derrickjknight

Resistance

Last night I watched a beautifully and sensitively filmed and acted DVD. This was ‘Resistance’, directed by Amit Gupta who collaborated in the scriptwriting with Owen Sheers, author of the acclaimed novel.

The theme is based on the fantasy that the Second World War D-Day Landings failed, and Britain was overrun by the Germans. Set in a bleak Welsh valley during the winter of 1944 and spring of 1945, it was a dream for the cameramen. Struggling as I was to get warm in my stone house which lacks central heating, and mindful of the snowbound forest I had just left, the freezing bucolic setting in which the film opened was most appropriate. Their snow, however, was fake.

This was a different kind of resistance than that to which we are accustomed in similarly themed films set in occupied Europe. It is not largely about fighting and espionage, but rather the developing relationships between the besieged women left at home by their menfolk and the struggles of a proud people to resist the genuine help of sensitive soldiers determined to keep the SS out of the valley.

Mainly gently paced, it was nonetheless enthralling. Andrea Riseborogh and Tom Wlaschiha were compelling in the lead roles, and it was fascinating to see the brilliant Michael Sheen in an, albeit minor, straight part in which he was not playing a famous person. I thought the film was stolen by the beautifully ageing actress Sharron Morgan whose expressive face perfectly portrayed her conflicts.

Unusually for me, I watched the whole of the credits and extras, gripped by the haunting music of Lyndon Holland.

More by luck than Judgement, I timed today’s walk to perfection. Turning right at the cemetery, I took the La Briaude loop back into Sigoules. After early rain we were treated to scintillating sparkle by the strong sun.

Swollen streams and ditches; rainwater and melted snow from overflowing fields ran down the rough roads whose pitholes were filled with the ochre liquid.

The roar of one stream which had been almost dry last summer could be heard long before I reached it. A new one flowed past a tree and down its sloping field.

As I approached the village square a car driven by a man using a mobile phone happily mounted the pavement before veering off it, reversing across the road, and vanishing into a driveway.

Rain returned as I inserted my key into the front door. Sunshine and showers was the order of the day.

Lunch at Le Code Bar consisted of two bowls of onion soup such as I have never tasted before; a most unusual ham salad; succulent pork cheeks; then a moist coffee eclair. I’m not sure what cheese the soup contained, but it was one of the type Jackie likes to cook with. The generous thin slice of ham was filled with a creamy pulse salad. The pork was served in a delicious tomato-based sauce with pasta. This was accompanied by a quarter carafe of red wine. Anyone wishing to read about my evening meal will be disappointed. I couldn’t eat one.

The television news was full of items about the problems caused by snow.

‘We Are Not Allowed To Ask’

Today I travelled to Sigoules. Jackie drove me to Southampton Airport; Flybe flew me to Bergerac; Sandrine drove me to Sigoules. All went smoothly.

Knowing I would arrive on a Sunday afternoon when everything, even Le Code Bar, would be closed, Jackie plied me with more food than I would normally eat at lunchtime, let alone 11 a.m. I did my best.

Snow began to fall again as we left, and, showing a fair amount of grit, my English chauffeuse got us out of the drive and into Running Hill, which was clear. Except for the three sorry-looking ponies walking towards us. These poor creatures, whose hair was matted with snow and mud, rendering them all a uniform dirty brown colour, brought us to a standstill. They trotted around the car so that we could continue.

It has been a feature of my air travel since my hip replacement that I always set off the security system, and consequently always have to be thoroughly searched and remove my shoes for inspection. I always inform the staff that I will trigger the alarm. it understandibly makes no difference. I could have been offering a red herring to put them off the scent. As today’s searcher said, ‘we are not allowed to ask’, if travellers have had replacement surgery, because that would offer an excuse for setting off the alert.

The bright sunshine above the clouds on my flight, glistened on a different kind of snowscape than that of the forest.

Gaps in the clouds offered glimpses of Bergerac beneath.

Once the plane descended through the clouds, the dominant monochrome changed to a dull grey.

In fact, on arrival, the little snow that had fallen around the airport had melted and the area was bathed in sunshine.

I am able to post this entry today, once again because of the generosity of the owners of Le Code Bar. I use their wifi connection, but, as mentioned earlier, they are not open on Sundays. There was, however, a group inside when I arrived. I went in to greet them. I was warmly welcomed by my friends and others who were relaxing after having given a free meal to forty needy people. So they were not just generous to me.

They are finishing up now, so I don’t have time to ‘poof redd’ this, as Becky would say.

