of a different fitting or length from those we have in our expanding stock. This particular light was so old, probably thirty years, that the holder was stiff and brittle, and kept cracking and shedding bits. After unscrewing and taking it down, because we are both too tall to bend and peer underneath the cupboards, we were still at a loss. I was all for asking the agent to have these fittings changed. But Jackie wanted her kitchen today and was determined to see the job through. I left her to it. She fixed the tube in place and only needed my help to screw it back.

Before we left Shelly had phoned to check when they were expected because Ron, a cub master was taking his boys on a hike this morning. This led me to reflect on my own brief sojourn in the cubs. I hadn’t really wanted to join and only did so to please Auntie Gwen. It seemed to me that weekdays at school were where I experienced enough regimentation. So I always arrived late and mucked about a bit. What finally earned my expulsion by Akela, was chucking bits of screwed up paper at other boys when we were sitting round in some kind of circle for some purpose which I cannot remember. That was definitely a result. I must have been about nine.

But that was not quite the last of me and cubs. The Rowe family were friends of Dad’s. Dickie had emigrated to New Zealand after the war, but we still kept in touch with his sisters. One, Ivy, was an Akela. The adults had the bright idea that I might like to join her pack on a camping holiday. I remember three things about that trip. One was cherryade; a sweet, sickly fizzy drink that everyone was addicted to. The second was that I was so homesick that Mum and Dad had to come and take me home after three or four days. I think Dad used his furniture van for this, but I can’t be quite certain. Last, and most definitely not least, was an even more embarrassing experience than having to be fetched early. There was a cricket match. I had never played the game and knew nothing about it. There was no place for me in a team. ‘Never mind’, said the organiser of the event. ‘You can be umpire’.

I was placed behind the stumps at the bowler’s end. I stood there vaguely looking interested. My reverie was soon shattered by an awful cry, something akin to ‘aarwozeeee’. I stood there definitely looking red-faced and nonplussed. I did nothing. I said nothing. I saw nothing. I wished I’d heard nothing. ‘Put your finger up’, said one of the fielders. ‘Which one, and where?’, I thought. The other boy helped me out by indicating the correct procedure. So I put my finger up. Nervously. And got a tirade of tearful abuse from a batsman who then trudged off to the edge of the field. I cringe now as I think about it.

Early this afternoon I decided to tackle the internet problem once more. I turned on the iMac and phoned BT. There was a twenty minute wait. I made good use of this by reading the booklet that came with the Home Hub. This spoke of a ‘Wireless Key’ needing to be used. When speaking with Apple yesterday I realised I may be engaged with someone in America, who was not familiar with BT Hubs. He confirmed that it should be the BT Password that we had been using and had been reset. The word on the screen was ‘Password’. So what if I entered the Key instead of the password? I was in the process of doing this when an assistant became free. It worked. That must have been the quickest call she’d ever made.

Now I can’t even get e-mails on my laptop, being told my own account password is incorrect. I wasn’t going to start all over again today, so will ring BT tomorrow.

The purpose of the sisters’ visit was the grand rugbyfest. The three men watched the afternoon’s rugby while the women played Scrabble, with Jackie periodically attending to the meal. Jackie, Helen, and Shelly had realised they were each going to be rugby widows for the afternoon, so they decided it made sense to do it together.

We then spent an enjoyable evening centred around a tender roast lamb dinner, followed by apple and blackberry crumble. Various red and white wines were drunk.

If At First You Don’t Succeed

Yesterday’s rain was magnified today. Looking out of our windows I thought the limited visibility was mist. It was the deluge. All vehicles on the A31 had headlights glowing, falling raindrops adding hazy coronas. Undeterred, I walked the loop taking in the two underpasses.

Pebbles on a beach revealed by a receding tide gain, until dried out, an enhanced depth of colour. So it is with leaked petrol, as seen yesterday, and with leaves, lichen, and moss, not that these latter fruits of the forest have much chance of drying out at the moment. Gravel in the beds of streams glistened invitingly.

