derrickjknight

Obstacles

The landscape after the deluge was pretty waterlogged today, but the light was bright and clear, giving us beautiful skies.

Apart from a diversion to Acres Down, my walk took the form of a roughly drawn ampersand. I turned right at Minstead Hall, left down to the ford, right at the ford, through Fleetwater to Acres Down, and back via the other fork, going straight into the village from there.

Five or six ponies approached me as I walked down Running Hill. They completely blocked the road. I can’t say I was scared, just marginally apprehensive, to be surrounded by these creatures we have been warned not to touch. Apparently they can bite. I used my usual method of negotiating them, which is to hold my line and walk on. Normally this works well. This time the horses had the same idea. One in particular, the light-brown white-maned creature in the centre of the picture, was into the head-to-head approach. Close enough for me to smell its not unpleasant mustiness and eye its not very pleasant teeth. As I rejected its desire for further intimacy, used the better part of valour and walked around this beast, I did momentarily think I would rather have been in one of the cars whose drivers were patiently waiting for the road to clear. On skirting my interested pony I said ‘I’m not supposed to touch you, mate’. I received no reply, and one of the most disconcerting aspects of these animals is that they are always absolutely silent.

Sheep in the field alongside what I call Furzey Gardens road were silhouetted against the sky.

When taking the right fork after the ford I exchanged greetings with two Highway Maintenance workmen seated in their stationary truck.

Reaching the main road between Emery Down and the A31, I noticed for the first time a chalked sign advertising the Acres Down Farm Shop, and decided to go down and check it out. There was also a ford on this road, with fast-flowing water streaming across it. Its footbridge looked rather inaccessible, but I thought I would give it a go. Not a good idea. There were three deterrents to taking this route: the thick, squelching mud; the piles of glistening horse shit; and the low branch requiring a limbo dancer’s technique to get under it. Feeling intrepid, I persevered and reached the bridge. One glance across to the other side made it clear that a better option would be to wade through the clean, fresh water. I stepped into it and did just that.

The farm shop wasn’t open. According to a notice it didn’t open for another ten minutes. I thought I would wait. A gentleman suggested I should ring the front door bell of the house next door. I did. A young woman told me it wasn’t open on Mondays. As she said this she looked at me quizzically and said there was a notice which contained this information. ‘Ah, yes, I read that.’ I said, ‘I’m retired you see. Ah, yes. Monday. Sometimes I don’t know what day it is’. This was the point at which I sensed her instincts were telling her to back away. She stuck with it, however, and explained that her sister ran the shop and its stock was largely meat and eggs from the farm; various chutneys and pickles; and seasonal gifts. I thanked her, saying that was just what I needed to know, and I could now report back on my find. As I left, the helpful gentleman was starting to drive off. Claiming to be a dodderer he said he’d forgotten the shop wasn’t open on Mondays. Since I had told the young woman that he had suggested I ring the bell, she must have thought we were a right pair.

Returning down the road to Minstead which takes me to the left prong of the fork, I discovered evidence that my prediction yesterday, that the rainwater would reach the cones by the vast pool, was correct. Water now trickled between the cones onto the private drive. Rounding the corner now blocked by this water, I met my Highway Maintenance acquaintances. This time they were leaning on their truck, one having a fag. He was their spokesperson. Perhaps because it was about three quarters of an hour since I had last passed them, he greeted me with: ‘We’re not skiving. We’re waiting for a machine to clear all that water round there’. Only when the water was cleared would they be able to determine what needed to be done to rectify the situation. I told them about the obstacles to using the Acres Down ford footbridge. They advised me to contact Hampshire County Council. I said I wasn’t bothered enough for that and thought not many people walked that way. They agreed.

As I walked up the road from the ford, the machine, not unlike the vast vacuum cleaner I described four days ago, passed me. I considered the smoker would have time to finish his cigarette.

