derrickjknight

Another Lost Opportunity

Resplendent leaves were turning on the trees in Hillcross Avenue as I set off for this morning’s walk. Taking the footpath alongside the Merton and Sutton cemetery in Lower Morden Lane, I turned left at the end, trekked along Green Lane to Worcester Park High Street, carried on up this steep hill and continued along Cheam Common Road to North Cheam. At the end of Hillcross Avenue I had congratulated the driver of a scaffolders’ lorry on the skill with which he had backed out into the road artfully avoiding a parked coach. He was rather chuffed and, as I waited to cross by the roundabout at the end of Grand Drive, paused to enable me to do so. Mat might have found this rather surprising.

I had once sped down Worcester Park High Street, unhelmeted, on the back of a motor bike belonging to a member of the St. Matthias church youth club. This was a hairy exploit I have never again, even on the flat, with or without a hat, been tempted to repeat. My classmates had introduced me to the club in the late 1950s, as a venue where we could play table tennis, drink coffee, and eye the girls. I was very naive and shy in those days, and only reluctantly found myself one evening with a group of friends in the home of one of the girls, who we all fancied. I do not remember the young lady’s name, but I learned too late that she was quite keen. It was Pete Sullivan who kindly informed me some time afterwards that she had cut my picture out of a group photograph someone had taken at the gathering, and stuck it on her bedroom wall. My face, not the rest of the group. Yet another teenage lost opportunity. Ah, well. C’est la vie. I still have my copy of the photograph though.

At two different places in Cheam Common Road a very small child had discarded its shoes. Had I not been getting a bit tired by then I might have backtracked to pick up the first and place it beside its partner. The child may not have wanted its trainers, but I expect its Mum would.

Crossing London Road in North Cheam I enjoyed a hearty fry-up and knocked off The Sun’s puzzles in the Feedwell Cafe before walking back down the A27, into Morden Park, and so to home in Links Avenue.

This evening Jackie and I dined in Eastern Nights in Thornhill, imbibing respectively Bangla and Cobra. We then joined Elizabeth in The Firs.

Yes, We Do Have Toys

This dull and gloomy morning I travelled by my usual route to Carol’s in SW1. Yesterday I described a bizarre passenger on the tube, and on 26th September an extraordinary coincidence. Today I will focus on a typical sample of travellers on London’s underground. In common with the overground railways London Underground Ltd. no longer term their clientele ‘passengers’. Now we are all ‘customers’; such is the consequence of our nation’s all-consuming business ethic. The snapshots which follow are representative of an everyday journey. On the Northern Line from Colliers Wood to Stockwell, a number of races and both sexes were present. An Asian man was studying a hefty tome, his document holder, until removed to make way for a paying customer, lying on the seat beside him; another probably originating from a different part of that vast continent, was either working or playing on a mobile device; a Caucasian woman was reading a novel, and various others were reading Metro. All were silent except a couple drinking takeaway coffee; the man of oriental appearance with a Scots accent. I do not wish to indicate that they were slurping their coffee, simply that they were talking to each other. As the carriage filled up newcomers had to stand.

Metro is a free newspaper widely distributed, and is, I believe, available in other editions in different cities. Most are found discarded later in the day. This despite notices in the trains asking people to take them home or place them in receptacles positioned outside stations for the purpose. In terminal stations like Morden, staff traverse the carriages collecting the unwanted newspapers and dropping them into large transparent plastic bags.

From Stockwell to Victoria the crowd had thinned out. Metro was still being read; one man’s choice was The Times; and another, plugged into earphones, was attempting The Telegraph crossword. A young woman wrote in her diary. A small baby, nestling in a buggy, was crying as his parents vainly tried to comfort him.

The platform and escalators at Victoria were swarming with hazardous wheelie bags.

Boris Bikes 10.12 Boris Bikes (see August 29th) awaiting takers were lined up alongside Westminster Cathedral, facing a young man whose smart racing cycle rested against a wall as he consulted a map. Mansion flats nearby were undergoing splendid maintenance; railings surrounding one block in Carlisle Place receiving a facelift; and brass fittings in the many entrances to Ashley Gardens glistening gold in the gloom.

As I left Carol’s the rain began and lethal umbrellas were brandished in their multitudes.