Roads and footpaths were again flowing with water. The uphill stretch of the A31 was a torrent. Ducking to avoid dripping branches as I walked along its verges, simply meant that spray thrown up by lorry tyres hit my face a bit sooner. The extra gusts of wind these vehicles created as they rushed past seemed more unsettling than usual. My choice of route was beginning to seem a less than good idea. However, to borrow from Magnus Magnusson’s ‘Mastermind’ catchphrase, I’d started so I would finish.

Once safely on the soggy heath I made my way to the Stoney Cross underpass. One of the pony trails led to a fresh waterhole being rapidly and plentifully replenished.

In 1978, Denis Healey, Labour Chancellor of the Exchequer, famously said of his friend and opposite number in the Conservative Shadow Cabinet that ‘part of his speech was like being savaged by a dead sheep’. Geoffrey Howe was not dead, but he was certainly Wet in political parlance. Seeing a wet sheep this morning attempting to gain some shelter, I thought of these two amicable rivals.

After lunch I attempted to start a new life with my new iMac. The first step was to sort out a password problem with our Broadband. We managed to get our Windows laptops connected to our Home Hub when we first arrived here, but now are often automatically connected to Wi Fi, requiring us to disconnect from that before connecting to the Hub. Recently the password has been rejected. This did my head in because we had written it down. Maybe we were looking in the wrong place. So I rang BT and had the man take me through resetting the password, choosing the very same one as the old one for the replacement. It worked. When pressed, the adviser admitted that there had been an internal problem with BT Yahoo. That annoyed me even more.

I then tried to get on the Internet with the new Apple machine, and kept being told I was inserting the wrong password. So I rang the emergency support line which comes free for 90 days. The technician confirmed that the password required was the BT one and not something specific to iMacs. I put it in again. Three times. It was rejected. Three times. I couldn’t bear to go through the BT phone system again, and settled, for the time being, for the insecure Wi Fi route. So I moved on to the second problem I had discovered. The scroll bar for moving up and down the text of this post disappeared as soon as I looked at it. This was a comparatively simple adjustment, so I was able to edit this document on my new toy. But why does the M on the keyboard look exactly like an upside down W? After a thoroughly frustrating afternoon, my head was already spinning enough. I’d rather face any amount of dead sheep and savage terriers than go through that again. But I guess I’ll have to do so tomorrow. Robert the Bruce learned from a spider that one must try, try, and try again.

My final effort today was to stick My Passport into the back of the computer and try to look at all the pictures I had transferred yesterday. This needed all my willpower. But, surprise, surprise, it was achieved in seconds. Elizabeth’s set of ‘Derrick through the ages’, does not appear chronologically, but I have decided to leave it that way. Today’s offering is from 1958. This was taken by Mick Copleston during one of our billiard sessions in his front room at the top end of Amity Grove. Since he always won, I can’t think what I was looking so relaxed about. Maybe I was just trying to look dreamy.

Speaking of relaxation, it is quite amazing how getting one process to work reduces the tightness around one’s head and lengthens the temper.

Feeling more optimistic, I decided to go for broke and transfer 1263 pictures direct from my camera Scandisc into iPhoto. No problem. As if this weren’t enough enough to lift the spirits we were able to watch a full-screen slideshow accompanied by gentle modern jazz music on a loop. Magic.

Tomorrow is the grand rugbyfest day, which will be fully explained then, and for which Jackie has been preparing food since this morning. It therefore seemed only right that I take her out for a meal this evening. Her choice was Imperial China in Lyndhurst. We enjoyed a marvellous and plentiful set meal, accompanied by T’sing Tao beer in her case and a Georges du Beouf red wine in mine.

Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway

The rain is back. There was no off-road venturing this morning. As I dripped round the ford ampersand, I sought comfort in the expectation that I would return with ‘that Brylcreem look’ which would resolve my bad hair day. I had awoken with it sticking out all over the place. Johnny Rotten would have been proud of it.

Able Piling’s crew, who were, with shovels and spades, laying stones in a drive, didn’t welcome the rain. They sensibly kept their heads covered.

The work of post-winter clearing of the ditches had begun. This involves digging out mud and debris which is then heaped by the side of the trenches. No doubt it finds its own level and is soon covered in greenery. I do hope this is now done by machines. I expect I will find out. Interestingly, if the ditch is alongside your property its maintenance is your responsibility.

The coned off pool described in, among others, the post of 17th December last year, has now been resurfaced and its drain cleared.

Champion (see 16th December) has his cough back.

Jackie drove us to Southampton Parkway to collect Alison who came for a visit. Leaked petrol glowed iridescently on the wet forecourt of the garage at Eastleigh where she filled the tank.

Later I applied my mind to iMacs. First I had to use an ordinary memory stick on which Elizabeth had collected the photographs of ‘Derrick through the ages’, that were a background slideshow at my 70th birthday party. This I had attached to my ‘veteran’ iMac, but hadn’t tried to save it. Given that I had bought a My Passport for Mac with which to transfer all the pictures from old to new computer, I thought I would initially attempt to put Elizabeth’s set into the pictures section of the old one. Miraculously I managed it.

The next task was to transfer the now enhanced collection of saved photos from my six year old redundant Mac. So the first box I opened was the My Passport for Mac. It carried a guarantee in goodness knows how many languages, but the directions consisted of a scanty sheet of paper with three pictures, numbered 1,2,and 3. I couldn’t make head or tail of them, except that I should first plug it into a USB port. So I did that, clicked onto the icon and stared at stuff. After much trial and error, I eventually clicked and dragged the Pictures icon to the My Passport one. Then we had lift-off. Perhaps the most scary bit was the message informing me this would take about two hours. So, in order not to spend that time hovering over a screen watching a thin blue line creeping across it and a white light flashing on the super duper memory stick, I sidled across the room to my laptop and played an on-line Scrabble session. After two hours I had a look. It was done. Ejecting the My Passport safely was problematic. I kept getting a message telling me it was in use and therefore couldn’t be ejected. So I shut down the computer, switched it on again and had no problem. Thanks to ‘The It Crowd’ for that little tip. I think I’ll open the new iMac box tomorrow. I don’t want to push my luck. But just to show you that I can at least transfer the contents of a memory stick to my soon to be obsolete iMac, here is a picture of Derrick from 1942.

Anyone under the age of five reading this, please understand that I’m an old man. You are probably already familiar with all this. If you are not there already, when you get to school it will be how you communicate and learn. When I went to school even biros had only just been invented. We didn’t yet have them, and dipped a pen with a steel nib into a dark liquid called ink with which to write on paper.

I felt I’d earned the wonderful chicken jalfrezi with homemade chutneys that Jackie served up for our evening meal. Bread and Butter pudding was my choice of afters. Hers was rhubarb crumble. I finished the Isla Negra whilst Jackie abstained. Don’t get the wrong idea, I would have given her some had she wanted it.

Today’s title comes from a classic self-help book by Susan Jeffers, first published in 1987. I’ve never read the book, but the title has always appealed to me.

Deferred Gratification

A most unfortunate consequence of having discovered that your iMac is very nearly obsolete, and deciding to investigate the possibility of buying a new one, is that, if you live near Southampton, that means another visit to West Quay shopping centre. This morning, to that galaxy in the sky we boldly went.

What neither of us had realised on our previous trips, is that West Quay is a specific building. We knew the Apple Store was in West Quay, but thought that term referred to the entire complex, including people like IKEA who have their own building. Having parked and found the first payment machine out of order, we asked a helpful parking attendant where to find both machine and computer outlet.