This evening we are going to The Amberwood Christmas quiz, where we will be fed what are promised to be very good and plentiful snacks. Anything worthy of note will be recorded tomorrow because we will probably be late back.

Primrose And Champion

This morning I walked to Emery Down where Jackie picked me up and, after an abortive visit to a closed Highcliffe, drove us to Lyndhurst where we made a start on Christmas shopping.

Ponies were out in force today. At Seamans Corner one was scratching its nose on the wooden seat surrounding a tree. Another quietly allowed me to pass before ambling across the road.

As I passed Orchard Gate, a large house on the left on Running Hill, I greeted a young woman I had seen before, emerging with a bucket. An older version was struggling with her bicycle mudguard. Not being particularly handy I was rather relieved she hadn’t seen me walk by. When I reached the two horses in the waterlogged field I was pleased to see them tucking into fresh hay. The young woman came along with the bucket, smiled, climbed over the stile, sploshed into the waterholes, and walked across to the far side of the field. Whilst I was engaged in photographing the horses, the woman I took to be my acquaintance’s mother arrived on her bicycle. She had just had a tyre replaced and the mudguard had kept catching on it. It seemed to be allright now. She told me she was a commoner and these were her horses. She had other horses on other land. These two were Primrose and Champion. Primrose was the most beautiful example of the New Forest pony you were ever likely to see. Champion had a bit of a cough which seemed a little better today. My informant introduced herself as Mrs. Audrey Saunders. She had bought herself a Victoria Pendleton bike but couldn’t get on with it so had given it to her daughter who, it seems, is less inhibited in whizzing around the lanes.

On a bend after the left hand fork of the forded road there is a steep camber in the road which is always full of water. When walking by it is sensible to wait for any cars to pass first. The opposite side of the bend abuts a very waterlogged private drive that someone is attempting to fill with gravel. Roadmenders’ cones have been placed to prevent drivers from running over the verge, creating yet more mud. This leaves even less room for pedestrians to negotiate.

By the time we left Lyndhurst the day that had dawned bright and clear had deteriorated into a damp deluge. No doubt the pool above has reached the cones by now, for the downpour did not desist. Indeed, it turned to hail and we waited in the car outside the house until the stones stopped ricocheting off the roof, windscreen and bonnet. The clean gleaming white hailstones on the grass contrasted with last night’s black shiny wet deer droppings.

This evening we returned to Lyndhurst for a meal at the Passage to India restaurant. This was excellent, and augmented by draft Kingfisher. We were quite disconcerted by a small Oriental group consisting of two young women and a little boy. The small fellow, although not looking too unwell, coughed and spluttered all the way through his meal. One of the women seemed to be bravely keeping up a cheerful conversation whilst reclining and slowly subsiding in her high-backed chair. Her face became more and more grey-looking; her handkerchief more and more soggy; her eyes more and more glazed; her nose more and more like Rudolph’s. Since Jackie traditionally has a Christmas cold she was most relieved when our neighbours left the restaurant.

The Tree House

This morning I took the Minstead, Football Green, Shave Wood and London Minstead circular route. In case anyone is wondering, London Minstead is so-named because it lies on what was the road to London. That such a narrow winding lane should have been the way to the capital is amazing by today’s standards.
.Minstead was very crowded this morning. Cars were parked on every available space, including all the grass verges. As The Trusty Servant came into view I saw a gathering of horses; riders in hunting outfits; friends and families, including children in buggies; and various assorted dogs. Drinks were being passed around, and the staff of the inn were distributing tasty looking snacks. I asked one of the observers whether this was a hunt party or whether they were actually gathering for a hunt. ‘It is a meet.’, she said, ‘In a while the master will call them all together for the off”. I expressed surprise that they would need such sustenance before setting out on such an exercise. She assured me it was needed before they left.

