derrickjknight

A Night At The Globe

I began the day by photographing the corner of the garden in which the new fernery is located, so that Danni can see where it is.

Jackie then drove us back to Morden in readiness for a visit to The Globe Theatre this evening. Sam and Holly had given me two tickets for Richard III for my birthday. Disaster then struck. I had left the lead for transferring photos from my camera to my laptop at The Firs. I therefore walked to Jessops at Colliers Wood and back, to try to purchase a new connection. They do not sell them, but sold me a Multi Card Reader. Since I have been using a card reader system at Elizabeth’s, I thought this would be fine.

In the precincts of Abbey Mills Centre by the river Wandle, a heron was offering suggestions to a puzzler.

Walking back through Morden at school finishing time, I was reminded that I had left rural Hampshire for the end of the Northern Line, gateway to the South, as Peter Sellers put it when chanting of Balham. I had to weave my way through milling schoolchildren, taking care to dodge their icecreams and sticky sweets; make way for mothers pushing buggies; elude shoppers with wheelie bags, endangering my sandalled feet; and avoid motorised vehicles for people with disabilities. I was back on familiar territory.

Settling down with my laptop I followed the meagre instructions which came with the reader. Nothing was happening. I could not download my pictures. I telephoned Jessops, whose representative said it sounded as if the reader was faulty, and advised me to reboot my laptop and if it still didn’t work return to the store. It didn’t, so I will return to Jessops in the morning and hope to be able to add photographs to this post.

This evening we travelled by underground to Sam Wanamaker’s gift to the world. Our mode of changing trains at Kennington is best described in Jackie’s words. As we approached a train about to leave for Waterloo she reports that I flung myself into the closing gap in the doors and left her standing on the platform. I turned, held my hand up to the window and raised one finger. This was to indicate that Waterloo was one stop away. Contemplating the amused glances of the other passengers, I felt grateful that it wasn’t two stations away.

Some twenty eight years earlier I had been taking Sam and Louisa on the underground for a trip somewhere or other. Sam was walking beside his sister in her pushchair. He trotted into the train just as the doors were closing. Having just taken Louisa out of it, I quickly shoved the puschair into the gap. The doors simply pushed the wheeled vehicle out of their way. This time it was Louisa and me left on the platform. I found a station employee. He rang down the line. Two young men on the train who had seen what had happened escorted Sam off the train at the next station. Louisa and I followed on, and left, the next train at the same station. A perfectly happy Sam, munching chocolate, was resting in the arms of a huge London Transport man. Panic over.

Walking along Blackfriars Road Jackie spotted, through a gap in the streetscape, The Shard, hailed as Western Europe’s tallest building. Sun reflected from this edifice causes the blinds to be drawn in her office on the eleventh floor of Morden’s Civic Centre. The view of the skyline we enjoyed as we walked along the Thames to the theatre can clearly be seen from that same office window.

We had a meal of meze at The Real Greek, a couple of doors away from The Globe. This was so good we wished we had had more time. Our only complaints might have been that the small tables were rather cramped together, and someone had taken a bite out of the bowl in which my excellent beetroot salad was served. Jackie drank Mythos, a Greek beer she enjoyed. I was less adventurous and sampled Kronenbourg.

The Globe is a replica of Shakespeare’s famous original. In The Bard’s day those who could afford them sat on hard wooden benches under a thatched roof. Those who couldn’t, known as groundlings, stood in the central enclosure, open to the elements. So it is today.

Neither of us knew the play and we were therefore surprised at its comic nature. The theatre was jam-packed with spectators, and we had to force our way through the groundlings to reach our bench, which was fully occupied. The play having just begun, we stood silently on the stairs until a steward approached, moved another couple out of our places, and, equally silently, ushered us in. Almost polished away by the many bums on these seats, our numbers were just discernible. This splendid production held our struggling attention until a wave of activity in the central open area, punctuated by the patter of raindrops, rendered what was happening on stage inaudible. The cast soldiered manfully on. I say ‘manfully’ because, as an authentic rendition of Shakespearean times, women’s roles were being played by men. Suddenly the activity in the pit became frenzied. The downpour drummed on the roof. The lighting illuminated vertical sheets of rain. Torrents bounced off hastily donned hoods and scarves. Shirts and blouses of those who had come unprepared became transparent second skins. Hair was plastered to scalps, and rivulets ran down necks. Some who had brought umbrellas were told to close them. A few who sat on the stairs we had vacated were instructed to leave and stand in the rain because they were blocking an emergency exit. Staff, and the occasional fortunate child, were issued with clingfilm wrappers by a young woman circulating among the rapidly diminishing throng of saturated, unsheltered, spectators. Whilst this continued the cast strutted their stuff on stage. I am sure they must be quite accustomed to such interruptions. After all, Shakespeare’s groundlings made an awful din. It will, however, be apparent from the attention I paid to all this going on in front of me that I had lost the plot. So had Jackie.

P.S. Dated 21st January 2014. Roger Lloyd-Pack, who was speaking as the Duke of Buckingham through the worst of the din, died a week ago. A splendid actor, may he rest in peace.