He directed us to a multi-story carpark where we should take a lift to Level 7, walk across a bridge, and enter the largest shopping mall I think I have had to negotiate. This vast collection of outlets was on several floors served by escalators. Actually I hadn’t taken the lift, but had joined Jackie on level 7. There were a number of Apple logos on the landings of the staircase, so that looked optimistic.

All we had to do was find the Apple Store. There were helpful information screens showing the location of shops at the touch of a button. This was some help. Only some. Even Jackie was thrown by the confusion created by this device. Apple was shown as a narrow shop next to H & M and close to John Lewis. But John Lewis was on two separate floors. Ok, we could check them both. Apple was nowhere near the ground floor one. Ground floor, you understand, is really a misnomer, because we were still at level 7, already approaching the heavens. So we tried the upper floor. No joy. But another helpful customer overheard our deliberations. She knew that H & M was around the corner. Which it was. With Apple next door. Nowhere near the location given on the screen.

Then it got easier. Joe was immediately on hand. Which was a miracle considering how full the store was. He explained very simply what I needed, and set up a new machine for me. When he offered me the usual extra three year insurance, I declined it on the grounds that at the rate things were going the new computer would be obsolete by the end of three years. Joe was very amused at this, and acknowledged that it wasn’t so daft.

We had planned to do the weekly shop then, but decided to take the computer home first. After lunch Jackie suggested she went off to Ringwood shopping on her own, leaving me to set up the new acquisition. I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity of deferring tackling the scary project for another couple of hours, so I accompanied her. She wasn’t sure that was terribly helpful, because it then meant she would be at home when I began the task.

Jackie then drove us both to Ringwood. As usual we parted in the carpark and met later. I wandered in and around the town, and noticed that, although sandbags were still in evidence, ‘the flood waters had receded from the earth’ (Genesis). Since less than 150 days had passed, this drying out was by no means complete. Jubilee Gardens was no longer flooded, and the static caravan site behind Ringwood Tackle was not so sodden. This encouraged me to attempt to enter the Avon Valley Path alongside these homes. A month ago this had been so flooded that ponies had to be rescued. Today I could at least venture through the gate. After a few yards I thought better of it. It was far too muddy.

Water was slowly leaving the Raymond Brown nature reserve alongside the Bickerley. Birds out of their normal element were reluctant to do the same. They picked their way amongst the residual pools, trying to ignore the fact that the ponies were hoping soon be taking up residence again. The millstream could now be distinguished from the floodwaters. It was commandeered by swans, one of which noisily trumpeted its efforts to take off. I wondered whether this ungainly flier had heard Peter Trim talking about bouncing bombs yesterday.

On our return home we had a beer before Jackie began cooking a chicken curry. This meant I had to put off opening my Apple box a bit longer. Afterwards it wasn’t worth starting because we would soon be eating. So I spent the evening, like a child postponing the pleasure of unwrapping a Christmas present, just looking at my lovely new box. Maybe I’ll get started on the job tomorrow. If I can’t think of another excuse not to.

Jackie’s chicken jalfrezi and pilau rice was really authentic, if a bit hot for her. I drank some Isla Negra reserva merlot 2012. She didn’t.

Carry On Walking

It was such a glorious day that we decided to set off early to find some of the wonderful locations we had stumbled on yesterday. Jackie drove me as far as Deadman Hill on Roger Penny Way, with an agreement to meet in Frogham carpark after two hours. Shortly before I reached Ashley Walk on Godshill Ridge, Jackie, who had driven on to Frogham, drove back, passing me. She paused to explain that she was going home for her phone in case we needed it. That, as we will see, was a fruitless exercise.