Venturing Out

By this morning, yesterday’s snow had desisted. The garden and the forest were still well enough covered to offer a myriad of classic winter scenes. Our Mahonia presented an interesting outline framing the whitened leaves, whilst its yellow flowers peeped through. A certain amount of thawing had turned a little of the drive’s coating to slush, and rendered the more used roads clear, as I walked the Shave Wood loop.

Little Thatch cottage boasted a seasonal doorman.

My journey today was partly in order to reconnoitre the roads to see if we would manage to drive out later. I discovered that it would all depend on whether we could negotiate the drive. Once on the street leading to Minstead it would be safe enough, except for the lane through London Minstead. This hilly, winding, route was still a bit icy, and the slush would freeze over again later. The roads through the forest were fairly clear, and the streams and ditches were, for the time being, flowing again.

There was no sign of ponies today; no animals; no hoofprints; no droppings.

An overhead flier had added a splash of colour to the black and white landscape.

Late this afternoon, with some trepidation and a certain amount of sliding about, Jackie managed to extricate the car from the drive, and take us to The Firs. We collected my Apple computer and all its added equipment; packed them into the boot and the back seats; and went off to Eastern Nights with Elizabeth. We enjoyed the usual excellent meal there, and drank Cobra and Bangla. The food was served up rather quicker than often, so we were able to return home quite early, and safely.

Pinched Buttocks

Discussing Tens machines this morning Jackie mentioned that she can’t find hers, and assumed it has got lost in one of our several moves. A short while later, we spoke about the potential for photographing, in the snow that has fallen overnight, a subject for next year’s Christmas card. I said that one card I’d always wanted to produce was from a photo of a manger scene Becky had painted years ago in Newark. She had designed the float for the Caribbean Club’s contribution to a parade. I had a print of it, but didn’t know about the negative. When I left Lindum House a box of negatives went missing. ‘There’s a storeroom somewhere full of all the stuff that gets lost in moves’, said Jackie.

Snow fell steadily today, coating Minstead to provide romantic images. As I set off down Running Hill, a four by four vehicle, its brake lights piercing the falling snow, travelled downhill, without mishap, very very slowly. Sky and distant landscape merged into a backcloth of sludge. The snow on the ground was, however, virginal white. My goal was the churchyard. I hadn’t gone far before Berry called me from behind. She was walking up to the field to tend her horses. We accompanied each other as far as The Splash, at which point she turned right and I took the footpath from the ford to All Saints church.

At the ford there is a rather sheltered parking area. Car tracks in the relatively shallow precipitation layer made a pattern which required the addition of two sets of initials separated by L to complete the picture. The footpath was very muddy under the snow, but I was wearing wellies so I retained my footwear and kept my trousers clean.

Two horses grazing in the blizzard looked up when their owner called them, then carried on powdering their noses.

I felt a bit of a vandal ruining the thick white carpet covering the churchyard as I left my footprints all over it. No-one else had yet disturbed the view.

The trees bordering our garden continued to gather snow, occasionally letting fall flurries echoing those blown off houses earlier at Seamans Corner. At first sight these billows had looked like the woodsmoke I often smell there.

As the roads became more difficult we wondered whether we would have another night of pinched buttocks. This is because our lavatory seat has riven in two. We’ve tried to close the gap by taping it , but the tape seems to split too. Consequently, unless you are very careful you are nipped when enthroned. A man was due to bring and fit a new one at nine o’clock this morning. The poor chap was stuck in traffic. He insisted on perservering and eventually, to our relief, turned up soon after two. The fitting was too small, but, for our convenience, he left it and will return with a bigger one next week.

Rather rashly, we set off to drive to The Firs. We didn’t get very far. About a car’s length. Backwards. With wheel spin. We weren’t going anywhere. So we decided to return the car to the parking spot. No way. Spinning wheels going nowhere. Jackie went inside to get some dishwasher salt. She spread it about a bit. It didn’t help. I set about kicking snow out of the way. Adam, who lives upstairs, said there was some grit in a box. We didn’t have anything to carry it in. Jackie went back to the flat and emerged with a grill pan and a broom. Meanwhile Adam had found another broom. I gathered some panfuls of grit which we dispersed on the swept snow. Jackie had another go at driving back to where she’d come from. All ten yards. Eventually, with a push from Adam and me, she made it, and we returned home to thaw out.

We had planned a visit to Eastern Nights at Thornhill. Jackie’s smoked haddock and a shared bottle of Cimarosa Chardonnay 2012 was a very satisfactory substitute.