Knowing that Sam was planning a visit with Malachi this afternoon, when I returned to Morden I popped into Lidl to see if they had any toys on offer. You never quite know what you will find in the central aisles bazaar. As I didn’t think a drum kit would be appreciated by the parents of a new baby, or, for that matter, my neighbours, I left there disappointed; which is just as well because at one point later Malachi said he wanted to play with his drum. I did, however, have a result in the Poundshop which stocked enough cars and farm animals to satisfy this lad who had asked for toys when visiting The Firs. Danni had set an example when she bought some to produce at Mum’s party. Taking a leaf out of Bill Burdett’s book (see 4th October), I hid them conspicuously around the flat.

When my grandson arrived he dragged me to a chair, got out his Leappad, which is a junior type of i-pad, and proceeded to show me how to play games on it. ‘Oh, dear’, I thought, ‘I have been superceded by technology’. I needn’t have worried, however, because he soon asked me why I hadn’t got any toys and I was able to send him on his treasure hunt.

This evening we raided the freezer for a medley meal consisting of Jackie’ bolognese sauce with freshly cooked pasta; and my chicken jalfrezi with Watch Me pilau rice, chapatis, and egg godamba roti. Racking our brains we decided the Watch me contributions must have come from a doggie bag gleaned from an outing we had there with Jacqueline and Elizabeth. Jackie finished the Wickham white wine and I began a bottle of Maipo Merlot 2010

Oiling The Lion

A pair of socks hanging in a tree on this bright, crisp, morning along the Wandle Trail en route to Colliers Wood reminded me of my rugby boots. On 25th June I mentioned my ingenious scrumping in Cottenham Park sometime in the 1950s. Remembering throwing sticks into conker trees when younger, I had decided to chuck my boots into an apple tree intending to knock off some fruit. Unfortunately it didn’t occur to me to untie the laces that bound them together. Soon they were suspended like the socks. More ingenuity was required to get them down. This involved the park keeper who was a bit put out. It made me late for the match. I couldn’t even invent a story which would present me in a better light. The news had been spread all round the changing rooms. Bill Edney, Geography master and rugby coach, was also a bit put out.

On another occasion, when playing for the Wimbledon College Old Boys, I lost a boot on the field. Rather than stop and put it on, choosing to wait for the next natural stoppage, I continued wearing one sole boot. I must be the only player ever to score a try with ‘one shoe off and one shoe on’. (My second name is John). I was probably lent wings to avoid anyone stamping on my stockinged foot.

A lace once came in very handy. When Alan Warren broke my finger (posted 23rd July), I obtained a spare, lace, not finger, from the referee and strapped the damaged digit to its neighbour in order to carry on playing.

It will now be apparent that nothing short of instant death would have got me off the field before the final whistle. When I damaged a shoulder which has given me constant pain for more than fifty years, I couldn’t raise my left arm, but I could rest it across the shoulders of my partner in the second row of the scrum. How daft can you get?

Sam knew. When I was about sixty and hadn’t taken the field for fifteen years, he played for a Newark side against a pub team. Reckoning I must be as fit as most members of the probably inebriated opposition, I sneaked my aged kit along when I went to watch. Just in case. Sam was not one to carry on regardless when injured, so I was puzzled at his continuing the game with a twisted ankle. Afterwards, I asked him why. ‘Because you would have come on’, he replied. And I didn’t think he knew I had come prepared.

During Sam’s stag weekend in the Margaret River area of South West Australia the young men arranged a game of touch rugby. In this form of the game there is no tackling. You just touch your opponent who must then release the ball. This was at the end of a day sampling the wineries. Naturally I joined in. After all, touch rugby is safe enough. Sam’s friend, Deutch, 6′ 5” and about 18 stone, forgot the rules and tackled me hard. Once I got to my feet I took the first opportunity to retaliate. I couldn’t get my arms around his hips. It was then that Mick O’Neil, about to become Sam’s father-in-law, sensibly called a halt to the proceedings, because, he said ‘someone will get hurt’. I think he meant me.

As usual, this morning, I continued my journey to Norman’s by tube. On the Jubilee line between Green Park and Baker Street, a young woman with extremely shapely limbs revealed by the briefest of running shorts; a ring through one nostril; a diamond stud in the other; and acne on her face cheeks spent her time oiling a lion’s head tattoo which was all that covered her right thigh. Perhaps she was applying hair care to the animal’s plentiful mane. Since she was seated directly opposite me, I was somewhat distracted from my book.