A large garden on the way to Minstead contains a tree bearing what I assume to be a derelict house. This always reminds me of Sam’s tree-house in an old false acacia in the grounds of Lindum House. He built this with friends some twenty-odd years ago. This structure was of two, possibly three storeys. It could, and on occasion did, harbour several boys overnight. One day he found an estate agent’s ‘For Sale’ board. This was placed in a prominent position on the tree, and was visible from the road.

I have mentioned Beauchamp Lodge Settlement before (e.g. 15th August). One of the projects managed by this charity was the Community Cafe. At the time Sam’s tree-house appeared to be up for sale, a young woman with a pronounced Lincolnshire accent worked in the cafe. I asked her to make a phone call expressing interest in buying the property which was very close to Lincolnshire. It seemed to work a treat when Sam answered the phone. Knowing my son, however, I suspect he probably twigged what was going on and decided to humour his Dad into believing he had been hoodwinked. Louisa was not forbidden to enter Sam’s house, but she and a little friend did build their own less ambitious one in another tree.

The cafe project was one in which a small staff was augmented by trainees who either had mental health problems or special educational needs. One day one of the people on placement who had psychiatric ill health asked me if I’d bought my Lottery ticket. I said I didn’t buy any because I considered I had no chance of winning. Quick as a flash he replied ‘that man who won several million last week wouldn’t have done if he thought he had no chance’. I had to acknowledge the sense of that argument.

This evening we drove to Helen and Bill’s at Poulner where we enjoyed a very convivial family dinner party. Helen produced a truly excellent meal which would have graced the best of restaurants. We started with parsnip and gruyere goujeres which were both crispy and melted in the mouth. The next course was a rich, tasty, and succulent French beef stew with perfectly timed vegetables. This was followed by a tangy lemon mousse with home-made chocolate and cranberry biscuits; then a cheeseboard. Various red and white wines were consumed; port accompanied a cheeseboard.

Judy

This morning I finished reading Flaubert’s ‘L’education sentimentale’. This long nineteenth century novel, more than twenty years in the making, is beautifully written, and has been a great help in brushing up a very rusty vocabulary. I have needed a dictionary at hand, and have had to be careful not to use some of the author’s antique or purely literary words or phrases in the supermarket. The writer of the more popular ‘Madame Bovary’, Flaubert must have been very disappointed in this work’s original reception. The world was not ready for a piece in which nothing much actually happens, until Proust came along, praised it and wrote his own great ‘Remembrance of things past’, as we translate it. Maybe the theme of the protagonist’s emotional life blighted by an unconsummated love for a married woman was not very fashionable either. I found his descriptions of scenes, events, thoughts, and emotions inspiring and educational.

I then began ‘La Porte Etroite’ by Andre Gide. When I bought this 1947 large format illustrated paperback edition in Wimbledon Village’s Oxfam shop earlier this year, the volunteer assistant looked fondly at it and said ‘I did that for A level’. ‘So did I’, exclaimed another customer.

This afternoon Jackie drove us to Romsey where we visited the Abbey. Actually begun before the Norman conquest, this building created for Benedictine nuns is largely in Norman style. One can only marvel at the structure with three tiers of arches and splendid stained glass like that lighting St. Ethelfraeda’s chapel. How those men more than a thousand years ago, with none of today’s equipment managed even the perpendiculars is beyond me. St. Ethelfraeda’s is just one of the side chapels. It contains, on the left-hand side, what is described as the ancient tomb of an abbess. Could it be hers? I notice this is not claimed.

Volunteers were preparing the abbey for a concert this evening. We had managed our timing well, for we arrived before the concert and after a significant funeral. Bob Smith, who told me he was the head guide of the establishment, recited a number of stories relating to this place of worship, and I am sure he had many more. He began with the tale of John Warren, styled ‘an intruder’ in the list of vicars on the wall. He had apparently got into the list by virtue of his brother’s rectorship in the seventeenth century. This brother gave him the position although he had not been ordained. Before Julitta Beatrice Walker came along and took on the research, this list was incomplete. She filled in the gaps, and became a source of all knowledge about the abbey. Bob said that what she didn’t know about it ‘could be written on the back of a postage stamp in block capitals’. Among other publications this Cambridge graduate has written ‘Romsey Abbey Through The Ages’. As we entered the abbey we had seen piles of funeral service booklets for Judy. This was Julitta. May she rest in peace.