As usual, generations of thoughtful ponies had prepared my passage across the heath. Gliding along on layers of bracken stalks and desiccated droppings, my walking boots felt like carpet slippers. The fresher excreta was best avoided, especially as it was above that that the numerous clouds of midges gathered. These flying ticklers reminded me of those by the River Wandle in Morden described on 2nd November last year. On the approach to Godshill a large pool of water had not yet dried up. A short, fat, hairy pony, reminding me of Ernie Wise, was drinking from it. As I neared the animal it raised its snout, turned, and lumbered towards me in an amorous manner, with green matter hanging from flaring nostrils and liquid dripping from its whiskers. The green matter, fortunately, was pondweed. I wasn’t sure about the liquid, but as it was nuzzled onto my suit jacket sleeve, I rather hoped it was water.

Roadside daffodils were now in bloom. What a difference a day makes. Soon after spotting some of these in Godshill, I was tempted by the entrance to Well Lane, which sported a footpath sign, to depart from my planned route which did not include leaving the beaten track. It was a mixed blessing that I did so. Labouring up the steep rise ahead of me were an elderly man and his ageing dog. This was Peter Trim. Peter had lived there for twenty six years, all but the last he had spent guiding walkers. He knew these forest areas like the back of his hand. Which was just as well for me. He described the route I should take to reach Frogham. Initially it involved two stiles and a bridge over a stream. Fields had to be crossed. When I had finished speaking with him I got some of it right.

This friendly widower pointed out his garage to me. I had walked past it without noticing it, largely because I was watching him climb the slope. That was an omission. The facade of this structure is covered in small paintings Peter has produced, each one having some significance for him. He described many of these for me. The Riding for Disabled logo represents his years as a volunteer for that organisation. One more worth singling out is that of the rear ends of four ponies, showing the cuts of their tails, each kind indicating a different territory, as an aid to identification. This is midway on the right side of the gallery. The dog hobbled across the front as I was taking the photograph. Peter urged it to remove itself. I asked him to let it be, as it would add to the ambience.

Since he arrived in Well Lane Peter has never wanted to be anywhere else. A sweep of his arm took in the whole of the valley below, where much wartime preparation had taken place. He recited much, but all I’ve managed to take in is testing of bouncing bombs in the Second World War, and Boer War rifle practice. Someday a visit with a notebook might pay dividends. I’m sure this man would be amenable.

Almost as soon as I had taken my leave of Peter I realised the value of his guidance. Just a few yards down the lane, building materials and a wire fence blocked the path. I could just ease myself past the obstacle, reach a gate I needed to open, and cross the first stile. I was now on farmland. Across the stream there was a sheepfield to the right, its flock grazing in the sunlight. As I traversed the bridge I was rewarded with a rare sight indeed. Trooping in single file from a copse onto the field to the left was a stately parade of magnificent stags. A small rabbit hopped over to meet them. He didn’t stay long. Maybe he’d had in mind a comparison of scuts, and realised theirs were bigger than his. In any group there is always a straggler. This was no exception. As the rabbit reached the trees, the lagging member trotted down from the bank.

The final stile opened onto a still very muddy area. In contrast to yesterday’s farmer who had ensured only the most intrepid wayfarers would enter his land, this owner had laid a series of helpful stepping stones.

Consulting my Ordnance Survey map I turned right onto the minor road ahead. So far, so good. Then I turned left too early and found myself on Hart Hill. A string of ponies were making their way to a gorse bush above me as I realised I shouldn’t be up there and turned back to the junction at which I should have gone straight on. A woman was standing in her garden on a bend in the road. She told me I was well on my way to Frogham, I had to go straight on, cross the brook, turn right and walk up over a ridge which she indicated on the distant horizon. As I continued a car stopped and the driver asked me for directions. I ask you! She asked me for directions! Although I was a bit dubious about it, she decided to go straight on. Soon she turned around, stopped, and got out her mobile phone. I quickly realised why. The road had ended. It now became a scarcely trodden footpath. I carried on, seeking the brook. All that remotely resembled a brook was a ditch alongside the footpath and a few little streams that were now not much more than mudholes, running across the path into it. Eventually, the path becoming less and less well travelled, my nerve cracked, and I reversed my steps to the helpful woman’s house. By now I had to negotiate my way among a large group of ponies lolling about all over the road. Rounding a bend I met a really evil-looking black and white terrier of some sort. It guarded the gate to a property. As far as I was concerned it was on the wrong side of the closed gate. Silently waiting for me to come alongside its home, it let out savage war cries and rushed, snapping, at my legs. I had to kick out a bit.