I’m Only Borrowing It

Probably because it is slightly less cold today, snow began to fall as Jackie drove me to Ashurst for my trip to London. I was then presented with the problem of buying a ticket. We should perhaps be grateful that there is a railway station at this village. Unfortunately there is no person employed to dispense tickets or to help in any way. This task is performed by a machine. As usual when I fail to obtain what I need from one of these, I didn’t know whether the problem was the device or me. I could not find a way of getting it to allow me to apply my Senior Railcard which gives me a thirty percent discount. Fortunately we had anticipated this eventuality and Jackie had waited in the car, ready to drive me to Southampton Parkway if necessary. This she did. On the way there I speculated that the time of purchase might have been the problem. It had been 9.25. The train was due at 9.40. Railcards operate from 9.30. Maybe the robot was set not to issue my kind of ticket until after 9.30, despite the fact that the train would not come along for another ten minutes.

As it turned out, I caught the same train anyway, and the guard on it confirmed my supposition. He said the thing to do was to board the train without a ticket and find his counterpart who would issue a suitably discounted ticket. Of course, the machine would presumably have provided such a service at 9.31, or even a few seconds before that. The only person inconvenienced this morning was Jackie, who, in attempting to deliver me to a nearer station, found herself having to drive round to Southampton after all.

It was a splendid day in London; clear and bright with no snow. I walked my usual route from Waterloo to Green Park where I boarded a Jubilee Line tube train to visit Norman for lunch.

Reflected in a three-dimensional four-sided sculptural construction alongside Sutton Walk opposite the main entrance to Waterloo, a young couple photographed themselves. As they inspected the result, one of them seemed to have disappeared.

The low winter sun shone through the parapets of Westminster Bridge.

Waterfowl walked on the frozen surface of the lake in St. James’s Park.

Norman fed us on roast chicken followed by trifle. We shared a bottle of Chateau David Bordeaux superieur 2010. I then travelled by underground to Clapham Common to visit Wolf and Luci bearing gifts bought yesterday in Shaftesbury. Luci produced welcome slices of her tasty pumpkin pie.

My return journey to Southampton was uneventful, except for a memory it prompted. A man struggling down the carriage seeking a seat on the crowded train enquired after the occupancy of a berth which contained two bags. He was told the position was taken, and moved on. It was ten minutes before the female occupant returned to take up her place. Some twenty years ago, when commuting between Newark and Kings Cross, I had been without a seat of my own. As I stood in the aisle studying the other passengers, it dawned on me that every time one of them visited the buffet car their perch remained vacant for some fifteen to twenty minutes. I therefore spent upwards of an hour hopping from one temporarily unoccupied location to another. When other adjacent travellers pointed out, some rather indignantly, that the seats were occupied, I suggested that they were not at that moment, and ‘I’m only borrowing it. I’ll give it up when your friend returns’. This I did and found another vacancy. It seemed a better option than standing the whole way.

When Jackie collected me this evening, the morning’s flurry of snow had given way to the more familiar rain.

Gold Hill

Dawn across the lawn was stunning this morning.

We took advantage of the beautiful conditions and drove cross-country to Shaftesbury in Dorset. On probably our coldest day this year the temperature was mostly below freezing and never rose above 2 degrees centigrade. The proliferating pools on the forest floor remained frozen. The Hampshire forests and moors gave way, as we crossed into Wiltshire and Dorset, to frosted fields and picturesque villages with names like Martin, Tollard Royal, Sixpenny Handley, and Gussage St. Andrew. Thatched roofs abounded.

On the New Forest stretch many ponies were grazing, and two deer scudded across the road in front of us. A white-surfaced golf course was providing fodder for two ponies, one of which was defrosting the green. Munching comfortably, close to the red flag of a hole, the only actually verdant area was a neat circle around the animal’s muzzle. We thought that this equine trespass would probably make for some interesting putting for the golfers.

Whilst in Wiltshire I was so engrossed in a telephone conversation I was having with Becky that I did not notice Jackie slow down, drive into a farm entrance, perform a three point turn, and return the way we had come. I did notice her bring the car to a standstill. Looking out of my window I learned what had brought about this about turn. The roadside to my left bore a clump of crystallised brambles.

Thank you, my subject scout.