Church Road market, in the glory of the sunshine, was a colourful as ever.

Despite having a bad cold, Norman was able to serve up a succulent roast partridge meal followed by apfel strudel. Sadly he was unable to drink all of his half of the 2009 Dao, so I had to imbibe more than mine.

Porridge In The Bedroom

Soon after midday Jackie drove me from a waterlogged Hampshire to a dry Morden. I then walked to Jessops in Wimbledon and back. I still needed advice on how many shots I had left on my Scandisk memory card. Discovering the fault in my camera in Hedge End Jessops had diverted my attention from the reason I had gone there in the first place. Being told I still had more than 2,500 left was the first bit of good news. The second was my good fortune in having chosen to go to Wimbledon rather than Colliers Wood. Having decided to give the mud of Morden Hall Park a miss after my exploits earlier in the week, especially as I still haven’t bought any wellies, I was amazed to learn that that branch closed down last week on account of escalating rents. I had been saved a wasted journey.

The streets are beginning to be carpeted by autumn leaves. My route is festooned with estate agents boards, one of which is that of Hawes and Company, which put me in mind of the owner of the maisonette in Stanton Road in which my parents raised five children. Hawes was the agent to whom Mum paid the weekly rent for our home. The owner, Mr. Gabouli, was an Italian immigrant who carried out all the maintenance himself. To me, a child in the 1940s, he seemed very elderly, but I don’t suppose he was anything like my current age. He wore a knitted jumper full of holes and seemed to have paint everywhere which would never come off. His specs were held together with masking tape. The lenses were speckled with so much pigment and plaster I wondered how he could see anything through them. One day he mislaid them and we had to search them out among his tools and paintbrushes. All this was made a little more complicated by his accent which was so strong that we couldn’t understand what he said.

Only once in the sixteen years we lived there, was the place decorated throughout. It seemed to take forever. I’m not sure whether our landlord brought in helpers for this job, which in reality was probably completed fairly quickly. Chris and I shared a small bedroom containing bunk beds at the time. My memory suggests that we all camped in there for a while. Was cooking somehow done in there, or was it done in the kitchen and carried through? I’m not sure now, but I expect when Mum reads this she will clarify the situation. I do remember a saucepan of creamy, steaming porridge consumed around my bed.

We finished the day with a fine salad accompanied by Wickham Vintage Selection 2010.

I Didn’t Get Lost

It was very murky in the New Forest today when I took the Fritham walk from the AA book. Rain drizzled all day. Jackie drove me there and went off to do her own thing whilst I did mine. She had been indicating in good time that she wanted to leave the A31 via a slip-road on her left, when another car came zooming up on her inside making it impossible for her to leave the major road at that point. She was forced to go on to the next opportunity.

Soon after leaving Fritham, ‘a hidden hamlet’, I ventured into Eyeworth Wood, which presented the townie with another woodcraft lesson. The half-mile long path was even more difficult than those I had taken last week. There were no dry sections at all. The mud had even stronger suction, and several fallen branches had to be negotiated. At least the direction was clear, although I was forced into the bracken at times in search of surer footing. Each of my shoes, at different times, was sucked into the muddy maw of the quagmire. It was here I met a couple sporting green wellies. They told me that was what I needed. I’m clearly going to have to get a pair. Before I do this again.

I came to ‘a tree-studded heath, with far-reaching views’. On a different day this was probably an accurate description. Today, visibility was about 500 yards. Thereafter I was required to ‘walk through a shallow valley to a car park at Telegraph Hill’. The bottom of the valley was a pool deep enough to wash some of the mud off my shoes. The only animals I saw were a few cattle near the car park. Ponies and deer were keeping well out of the way. A long, wide, path through heathland leading south past a tumulus to Ashley Cross was virtually all large pools, some of which harboured pond weed. I gave up trying to avoid them, contenting myself with the knowledge that my feet were dry and my shoes getting washed. It is amazing that my feet felt dry, for I had got my socks very soggy and muddy when I lost my shoes. I bought the socks with the walking shoes. They bear the legend ‘Smart Wool’. They certainly are pretty clever. As soon as I returned to The Firs I took off my shoes and socks and proceeded to wring out my muddy socks which still had pieces of holly adhering to them, before inserting them into the washing machine. When she was told the story of the shoes Elizabeth called me a stick in the mud.