The helpful woman was not at home. I decided to go back and have another go. This time a driver, getting into a van told me there was no way through to Frogham using that lady’s directions. His advice was to go back the way I had come and look for a footpath on my left. I found it. There, facing me, were the stepping stones I had crossed earlier. That wasn’t going to be any use, so I went on to Newgrounds where I met another woman who confirmed the first woman’s directions. She said it would take me about an hour and a quarter. Now, since Jackie would be expecting me in the Frogham carpark at that very moment, that was a bit awkward. But we both had our mobile phones, and Jackie was very patient and had Miranda Hart to entertain her, and it was a good hour to lunchtime, so all would be well.

Ah. No signal. Try again. I had a signal but she didn’t. I left a message. I did that several times in the next three quarters of an hour. What I didn’t know was that she was doing the same, and had even driven off to find a signal, to no avail.

Before setting off yet again, I had a really good look at the map, and, there, clearly marked, not very many yards from where I’d turned back, was Ditchend Brook. I reached it in double quick time, especially when, as anticipated, I had to encounter the terrible terrier again. This time he had brought his little mate along. Warding off two snapping, snarling dogs is a bit more difficult. I had not received instructions about how to cross the lovely cool rivulet with clear water running over an albeit shallow stony bed. Of course I had to walk across it. Which, trousers hoisted, I did.

This was hopeful. Just turn right, up and over the heath, and Frogham and Jackie await. Ah. But, which of the numerous tracks criss-crossing the heath would be the right one? I rather liked the look of one which skirted areas marked as Burnt Balls and Long Bottom. Hopefully it would lead to Hampton Ridge, which runs down to Frogham. Paying attention to the contour lines on the map, I should stay along the bottom edge of that ridge, otherwise I’d end up on Thompson’s Castle. Since my Thompson family live on Mapperley Top near Nottingham, I didn’t think there would be much point in that.

Hampton Ridge is a wide thoroughfare. Once on there it was downhill all the way. Jackie was waiting. I was three quarters of an hour late. From her vantage point, not having any idea of the direction I would be taking, she had actually spotted me coming down from the ridge, and jumped up and down waving her arms in the air. Sadly, I didn’t notice.

As we settled down to lunch at the Fighting Cocks pub in Godshill, Jackie commented that, what with Burnt Balls, Long Bottom, and Fighting Cocks, it had been rather a ‘Carry On’ walk. Her quip refers to the scurrilous series of films throughout the 1960s, all entitled ‘Carry On……………’. They were notorious for their suggestive scenarios and double entendre dialogue. Well, whichever way you look at it, this morning’s effort had been a bit of a carry on.

The lunch was amazing. We took the pensioners’ special, two items for £7.95. We both chose starters, pate for Jackie and whitebait for me; and each had haddock chips and peas to follow. The starters alone were a meal in themselves. All homemade and very well cooked. Peroni and Otter Ale were drunk.

Aldi’s pork spare ribs were almost as good as Jackie’s special fried rice which combined for our evening meal. I finished the Saint Emilion while Jackie savoured Hoegaarden.

Access Denied

Jackie needed to have yet another headlight replaced this morning. She drove us to Wells Garage in Ringwood where she left the car, she went into the town, and I walked to Rockford End and back.

Hurst Road lies very near the garage. It is a cul-de-sac with a footpath leading off it. I followed this until it joined the Avon Valley Path; crossed the road at Rockford and walked up a minor road to Rockford End, whence I retraced my steps. The sun emerged from grey clouds in time for my return.