Our evening meal was Jackie’s sausage casserole followed by trifle and accompanied in my case by Montpierre reserve Languedoc 2011, and in hers by Redbridge Creek chardonnay made on the other side of the world in the same year.

The Vacuum Cleaner

Yesterday afternoon Jackie drove us to Wimbledon where she attended her former workmates’ office party and I should have had a straightforward District Line journey to Edgware Road whence I would walk to the Akash (see 31st October post) to meet Jessie. Not a bit of it. There were no trains in the station. The indicator informed passengers that the first train in would be for Edgware Road on platform 2. It wasn’t. This was a Plaistow train which arrived on platform 1. We were obliged to board that and change at Earls Court. As Wimbledon was the starting point, I got a seat. On which I sat, going nowhere, for fifteen minutes while other travellers filled the train. Prising ourselves out of the packed carriage and onto the even more packed platform at the interchange station was a delicate operation. We then stood, eyes glued to the indicator board, watching for a lighted arrow to be pointed at Edgware Road. After some time an announcer told us to catch the next train which was terminating at the following station, High Street Kensington. After another wait those of us on the crowded platform had to force ourselves into the equally crowded train. A seat was out of the question. I was back in London. It was almost a relief to walk along the brightly lit Edgware Road with the hustle and bustle of its thriving Arab community. At least you could walk round people as they stood on the pavement outside the shops, gesticulating; or outside the pubs, smoking.

In the year since my last visit to the Akash, Arab shops and restaurants have spread further up Edgware Road from Harrow Road. This is apparently affecting Majid’s business, because their customers don’t eat curry. However, the Akash continues to thrive, largely through takeaway trade. I had a very enjoyable meal with Jessie and was welcomed as an old friend by Majid, Zaman, and Shafiq. As always, there were other regulars there.

The tube journey back to Wimbledon and the drive home to Minstead were straightforward.

Waking up a world away from Edgware Road, over our morning coffee we were intrigued by a steady distant drone with a bright tone. After a while it stopped and I, for one, forgot about it.

I walked the loop taking in the road to Furzey Gardens and the ford, making a diversion to look up Steve Cattell who I had been told would be the man to tell me about Seamans Lane. Steve wasn’t at home, but his wife, Pat, invited me in, had a chat, and took my details. Pat, in her sixties, has lived in the village all her life.

I had intended to do my walk in reverse, but hearing the bright drone again, and seeing a slow-moving vehicle start up the hill towards Furzey Gardens, I decided to catch up with it and ask the operative, Jeremy, if he was hoovering the road. Indeed, he was. He stopped and we spoke. On a couple of occasions he had to manoeuvre his vehicle to allow cars to pass. One of these must have been a parish councillor’s because, when he explained his mandate, he said one had just driven past. Jeremy works for The New Forest authority. Three or four times a year he clears the Minstead Roads, when requested by the Parish Council. He told me that when he first cleaned Minstead, in four days he collected loads totalling sixty tons. The vehicle looked like a traditional hoover with a vast tank for its casing and thick concertinaed pipes like elephants’ trunks coiled around the back end. Since there is nothing much other than equine excreta needing to be sucked from Minstead’s asphalt, I thought that tonnage represented an awful lot of recycled grass.

Our evening meal featured Young’s fish pie followed by Jackie’s trifle. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I had some more of the Le Pont St. Jean minervois.

I Don’t Actually Work Here

The morning dawned as frostily as the last few days, but the temperature did rise a few degrees by early afternoon. We needed another trip to Ringwood where Jackie had to take her car to the excellent Wells garage in Salisbury Road for a light bulb to be replaced. It must be a stroke of design genius that requires the bumper to be removed before a £7.50 bulb can be replaced.