In the last section through the forest trees were being felled, the logs being piled up around Gorley Bushes. As I watched the men in the trees working with their power tools I thought of those ancestors of theirs, in the early centuries after Henry VIII had the forest planted, who, with only manual equipment felled and dressed this timber for the building of ships for the defence of the realm. Trees then were even trained to grow in the right shapes for specific parts of the ships. It took a long time to build a ship in early times.

Rather like the Bolton Marathon (posted 11th. August), the last stretch of this walk is uphill. Having ascended the slope I arrived back at the Royal Oak pub forty minutes ahead of the allocated time for the walk. The fact that, for the first time, I didn’t extend both distance and time in an AA walk, is because I didn’t get lost. I tracked Jackie down in the pub and we returned to The Firs for a left-overs lunch. As we drove out of Fritham four bedraggled donkeys filed miserably past the car.

For the last few days we have been puzzled by telltale heaps of pigeon feathers on the lawn. We had attributed these to raiding foxes. We were wrong. Jackie witnessed the demise of one this afternoon. The poor unsuspecting bird was, as usual, foraging for pickings under the bird feeders; for seeds dropped by lighter, more agile avians who could perch above. Suddenly, ‘thwack’, in the flash of an eye a predator struck. As Jackie moved to see what was happening, the sparrowhawk made off with its prey. It reminded me of a crow in Morden Park a couple of days ago which had fled its comrades with a large white object in its beak. Later, as we set off for Sainsburys to return the party glasses, we saw a squirrel scaling a telegraph pole at the end of Beacon Road with a biscuit held in its jaws.

From Sainsburys we proceeded to Jessops where it had been my intention to get the staff to show me how to read how many photographs I had left on my memory card, and, if necessary, to buy another. The camera seized up in the shop and has to be returned to Canon for investigation and repair. I was most upset. Fortunately Elizabeth has an earlier model and has lent it to me for the two to three weeks it will take for mine to be returned to me.

This evening we took Danni and her mother to see the building Danni had found for us and to dine in the Trusty Servant. Danni regrets giving us the flat, thinking she should have kept it for herself. We all enjoyed our meals. Jackie drank Budweiser and the rest of us shared two different red wines.

Serendipity

This morning Jackie and I drove over to Minstead to do a little more research into what is to be our local village. As we arrived, signs proclaimed that there was an antiques and bric-a-brac fair at Minstead Hall. Since we had come upon it by accident, the organisation’s name, ‘Serendipity’, seemed fortuitous. After we had got past the man in the entrance hall who was wishing to sell us a set of prints he thought were watercolours, we spotted, on the very first stall, two similar vases. They were of a dark green ceramic material in a shape which was certainly used in the 1880s; when Castle Malwood Lodge was built; with delightful floral designs appliqued in a hard paste. We don’t think it’s necessarily a good idea to buy from the first stall you see, but we bought these and were well pleased. It was, of course, mandatory to try out The Trusty Servant, if this was going to be our local. With excellent real ale, a choice of lagers for Jackie, and first-rate plentiful food it turned out to be a winner. Despite the fact that the bar was quite busy, all three staff behind the counter greeted us with winning smiles as we entered, and the service continued to be efficient and cheerful. We both lunched on roast pork.

On the grass verge opposite the pub, a row of cattle grazed. We have much to learn about the New Forest, but we believe these animals to belong to verderers, a group of people with ancient rights to graze their cattle and pigs, who in modern times have responsibility for management of the woodland. A short distance away was a group of New Forest ponies. These animals, owned by the New Forest Commoners, roam freely throughout the forest and the villages therein. I am particularly amazed at how still these creatures are, when not actually cropping the grass. Last year in a car park in Burley I had been convinced that those I saw individually positioned, sometimes almost touching cars, were incredibly realistic sculptures. It took a very close examination to reveal that they were alive. Jackie says that it is important for them to conserve energy otherwise they would have to eat an awful lot of grass.

We also checked out the village shop which is reasonably stocked, sells newspapers, and offers a tea room. Not quite in the class of Tess’s establishment in Upper Dicker (see post of 12th May), it is certainly a very good asset, and only half a mile from the Lodge. Jackie bought the Ordnance Survey Leisure map for the New Forest.