The footpaths ran through and around a series of lakes, the main ones being those of Blashford. Access to these expanses of water was very restricted. They were fenced in with wire mesh, cable, or barbed wire. Consequently there were only a few vantage points from which to enjoy the views. Warning notices proclaimed Deep Water, Private Property, a fishing club, and Spinnaker Sailing Club. Followers of the Avon Valley Path were restricted to narrow strips, now largely dried out, criss-crossed with tree roots of varying thicknesses.

At the Hurst Road end, a couple of scattered piles of plumage testified to an overnight reduction in Ringwood’s avian population, and to satisfied predators’ stomachs. This footway, in part, ran alongside a still swollen stream of clear running water heard trickling around the tree roots and over gravel stones. A couple of constructed bridges were supplemented by those formed by fallen trees.

George Hall’s big day, helping to celebrate Queen Elizabeth’s 40th anniversary twenty one years ago, seems almost forgotten. Snowdrops in bloom, and daffodils in bud, pierced the rough hedgerows.

Through the various barriers, I couldn’t see much of the waterfowl I could hear waking up to spring. Of the sounds I recognised, geese were trumpeting and coots piping. The former, in twos and threes occasionally flapped, honking, overhead.

The most open stretch of water, not available to the public, was the domain of Spinnaker Sailing Club, the New Forest’s private provision. Beyond this, a private fishing club had warning notices fixed, it seemed, to every other tree. Here, the footpath narrowed considerably.

On reaching the road at Rockford, I struggled to pick up the Avon Valley Path, walked around a bit, and being unable to find it, took the minor road up to Rockford End. This proved fortuitous, for the wooded slopes and farmland provided beautiful views, especially as the sun had then made it through the blanket of cloud.

I hadn’t got far up this road before a weathered footpath sign indicated a way through a field of dried mud. This was just beyond a still waterlogged stretch containing a knackered old bull. On my approach, he staggered arthritically from the mudbath he had been enjoying, turned to observe me, then sidled off. Even I didn’t consider him much of a threat. Nevertheless, the walker’s way was barred by a gate. Actually five barred. The field was filled with cattle. I continued on up the road to Rockford End. Spinnaker Sailing Club’s expanse of water shone in the distance, and nearer farm buildings soaked up the sun.

The car repaired, we set off back to Minstead. Jackie took a road she hadn’t tried before, and we were soon lost. But, we are retired, we had all day, and the sun was shining. So what did it matter? We drove up and down beautiful forest landscapes and envied characterful, idyllically placed, houses until we came to a spot I recognised. It was the road I had so recently walked across at Rockford. I proudly told my driver where she was headed, and where she would end up if she went in the opposite direction. ‘So it said’, said she, referring to the signpost we had just passed and I, for once, hadn’t needed. Here was I, attempting to show off my newly acquired knowledge, and that was all the thanks I got.

Jackie made up for this by demonstrating that last night’s meal could be just as good revamped. Especially when accompanied by Lussac Saint Emilion 2010. Or even her Hoegaarden.

Finally, episode 7 got us up to date with ‘Call the Midwife’.

Trawling

Yesterday afternoon Jackie drove us to Leatherhead for what has become an annual family trip to see a Pat O’Connell Gilbert and Sullivan production. This year it was ‘The Gondoliers’. Jackie’s cousin Pat is a freelance director. The Godalming Operatic Society are clearly satisfied with his work because they keep asking him back. As usual, we were entertained by a polished performance from this amateur group. There are some real stars there; good voices, with stage presence. The costumes were splendid. The sometimes elaborate choreography worked well, and the customary introduction of up-to-date jokes rewarded close attention.