Whilst she waited at the garage I walked back to the river and turned left along the Castleman Trail to see what the other direction was like. Passing three boys busy making themselves sick on Golden Virginia, I soon came to Bickerley Road, where there was no continuation sign. With a sense of deja vue I searched for a route. A major road called Castleman Way, and especially a Railway Hotel pub, offered a shred of hope. This was unrealistic. I even asked a postperson for directions. She stood with great internal concentration, scratched her head, stroked her chin, and kept repeating ‘I have done it’. Eventually she proclaimed: ‘but it was so long ago I can’t remember’. I bet she’s wondering still. I know I am. I didn’t find it and eventually returned to the town centre and the cafe where we again enjoyed excellent lunches in the Bistro which, although not the Martin Cafe is a pretty good replacement, reminiscent of Jackie’s regular Rosie Lee in Morden. My choice was toad in the hole. Jackie’s was eggs on toast.

Whilst by the river I thought again that the water on the fields may not be so high. Swans and an egret were enjoying the unwonted flooded expanse. There was the odd submerged tuft that offered the swans a perch.

Whilst Jackie was booking the car in I stood in the foyer idly looking at a little old Fiat vehicle perkily standing on the floor. My reverie was disturbed by a voice from behind which compared its owner’s three year old Volkswagen most unfavourably with this allegedly perfect gem. This gentleman, who appeared to be inflicted with logorrhoea, proceeded, with neither introduction nor pause for breath, to eulogise about the 1971 Fiat car which was being renovated by the garage. I must say it did look in pretty good nick for a 41 year old, even if it had only done 21,000 miles. He, of course, should know, because he had worked for Fiat when a young man in Greece. When he helped himself to coffee from the machine, and demonstrated his complete misjudgement of me by going into great technical detail as if assuming I would have the first idea of what he was talking about, I thought maybe he was on the staff in some capacity.

Because of the necessity to remove the bumper, Jackie’s car wasn’t ready by the time we were to meet, so we walked back to the garage after lunch. On the way we spoke of our garrulous friend. Apparently he had found other victims in the form of people looking at cars for sale in the forecourt. He was happily showing them round. As she left for the cafe she overheard him saying ‘I don’t actually work here’.

This afternoon we took the car up to Wimbledon for separate evenings out which, because by the time we get back it will be too late for a post, will be described tomorrow

Jogger’s Nipple

This was another beautiful clear winter’s day when the hard frost did not leave the ground, but continued to sparkle in the sunshine, except for the very open heathland where steam rose offering a misty veil across the backlit landscape. We reprised yesterday’s Ringwood trip, except that I didn’t have my hair cut; I walked further along the Castleman Trailway; and we had our brunches in Bistro Aroma, a much friendlier and more popular cafe, with a greater range of food better cooked. As she drove along the A31 Jackie spotted a hawk atop a fir tree, and likened it to a star on top of a Christmas tree.

It seemed to me that the waters were subsiding a little; just enough for the seagulls to share the fields with crows, and for the ponies to enjoy a little firmer foothold in parts.

As I now knew the way I walked further along the Trailway in the allotted time, managing to reach the edge of Ashley Heath and walk up the hill of pines and heathland by a pukka path provided with a small footbridge that spanned the ditch I had lept yesterday. I was able to look down on the small town before retracing my steps back to the cafe.

Whilst perhaps not quite ‘cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey’, this was definitely extremity-tingling weather. That phrase, incidentally, having nothing to do with cojones, is not as rude as may be thought. The brass monkey was a container for cannon balls on nineteenth century sailing ships. It was made of brass, which the balls were not. Because the two metals froze at different rates the balls would fall from their perch.