This evening we dined on left-overs. This of course conjures up the image of a concoction produced from small amounts left over from recent meals. Sainsburys, I think it was, who ran a television advertising programme after the 2008 credit crunch, recommending people to make use of left-overs to create wonderful new meals which most of the older generation had been producing for years. Now, left-overs from a 90th birthday party are certainly not scraps. We could choose from whole roast chickens; unopened quiches; platefuls of ham; cooled salmon; a good half dozen French sticks; untouched cakes; baked potatoes; and still fresh coleslaw; with half empty bottles of assorted red wines, and, in Jackie’s case, a previously unopened bottle of Stella. We’ll probably get some more at some stage tomorrow.

Surprise Reprised

Over coffee this morning Jackie and I spoke of large Victorian houses. She had spent part of her childhood in a magnificent mansion in Cator Road, Sydenham. Sydenham, of course, doesn’t have an elegant ring about it any more, and the house, like many of its generation, has been broken up into flats. Jessica had been born in a similar house in Nottingham, which she last knew as a children’s home; although it will not be that now. When I first walked into Lindum House in Newark, a building of a similar ilk, I had a very comforting sensation brought by an ambient memory of my Knight grandparents’ home in South Park Road in Wimbledon. That grand house and garden has, like most others in that street, been demolished to make way for a block of flats. My only clear childhood memories of 18 South Park Road are of coal fires at Christmas and, strangely enough, iron fruit bush stakes in the garden. I have a vague sense of wooden railings around an upstairs corridor. I had told Mum about my feeling, and when she first visited she said: ‘I’m not surprised. It’s exactly the same’. We always had open fires in the beautiful grates in Newark; although there was central heating, the earlier radiators having been provided by the Beeston Boiler Company, by coincidence Jessica’s paternal family firm. There were fruit bushes supported by iron stakes in the same position of the large Victorian garden. Sadly, Dad never got to see it, as he died two weeks after we moved. I’d have loved him to have enjoyed that relative of his childhood home.

Throughout the morning people were arriving to help prepare for the party this afternoon. Michael, Heidi, Alice, and Oliver had driven down early from Sanderstead for the purpose. Thea joined them when she and Adam arrived. Others, including Jackie and me, were in and out shopping. Just as I had been given on 1st July (see post), Mum received a surprise 90th birthday party. Yesterday’s rain having cleared up Michael arranged chairs in sunspots around the garden, and Jackie completed the garden room transformation. Alice had made four tiers of a sponge cake which she layered and decorated in situ at The Firs. Angela brought an array of her own home cooked Chinese savories and an attractive noodle dish. She really is a very good cook.

When Jacqueline brought Mum to the front door everyone was gathered in the hall to greet her with ‘Happy birthday’. From her children to her great grandchildren everyone was represented, and Danni gave her a large framed set of photographs, one of which each of the grandchildren had had produced of themselves. There was a last minute stress when my printer ran out of ink and Elizabeth’s kept jamming, but Danni, with Andy’s calm influence, stayed with it and completed the task on time. Unfortunately Louisa and her family were unable to come because because she has tonsilitis; and Malachi had to leave his mother behind because she is expecting his new sister quite soon.

As always with these events this was an opportunity for us all to catch up with each other, and particularly for the cousins to meet. It is very pleasing to see them all mingling and chatting in earnest. Mum was on good form and was not whisked away until 10.45.

Now it can be revealed that yesterday’s trip to Minstead and this morning’s conversation about grand houses were no coincidences. I had been circumspect yesterday because Jackie and I wished certain of my readership to learn face-to-face today that we have put a holding deposit on a flat to rent in Castle Malwood Lodge. Everyone is very pleased for us. We will be living in an albeit small section of a wonderful building in absolutely beautiful surroundings. Perhaps my recent forest walks will not have been in vain.

The Garden Room

Jackie and I took a trip out to the New Forest this morning, winding up at the delightful village of Minstead. Many picturesque houses have thatched roofs; there is a pub called The Trusty Servant, which features in the Good Pub Guide; and it boasts a village shop. In the very heart of the forest it looked particularly beguiling this morning in the clear autumn light. A herd of deer had gathered near the roadside, and wild ponies turned up around every corner.