As usual we ate first in the Italian restaurant nearby. The G.o.S. G. & S. members traditionally dine there. Our table included Pat, Christine, Shelly and Ron, Helen and Bill, and Jackie and me. Pat and Christine’s daughter Olivia, who normally attends, was herself performing at the Manchester University Gilbert & Sullivan Society’s presentation of ‘The Grand Duke’. Her father quipped that she either had had to be a singer or she didn’t eat.

The restaurant had a pulsating atmosphere; the service was friendly and efficient; my minestrone soup was delicious, and originally presented in a bowl made of pizza bread; my sirloin steak was succulent and cooked to perfection; my vegetables were overcooked; my chips were limp; the house red wine was very good. Maybe I should have chosen a totally Italian meal. Last year a problem was caused by the waitress having forgotten Shelly’s meal. This year Shelly wasn’t provided with a wineglass, although she was to share the bottle of white wine. We considered that a small measure of progress.

Leatherhead’s Travel Lodge, just around the corner from the theatre, is basic but comfortable and reasonably priced. We had a good night’s sleep there, then the eight of us assembled in the foyer and repaired to Annie’s cafe for the traditional breakfast. On the way up to the little cafe that looks very like an old-fashioned tea parlour, with small lace-covered tables, a man we recognised from last year stood in the centre of the road and told us that there was a car coming, but we would be okay.

This gentleman we now know as Michael entered the cafe whilst we were there, stayed until just before we departed, and left having exchanged banter with another isolated customer. On our previous visit Michael had stood in the centre of the room and engaged us all, severally and individually, in conversation. It was only when we were leaving that we had realised he was blind. The two other individual customers today, one with a guide dog, were also unable to see. One woman in particular, who did not wear the dark glasses sported by the dog owner, looked very careworn and troubed as she entered, pushing her basket through the doorway. In her later conversation with Michael, in which I joined, she proved herself to be lively and witty. These customers were all well known to the waitress. I speculated that there must be some sort of care facility for blind people nearby.

After breakfast we all went our separate ways, in our case home to Minstead.

This afternoon Elizabeth came, as arranged, to make a selection from my blog photographs, for potential use on her website. If you knew my sister you would know that something would delay her arrival. This time it was the fortnightly antiques fair at Minstead Hall. It would have been impossible for her to pass it unentered. She arrived with a broad smile on her face clutching a balalaika she had just purchased. Well, you never know when one might come in useful. And she thought it looked beautiful, which it does. Not only that, but she might learn to play it.

After tea and scrumptious carrot cake she had bought from the village shop, we got down to the business of trawling through hundreds of pictures. She made quite a collection. Added to those of her own she is considering, that should normally ensure another twelve months deliberation before the final choice is made. Unfortunately she only has twenty four hours.

Of her choice she has picked out three for specific mention. The convulvulus, taken at Morden last summer, has appealed to Elizabeth because she has fond childhood memories of picking the blooms and squeezing the bottoms so they popped out. These grew profusely along the railway path (see 11th May last year) alongside Stanton Road.

We searched a long time for ‘New Forest pines’. I was puzzled because I hadn’t noticed any. This was a picture Elizabeth had chosen from a recent search through my posts. That was how she had deciphered her own note. She was unable to read it clearly and passed it to me for my opinion. ‘Pines’ became ‘ponies’, and the photo was found. I had realised that the problem had been compounded by my not having included ‘New Forest’ in my title.

Despite the last picture having been clearly labelled ‘Dawn across the lawn’, Elizabeth’s notes had referred to ‘sunset’. That was another that proved difficult to identify. Eventually the error dawned on us and we were able to find the relevant illustration.

While we were engaged in this exercise, Jackie produced one of her excellent soups, followed by delicious roast pork with perfect crackling, and a choice between bread and butter pudding and rhubarb crumble. The chef drank Hoegaarden and Elizabeth and I shared a 2011 reserve Cotes du Rhone.

Having watched the beginning with us, Elizabeth left Jackie and me to finish episode 6 of ‘Call the Midwife’.