Having been revealed by Donna’s attention yesterday, my ears were certainly tingling. She had actually said, when exposing my lugs, that she hoped this wouldn’t make them too cold. Nevertheless, brisk walking, as usual, warmed me up, just as running had in years gone by. Training runs in a track suit were one thing. Running races in sub-zero temperature, clad only in the briefest of running shorts and vest, usually of some unyielding synthetic material, was quite something else. The combination of stinging cold and the friction engendered by clothing on skin could be quite painful. When awaiting a start in conditions such as today, the experienced person wore a black bin-liner until the last available seconds and discarded it before getting into a stride. This was when ‘jogger’s nipple’ was prone to set in. When, even through a vest, exposed to a cold enough temperature, the nipple would react as may be expected. The friction of regular movement would do the rest, and soreness and sometimes bleeding would result. As a runner you just had to grit your teeth and press on. Rather difficult if your gnashers were chattering with cold as you lined up for the off. Men’s particular appendages would also suffer in withering cold. It was not a good idea to jump into a hot shower before you had thawed out somewhat.

This evening Jackie produced a flavoursome, hot, chilli con carne. She drank Hoegaarden and I had a glass of Le Pont St Jean minervois 2010.

Helen having recommended the village of Bartley’s Christmas lights, we drove out after dinner to see them. Many of the residents of this location have decked out their gardens and houses with an amazing array of colourful electrical and mechanical celebratory illuminations. Deer, for example, glow with light and move up and down as if grazing. Particularly as street lighting is at a minimum, this alternative serves to guide one round the village. One of the literal highlights of Christmas in Morden was the ritual drive down Lower Morden Lane. House after house seemed to vie with its neighbours in producing similar spectacles. As people of the Muslim faith have moved in, so these displays have reduced, but it is still worth the trip. In Bartley we have found a most satisfactory substitute.

One Direction

Today I decided my Father Christmas locks must be shorn. From the options available on Google we selected Donna-Marie of Southampton Street, Ringwood. Jackie drove me there and we made an appointment for 3.30 p.m. which was five hours away. I set off on a walk and Jackie went shopping. We met two hours later in Poppies coffee shop above their baker’s, where I had an all-day breakfast and Jackie enjoyed a cauliflower cheese. After this we bought quite a few pieces of cake-making equipment at The Lighthouse cookshop and returned home before revisiting Donna-Marie, who was a delightful young woman who gave me an excellent haircut and lots of cuddly chat, a couple of hours later. She said she had wondered to a customer who she had been styling when I made the appointment why Derrick wanted his hair cut when Father Christmas hadn’t been yet.

My walk took me back to the riverside area swamped by the river Avon. Conditions were much the same as they had been on 30th November. Screeching seagulls claimed the fields where a few remaining horses stood to get their feet wet.

The raised path I had walked a couple of weeks ago is part of the Castleman Trailway, which, turning right along the river, I wished to explore further. This follows the Southampton to Dorchester Railway Company’s now obsolete line. The railway branch line was another of the casualties of the Beeching axe of 1964. The Trailway runs from Salisbury to Poole. If you can find it, you can walk it. My regular readers will expect me to have had trouble finding it. I did not let them down. Passing the still drowned garden I had first seen on 30th November, I soon came to Hurn Lane. No continuing footpath, just Hurn Lane, a great big roundabout, that and another road to cross, having walked under the A31. No Trailway sign. Just the roar of heavy traffic. I walked on a bit, looking this way, and that, and the other, puzzled. I asked a woman for directions to the trail. ‘Where do you want to get to?’, she asked, and seemed somewhat nonplussed when I replied that anywhere would do. I clarified matters by saying I was new to the area and just exploring. She pointed back the way I had come. I had to explain that and say I wanted the other direction. She then proceeded, augmenting her verbal instructions with clear pointing, to lead me in exactly the opposite direction to the one in which I needed to go. Very soon I was dicing with death on the A31.