We had to cut this outing short because I had left half Mum’s albums in Morden yesterday. We therefore had to drive back up there to collect them. The journey was comparatively quick and we celebrated by lunching at Martin Cafe (see post of 14th. May). I spoiled myself with the chips option, whereas Jackie feasted on a vast baked potato overflowing with baked beans served with a plentiful fresh salad. By the time I had decided to display my meal to the world, I had made inroads into the chips and mushrooms.

On our return, just keeping ahead of the storm generated by hurricane Nadine, we had a coffee before beginning to turn the vine house into a garden room for tomorrow’s memorable event. The storm broke as we were trimming the vines, giving us a musical background of rain spattering on the glass. Trimming vines makes your hands very sticky and consequently it is most awkward trying to fish your mobile phone out of your pocket without messing up your jacket. Picking the last of the grapes we took off all the old stems from the rather ancient vine, brought in a few chairs, and swept the place up. Jackie brought the blue painted table in from the garden.

Jacqueline joined us this evening for a meal of Elizabeth’s spaghetti Bolognese. Elizabeth and I drank Roc des Chevaliers.

We Get Lots Of Stick

En route to Morden by car from The Firs this morning Jackie and I were presented with incontrovertible evidence which solved the conundrum I posted on 23rd. June. What little Flo once called ‘tree tunnels’ are definitely caused by large vans.

A motorcyclist who was driving rather precariously got me talking about my Uncle Bill who was a great favourite of Chris and me during the years he was engaged to Auntie Vic. Bill Burdett was an immensely kind and generous man who lost his legs in a motor cycle accident, when, the story goes, rather than hit a pedestrian he swerved and went under a lorry. Bill had been a keen cricketer, but could never play again. In our teens, he obtained membership of Surrey County Cricket Club for my brother and me. With or without him, we spent many happy hours at The Oval. It was Bill who, when I was fifteen, taught me to solve The Times crossword, and to whom I dedicated my half of ‘Chambers Cryptic Crosswords and how to solve them’, which I co-wrote with Michael Kindred. By this time he and Vic were married and had their four children, our cousins Barry, Susan, Neil, and Fenella. It was their garden in Victory Avenue in Morden which, in the 1950s, was the first one not my own with which I helped out. When we were very small Bill entertained us with ‘Silver’ or ‘Copper’ Fairies’. This was a marvellous game in which invisible fairies hid silver or copper coins in various parts of the room and we excitedly searched them out. We never saw any fairies but we found lots of silver sixpences. These were the equivalent of two and a half pence in modern money, but you could do a lot more with them. The coppers were pennies and halfpennies which have no equivalent today. They were just as welcome.

Clouds were louring over Morden Park, where I took a brief stroll before a brisk walk to Church Lane surgery to meet Jackie before returning to The Firs. My lady has been signed off work for another week because of a chest infection.

The path alongside the railway has now been barred off. The barrier which has, for the eighteen months we have been in Morden, been left open, thus allowing the parking of cars, is now chained up and padlocked. The flytipping warning which it has carried for a month or two has been ineffective. The consequence is that currently no-one has vehicular access. There was nothing beyond this obstacle but a tipped heap. The small white van parked alongside the gate ensured that a cyclist was forced to dismount in order to manoeuvre her steed through the gap.

In the park two dog-walkers with ten charges between them were earning their money. I spoke to the man, most of whose dogs were harmlessly off the lead. He questioned my motives for wishing to photograph the group because, he said; ‘we get a lot of stick’. I don’t think he was speaking of throwing sticks for the animals to fetch. When I explained my purpose he said I could photograph the dogs, but not him. I said that would miss the point, and put my camera away. By this time the woman, tangled up with five leads, had moved on, so I added that the moment had gone. This was all friendly enough, and he finished by saying: ‘another time, maybe’. Further on, another man was training a sheepdog. Why, in Morden, I wondered.

After a two hour congested drive we arrived at Eastern Nights where we had the usual excellent meal, Bangla, and Kingfisher. Elizabeth was heating up yesterday’s boeuf bourgignon for herself when we returned to her home.

The Forest Of Bere

Tree surgeons visited The Firs today. The Laurel hedges have now been trimmed; acacias and firs tidied up; and a stubborn buddleia removed. There is much more light available now to the new beds.

Jackie drove me to Wickham where I left her to the village and her book whilst I undertook the AA Wickham walk. Beginning in what is termed the Station car park, although it hasn’t seen either a station or a railway train for about fifty years, I walked along the bridle path which was once the railway track, until directed to turn off it. I speculated that the journey along this stretch of railway must have been a very attractive one; running alongside the wooded banks of the river Meon; before Dr. Beeching applied his particular surgery to Britain’s railways.