As we paused in a layby above Shaftesbury, to take in the splendid views descending to the level of the town, Jackie mentioned that one March she had sat at that spot, watching mad March hares leaping up and down in the fields below. Throughout the town we noticed representations of these creatures, so hers was clearly not an uncommon experience. Soon after this we came to a very hairy corkscrew in the road, rapidly twisting and turning until our goal was reached. Having parked the car, we wandered along the high street until we came to Gold Hill, the steep cobbled road made famous in 1973 by the Hovis television advertisement produced by Ridley Scott, who was to become even more famous as one of our major feature film directors. In 2010 Victoria Pendleton posed as the girl on the bike replacing ‘The Boy on the Bike’ in the original minor masterpiece. She, currently, is probably even more world famous.

We both walked down and back up Gold Hill. I then left Jackie in the comfort of a coffee bar and restaurant at the top of the hill, walked down again and had a ramble before joining her. At the bottom of the hill I turned left along Layton and then Hawkdene Lanes, then left again and eventually back into the town centre which I explored for a while.

Alongside the carpark we had noticed an Indian restaurant and decided to lunch there. This was the Aroma, an absolutely marvellous establishment in an unpretentious situation. It is to be thoroughly recommended. The food was top quality, the decor tasteful, and the service excellent. We drank our usual Kingfisher and Cobra.

Jackie hadn’t had enough time to ‘do’ all Shaftesbury’s charity shops, and hadn’t explored the town as much as I had, so after our meal we put that right. In my earlier exploration I had found The Cygnet Gallery at Swan’s Yard, and bought a couple of presents there. Consequently I introduced Jackie to this artists’ cooperative and we bought another, and some cards. The shop has a range of beautifully produced items including paintings, photography, ceramics, leatherwork, jewellery, and others. I found it particularly good because everything was of good quality and craftspersonship. They were carrying no-one. Prices were very reasonable.

On our return the hills above Shaftesbury seemed to be full of pheasants attempting to get themselves plastered on the tarmac. There were the usual ponies wandering across the road, and as the sky was darkening we were relieved we were not in the dead of night on the unlit road across the moors of Hampshire.

A late evening fry-up with toast completed the day

The Village Lunch

Running Hill was glorious this morning as I set off to walk a quirky Q linking the two fords with the Fleetwater phone box. This red phone box, incidentally, no longer takes coins. Bishops were in the process of moving people out of Barter’s, a rather large yet homely house which has just been sold.

The only humans I saw were in cars. Steaming exhalations emanating from ponies’ nostrils, snorted downwards, soared upwards and evaporated. Come to think of it, mine were doing the same. Poppy nutted Libby out of the way so she could get to the water bucket. Berry had said that this horse was the one in charge. She demonstrated this today. No resistance was offered by the wilder animal.

Sheep were strung out grazing in the sunlight.

We visited The Trusty Servant Inn, known locally as ‘The Trusty’, for lunch. This was a monthly village gathering attended by both familiar and new faces. The pub, in winter months, provides one course from a selection of four or five, for £6 a head. Jackie chose fish and chips; I had shepherds pie; and we drank Peroni and Doom Bar respectively. The village is proving to be most hospitable. At our end of the long row of linked tables one subject of conversation was the alleged Grinling Gibbons work over our entrance hall fireplace. No-one can yet verify the provenance of this. Nor has anyone come up with a definitive origin of the word Seamans. Oz thinks Richard Reeves in Lyndhurst might help with the latter. We also spoke about ancestry, names, and nicknames. Oz, actually Robert Osborne, has been Oz since he was a ten year old schoolboy. Friends of mine sometimes call me Del, and, when they want to be really amusing, Del Boy, with reference to David Jason’s classic television character Derrick Trotter. Oz would not answer to Ozzie, and Diane declines to be called Di. Diane and Bill; Oz and Polly (Pauline); Eileen and David; and Jackie and I got to know each other quite well in the time. At the far end of the table were Mary; and Jeanie and Nick, and a few others we didn’t meet. Mary had driven past us en route; Jeanie was the woman on whose door I had knocked in search of Seamans Lane information on 9th December last year; Nick is the husband who wasn’t in. We had a few words with them when we left. I list these names in full in the hope that this will help me remember them.

While I was walking in the morning Jackie went shopping in Totton’s Lidl. Among other purchases she came back with a child’s play-tent and a fan heater. The reason for the heater is that she is beginning to feel cold in the bedroom, whereas I don’t notice it. After lunch we decided to visit Aldi in Romsey where I had seen an electric blanket. Initially there was no sign of one. Searching under a pile of pillows like a terrier throwing up soil from a foxhole, we unearthed the one I had spotted, fortunately hidden from the view of anyone else who might have liked it. By the checkout there was a tub of ‘Hand Cooked Potato Chips’. This amused us. Like almost every display near a checkout, this one contained supplementary items dumped by people who had changed their minds. The woman on the till was very pleased when I told her that if there were an Olympic sport in checking out, she would be in the team. Her speed and friendliness were equally impressive.