Back I tracked to the place where I had asked directions, and asked another couple. They were going there themselves, did it regularly, and wondered why the signs ran out when they did. ‘Someone ought to tell them’, the man said. So, if ‘them’ are reading this, please take note. Before the next sign appeared we had crossed two roads and walked round a left hand bend. It was not visible from the direction in which I had first been led.

My guides walked on ahead as I rambled. Some way along the trail I took a comparatively dry path up into trees and heathland which I traversed for a while before taking a very muddy track down, which led me to a ditch I had to leap across to get back to the trail. I retraced my steps to meet Jackie. Beside the Ringwood part of the trail is posted a laminated sign asking walkers to uproot the menace that is Himalayan Balsam.

Had I met the couple before the first woman, or had the signing of the Trailway not petered out I would not have gone on a false trail as I would have been led only in one direction. My title for today’s adventure was inspired by an exchange with Louisa who had posted on Facebook that her 5 and 3 year old daughters were walking around the house singing songs from One Direction, the latest boy band. When I had asked whether the songs were anything to do with The X factor, she had told me they were by this band, and added ‘get with it Dad’. Well, I’ll have you know, my darling girl, they came third in that programme in 2010.

We had a light salad this evening before going off to The Amberwood pub quiz, which we won.

Researching Seamans

On this dull dank day I took yesterday’s walk in reverse. In Minstead village there is field containing two ponies which are often seen by the gate, at this time fetlock-deep in water-filled well-drilled hoofprints. Nearby buckets perhaps contain some kind of food supplement for these animals leaving the slightly drier centre field to watch the world go by. The wooden stile has a signpost alongside it indicating a public footpath across the land. I doubt anyone has trodden it for some months. Yesterday afternoon a couple were strewing sawdust over the pools. I asked if they were ‘trying to make that passable’. ‘For the horses’, the man replied. Hoping he didn’t think I was daft enough to venture onto the footpath, I made it clear I knew it was for the horses. Mind you, this did remind me of soggy cricketing afternoons when sawdust was called for to give the bowlers a bit of purchase, as we wiped the red surface from the ball onto damp rags instead of the thighs of our flannels. Today, the brown horse was looking over the gate, its black companion preferring to remain in the field.

By the side of Football Green, a New Forest Agister’s jeep was parked. There was no-one in it or on the green so I was unable to check out Seamans Lane’s Agister’s Cottage.

On my way through London Minstead I stopped and chatted to Geoff Brown who was mending his fence. This very friendly man invited me to knock on his door any time I was passing, when he would be happy to give me coffee. He did not know the origin of Seamans Lane, but he, too, directed me to Nick on the brow of the hill. I knocked on Nick’s door. He was out, but his wife, Jeanie Mellersh, was very welcoming and we had a long talk. Geoff had told me she was an artist, so she really should know the truth of the most startling information she gave me. She thought Nick would not know a great deal about Seamans, but they knew a man who would. This was Steve Cattell who lives opposite the village shop. He runs the local history group which she recommended to me. She didn’t know the truth of the press gang story. She had heard another tale the veracity of which she could not vouch for either. This was that Seamans Lodge was a home for old sailors. There is in fact a Seamans Lodge, not visible from the road, behind Seamans Cottages.

The information she gave me that did ring true, however, concerned Grinling Gibbons. This seventeenth century Englishman, born and educated in Holland, who settled in England and became what many people consider the greatest woodcarver of all time is known for his realistic and intricate representation of flowers, fruit, and birds. These are often bas relief in a vertical format, much like the carved mantelpiece above the fireplace in the communal entrance hall of our wing of Castle Malwood Lodge. When I told her where I lived, Jeanie asked me if there was still a grand entrance hall with a white painted mantelpiece. This, she told me, was by Grinling Gibbons. We certainly agreed that Sir W. Harcourt, for whom the house was built, would have been rich enough to have imported the carving from an earlier source. Whatever the fabric under the many layers of paint on this piece, it is certainly reminiscent of Gibbons.