After only a few hundred yards I reached the first of the barriers across my path. Two days ago I had learned my first countryside walks lesson concerning barriers, and today put it to good use. The metal barrier left space at the side for pedestrians, so I knew it was all right to go round it. The next obstacle, a few hundred yards further on, was a fallen tree. I’d like to say I took a leap and vaulted it. In reality I struggled to straddle it, and carefully slid across and over to the other side. Crossing the dismantled railway, as this path is still termed, I passed Northfields Farm and Chiphall Lake, eventually reaching the A32 which I was to walk along for 200 yards. Just a little scary, with no footpaths, this stretch reminded me of evading buses careering round bends in Barbados, speculating about diving into hedges, in 2004. The farm track passed a trout farm which had obviously had trouble with satnavs leading drivers to its door. A handmade sign bore witness to this.

The next, rather disconcerting, barrier was soon to present itself. A right turn into the forest of Bere was required. A wooden barrier had been described in the directions. No-one had mentioned it would be a locked Forestry Commission fixture. Full of dubious confidence, I slid in past the left side of it and entered the forest. I soon began to feel like Mr. Toad contemplating The Wild Wood. I wasn’t worried about weasels, but I was worried that the expected sign to West Walk and Woodend was not obviously visible. I continued merrily along. After all, it was a wide path, and seemed to be going in approximately the right direction. Some way along this path, which began to undulate, I began to see why the directions had stated that the bridleway and forest paths would be muddy after rain. As the ooze was doing its best to inhale my shoes, a gentleman with two dogs approached me. He seemed rather aghast when he saw the state of the path. He wasn’t wearing nice warm waterproof footwear which he had recently bought in Cotswolds in Hedge End.

When the quagmire did succeed in slurping up my right shoe , I was forced into a rather ungainly manoeuvre. Attempting to slip your foot back into a mud-locked shoe whilst standing on the other leg when a terrier is doing its best to decorate your, fortunately, gardening trousers with a paw-print pattern, is not an exercise to be recommended.

The dog-owner was able to confirm that I was heading for West Walk. I had thought I was already on it. Eventually I came to signs for West Walk and Woodend. All over the place. At every junction, sometimes multiple, there were signs to these places. The puzzling thing was that each of these signs bore usually four-figure numbers to each place followed by m. Having grown up with m meaning ‘miles’, I had to remind myself that this probably indicated ‘metres’, especially as it was only a small forest. What was more confusing was that some of these were only yards apart yet bore vastly different numbers. Before long I was thoroughly lost. I came to a junction offering a path that looked as if it could take motor vehicles. I thought that if I followed it I was bound to come to a road and perhaps get my bearings. Left or right was the choice. I decided left was the most likely, and set off. Eventually, passing a cottage, I did reach a road, the gate to which was locked. Again I slipped between two posts, being rather grateful I didn’t have a paunch, otherwise I’d never have managed it. Since the cottage was named Woodend Cottage I felt sure I was on a road which would take me to the A32. The road, named Heath Road, led onto that major thoroughfare and I now knew where I was. Passing an entrance to the forest named Woodend, I was tempted to try to pick up the trail on my map. Only tempted. No way was I going back in there. You can’t turn a septuagenarian townie into a country boy overnight.

I was able to leave the A32 fairly soon and get back onto the bridlepath which left me a couple of miles to do. This was a section further up than the one I had left earlier. It had a strong rivulet running down the middle of it. As it was now raining quite hard, I was grateful for the canopy of overhanging trees which turned the route into a different kind of railway tunnel. I was also quite grateful for Jackie waiting to drive me back to The Firs, where, for the second time in three days, my gardening trousers went into the washing machine. I’ll scrape the mud off my shoes when they are dry.

Later, Paul rang seeking help to unload a piece of furniture from his car. I popped round and helped him. He offered to lend me his satnav to help stop me getting lost.

Danni joined us for an evening meal of Jackie’s succulent boeuf bourgignon followed by the Co-op’ s scrummy sticky toffee pudding. Except for the cook, we drank Fairtrade Argentinian Malbec 2011. She, of course, enjoyed a small Hoegaarden blanche.