Our evening meal was the same as yesterday.

A Bouncing Baby Boy

We drove back to Highcliffe early this afternoon, for Jackie to shop and for me to walk.

The contrast between this moist Monday and yesterday’s sunny Sunday was marked. Highcliffe beach was deserted except for me and a jogger. I walked along the cliff top first, before descending to the shore by muddy steps beside which the Council had placed a notice claiming that the provision of this facility did not constitute a right of way. I wondered whether this was some disclaimer of responsibility should someone have an accident. Near the bottom of this path, a correctly labelled ‘New Bin’ had been installed. It is definitely not an old one. On the shingle, where yesterday Sam and Malachi had watched the receding tide, were wading birds, presumably waiting for their supper to be presented by the sands.

When I met Jackie at the car park, she had not had time for a full tour of the town’s many charity shops. I therefore joined her to finish the task. Among other objects, we discovered more contributions to the toy and dressing-up boxes, and a lampshade to replace a weekend casualty. As mentioned before, Highcliffe has more than its share of charity shops. I have probably visited them all by now. What is extremely noticeable is that none of these establishments has the familiar smell of stale clothes which is so prevalent in their London equivalents.

On the way to our destination Jackie slowed for a female pheasant in the road in front of us. The bird started, veered sideways, flew straight into the windscreen, bounced off, and continued its journey. This reminded me of one of my earliest memories, from the summer of my third birthday. I think it was Uncle Bill who was driving us to Brighton. These are details which emerged in the later telling among the family, so I’m not quite clear about them. What has remained vivid in my memory, is the image of my younger brother, with me in the back, deciding he wanted to get out of the motoring car, opening the door and doing just that. Mum screamed; I dashed to the other side to look out and watched Chris, fortunately in a nappy, bouncing across the centre of the road into the path of oncoming traffic. Bill brought the car to a standstill. Somebody rushed out and gathered up the happily unharmed little soul. Fortunately there were fewer, and slower, cars around in 1945, and the M23 hadn’t been invented. Mind you, we do now have childproof locks. The problem with them is that it takes a child to work out how to open them.

This evening Jackie produced an excellent lamb jalrezi with pilau rice. She drank Hoegaarden and I drank Roc des Chevaliers Bordeaux superieur 2010.

Highcliffe

Malachi is most definitely at the ‘why’ stage. This morning, over breakfast, he asked Jackie ‘why?’. She had a ready answer, smiled, and said ‘I anticipated that one’. ‘What does that mean?’, he asked. ‘I knew you’d ask why?’, she replied. A mischievous grin game over his face. ‘Why?’, he said. Why is it that children always win that game?

Incidentally, does anyone know a good method of removing baked beans, beef stew, apple juice, milk, and goodness knows what else from cream damask covered dining chairs?

Today was a beautiful, if cold, day. We therefore had a trip to the beach at Highcliffe. Ponies were much in evidence on our drive through the forest, so the safari plan was more successful today than yesterday.

We walked along the beach and back to The Cliffhanger restaurant where we had lunch together before Sam and Malachi set off back to London. This was the only time I have seen the beach here full of people, obviously taking advantage of the rare dry day. Dogs and children were particularly enjoing themselves.

Malachi’s favourite occupations were throwing stones into the waves; avoiding the surf; and climbing rocks. Watching his Dad scattering pebbles into the receding tide, reminded me of similar games I had played with him when he was pretty much the same age as Malachi. The little lad, according to his Dad, misses no opportunity to climb about on rocks. Naturally he loved climbing on the huge rough boulders on this beach. Observing Sam guiding him in his exploits reminded me of my son’s guiding hand in Cumbria more than twenty years ago, which I described on 14th July last year.

Malachi wasn’t interested in the cuttlefish bone Jackie picked up and showed him, and we were more interested in unusual stones than he was. Stones were just there to chuck into the waves. We, however, spoke of an interest in pebbles with holes running through them. This led us to Matthew’s extremely long bell-pull. In his house in Seaford, Mat had rigged up a lengthy rope running from the fourth floor. On this cord were threaded a string of stones from the beach with holes running through them. Jackie and I, unbeknown to each other, had contributed stones for our son’s collection during our years apart.