I may be no wiser about the origin of Seamans, but the search for it is already proving fruitful. Jackie Googled the word this evening and discovered it to be a surname of Anglo-Saxon origin mentioned in the Doomsday Book. Given the inland nature of the New Forest this makes sense to me. But we still have to verify this as pertinent to our Lane.

This afternoon we visited The Firs and partook of Danni’s succulent sausage casserole followed by Elizabeth’s excellent apple and plum crumble. Various red wines, Hoegaarden and Coke were drunk by the assembled company.

The Bay Leaf

Although regular fresh droppings provide evidence of the presence of deer in the garden, we have not, until today, seen these timid, delicate-looking creatures for ourselves. We are told they come out at night. Over lunch, we saw two on the far side of the lawn. Jackie fetched my camera as I dare not move. Despite the distance and the window between us they knew we were there and looked straight at us. I could not even risk placing the camera lens against the glass. I managed to get in a couple of quick shots before they were off like one.

After lunch I walked the Seamans Lane, Shave Wood, Football Green route. One of the first houses in the Lane is Agister’s Cottage. The agisters are employees of the verderers whose task is to assist in the management of commoners’ stock turned loose in the forest, and to collect the annual fees for pasturage that these commoners must pay for each animal. Whether the cottage’s name is purely historical or whether an agister lives there, I have yet to ascertain.

Perhaps because this was a Saturday afternoon there were a number of horse riders on the roads today. The first was a little round girl, with a face like the Cheshire Cat, astride a little round black Thelwell pony. They were being led by a large round woman who held the reins of a large black horse in her other hand. Their greetings were cheery. In London Minstead two riders were dismounting after three hours’ riding. Two more approached me alongside Football Green. When they wished me ‘Good morning’ I realised they too had been out quite a long time. Another pair trotted towards Seamans Corner as I returned home.

I asked the couple in London Minstead if they knew the origin of ‘Seamans’. Apart from our being in Seamans Lane, next door to Agister’s Cottage there are two Seamans Cottages. The apostrophe in Agister’s is missing in each use of Seamans. They were obviously comparatively new themselves, and a little vague, but related it to press gangs from Portsmouth. Nick, who lives across the road from them, would know the story. I must ask him some time. What I can do is explain press gangs. They were legal gangs of men who could press men into Naval service. We read, for example, of drunken gentlemen tottering out of hostelries, when they were snatched and knocked on the head, and waking up on board ship. Sometimes, plied with enough strong drink, they just passed out in the inns. The unfortunate victims were then given a choice. They could either sign up for the Navy and get paid; or remain ‘pressed’, in which case they received no pay. Not quite Hobson’s choice, but near enough. The end of the Napoleonic Wars in 1815 saw the end of this horrific, yet legal, method of manning the famous British Navy.

Jackie fed us tonight on a delicious lamb jalfrezi containing succulent Waitrose meat beautifully cooked with a greatly enhanced Patak sauce. This was followed by a Malwood Mess. We finished yesterday’s Pinot Grigio. Noticing that I had all the bay leaves and bits of cinnamon stick on my plate, we decided that the law is that the person who doesn’t cook gets the debris. It is only since cooking myself that I have become fully familiar with bay leaves. There is, of course, a large tree at The Firs, and there was an absolutely huge one at Lindum House. My first encounter with the leaf was somewhat embarassing. When I worked at Lloyd’s Insurance we had our own canteen. Mum had been an excellent basic English cook. We were occasionally fed meals at Lloyd’s with which I was unfamiliar. One day, aged eighteen, I fished a thickish leaf out of my stew. ‘This is disgusting’, I thought. ‘Where has this meal been to get this into it’. So, I took it back to the counter, claiming a bit of privet had found its way into my portion. It was replaced without a murmur. I was too ignorant to feel embarassed then, but I still feel so when I think of my first bay leaf.