We stood at the ends of the breakwaters, enjoying the thrill of the spray ricocheting up from the rocks. A certain amount of bargaining was involved in determining how much time Malachi could spend riding on his father’s shoulders, and how much he had to walk. This involved using the posts bearing lifebelts as markers. Malachi had to make it to ‘the next red thing’ under his own steam to warrant being hoisted and carried aloft. Again this brought back memories of my carrying Sam in the same manner. Most of the way, in fact, Malachi was so absorbed in his rock climbing as to forget his desire for a ride. At one point Sam and I had to follow him along a line of rocks, in age order, with Grandpa bringing up the rear.

A highlight of the return journey was the group of young men doing wheelies on the rocks. They were very competent and very confident, for their limbs were unprotected and none of them came a cropper.

The Cliffhanger was very full. Jackie had gone on ahead and felt somewhat uneasy about holding a table for four with one coffee for an hour. The very friendly staff were quite relaxed about it. When the rest of us arrived it was so warm inside that it seemed incongruous to see windswept people with faces reddened with cold entering the establishment in search of a table. Sam and I enjoyed haddock, Jackie scampi, and Malachi a burger; all with chips and salad. Jackie and Malachi had icecream to follow. Sam drank coffee; Malachi blackcurrant squash; with water for me.

This meant that salad sufficed this evening, after a visit from Elizabeth who brought Christmas presents from Jacqueline and from Danni. I drank a bit more of the Marques de Montino rioja reserva 2007 I had opened with my sister. Jackie imbibed a small bottle of Hoegaarden. We did have bread and butter pudding afterwards.

The Olden Days

A sleepy Malachi began the day watching ‘Ice Age 3’ whilst I sat with him. Jackie offered breakfast. My grandson was more interested in finishing up Christmas chocolate money. We produced the toy box that his previous requests had stimulated us to provide. He shook it up and actually played with the contents. When it was time for computer games again, Jackie remembered she had a cake-making game on her laptop. This was a great success and he learned what for him was a new skill, using a pre-iPad piece of equipment with a mouse. If we keep at the idea of going back through time, we might familiarise him with a quill pen and ink.

Jackie drove us this morning to Buckler’s Hard. We had hoped for a pony safari on the way, but the deluge was upon us again, so the animals were seeking what shelter they could in the depths of the forest. Sightings were at an absolute minimum until we reached Beaulieu where ponies and cattle joined forces to disrupt the traffic.

Buckler’s Hard is an eighteenth century shipbuilders’ village on the River Beaulieu. Some cottages in the only street are still occupied. The village shop has comparativly recently closed its doors, but the chapel remains a place of worship. Two cottages are given over to a series of tableaux, each in its appropriate room recreating the life of a worker and his family. One is of a labourer and the other a more skilled shipwright. The rooms reflect the differences in status. The pub, unchanged since the old days, continues in business throughout the year. We enjoyed a drink there. No-one else was wandering around the village getting wet, although several people were dining in the tavern.

Before you reach the village there is an interesting and informative maritime museum. There are many exhibits describing exactly how the old ships were made. Models of sailing vessels are in evidence, and various tableaux offer insights into village life. The reconstruction of a group of known characters in The New Inn, was particularly impressive, with recorded snippets of conversation and noises off, to enliven the scene. Whilst Malachi was reasonably interested in the other exhibits, the one that drew him back time and again, together with whoever he could drag to it, was yet another electronic game. This was designed to test skills of captaincy. I began to fear the cry of ‘come on Grandpa’ whilst I was looking at something else.

Although no longer in use for general shipbuilding, among the Hard’s several contributions to the Second World War effort was the construction of segments of ‘Mulberry Harbour’ which were towed across to the Normandy Coast for the D-Day landings in 1944.

As we returned in our heated, waterproof, car, I reflected that we may this morning have demonstrated a piece of equipment which must be historic to Malachi’s generation; and we may have looked back in time at the museum; but at least we weren’t having to be exposed to the elements in a horse and cart.

Malachi ate first this evening. He had baked beans on toast, some of which ended up in his mouth. When we came to lay the table for the adults’ dinner, we realised that, as he had been sitting in Jackie’s place, she had baked bean stains all around her setting. Sam and I therefore turned the tablecloth around so that she would get a clean area of the cloth. Unfortunately Malachi had sat on the other side last night, so there were signs of beef stew to greet Jackie. We therefore reversed the tablecolth so it wasn’t too bad. After this palaver, we dined on roast beef; Jackie drank Hoegaarden; and Sam and I shared a bottle of Terres de Galets Cotes du Rhone 2011.