A Fernery

First thing this morning I watched savage nature in action. The early sun glinted on a side-lit spider’s web, displaying the splendid shape of this wonderfully crafted construction. A child’s chalk drawing of an airplane streaked across the clear sky above. A bright blue fly darted straight into the unwound skein. In a fraction of a second, a spider emerged from a corner and was on the fly. Quick as a flash, I was upstairs in search of my camera. Quick as I was, on my return the spider had already wrapped up its prey which now looked like a ball of grey wool almost as large as itself. My attempt at securing a photograph was rushed, and consequently out of focus. During the brief moment it had taken me to ascertain this, arachnid and prey had disappeared. I could not locate them in the foliage. After a great deal of persistence I spied the predator so well camouflaged against a dying leaf as to be well-nigh invisible.

I found another golf ball on the lawn. This set me wondering whether to emulate Winchester City Mill. They have a web-cam carrying out an otter watch. Otters can then be filmed whenever they investigate the millstream. If we set up a web-cam we could satisfy ourselves as to the identity of the phantom supplier (see 8th. September post).

After lunch the three of us visited Arturi’s garden centre to buy some ferns for a new bed Jackie has created. She and I drove Elizabeth back to The Firs and shopped at Hillier’s for snowdrops, narcissi, and grape hyacinth bulbs; pansies; and all-purpose compost. I then finished mowing the lawns I had begun this morning, and Jackie planted up her fernery. This fills a very shady corner bearing compacted soil covering massed tree roots. Our head gardener has created a decorative container for shade-loving plants by encircling a nutritious mix with the sawn up sections of the acacia which fell down during the May storms (see 26th. May). The mix consists of a layer of pond weed extracted a year ago which has produced wonderful compost; then seaweed enhanced plant growth stimulant; next a layer of bracken, and finally multi-purpose, composts. The centrepiece is a garden ornament known by us as ‘The Three Graces’, which had previously stood at the edge of the front lawn.

For our evening meal Jackie produced fillet steak with which she drank Hoegaarden and Elizabeth and I Roc des Chevaliers Brodeaux 2010.

The Stockpot

Last night Elizabeth told us she had found a golf ball on her bedroom floor (see post of 8th. September).

It was a pretty drizzly day today. Michael came down and spent the morning with us, after which Jackie drove me to Winchester to collect the plants left behind yesterday. As she was on holiday she thought she would like an ice cream, which she consumed with a superb chocolate eclair whilst I drank a double espresso in two mouthfuls. A boy in his first year or so at school, with his finger up his nose, kept asking, at full decibels, what was his father’s favourite colour. Being unable to quieten his son the man offered the opinion that perhaps his teacher should be asked to focus on his behaviour.

A young, very tanned, man sat cross-legged in a doorway. We wondered whether he was the owner of the bicycle bearing a placard asking people to ‘SAVE TIBET’. A rather older gentleman carrying a folding white stick told us, as he put up his rain hood and tightly buttoned his coat, that the weather was going to deteriorate from tonight. We thanked him for the information. The young man seemed unconcerned.

We wandered down the High Street and into the Cathedral precincts. There was such a wealth of history in the buildings that a piece of Roman pavement in a corner of the Deanery could seem to have been forgotten and almost buried in what is now a second-hand bookshop, selling what look like donated books in order raise funds for the cathedral. I delighted the custodian by selecting a P. D. James novel. We held a mutual belief that it is the depth of her characterisation that marks her out as an author. Jackie was interested in my other choice, a book on Elizabethan England by A.L. Rowse.

Following the signs to the Water Meadows we found ourselves by what we took to be the river Itchen, and strolled along it for a while. At one point we were intrigued by

a conversation between a grasshopper and a snail perched on either side of a bent umbellifer stem.

For our evening meal, Jackie fried another couple of sausages and added them to the still plentiful left over sausage and bacon casserole. A Firs Mess (see 2nd. September) completed the meal, which, for Elizabeth and me was complemented by Villapani 2011, and for Jackie by Buddweiser. The now very tasty stock from my original casserole turned the conversation to stockpots. The only person I know who now keeps a traditional stockpot is my friend Norman. This is a continuing pan of juices from cooked dishes which is constantly reused and added to over a period of time. In the old days this never left the kitchen stove. Because Norman doesn’t have the old kitchen range, and doesn’t cook every day, he keeps his pot in the fridge. I can assure you it is put to good use. Ann, the late wife of my friend Don (see 10th. August), told me she knew of a woman in Cerrigydrudion, where they had their Welsh home, who had kept a stockpot going for fifty years. A small chain of restaurants in the very heart of Central London is one of Norman’s favourite haunts. Given their situation, these establishments offer an incredibly cheap, very well cooked, range of basic, tasty meals. Norman is something of a gourmet, and his recommendation is not to be discounted. I know, I’ve followed it. The chain is called The Stockpot. As the founder has retired they are all on a franchise now.

Winchester

Whilst seated in the arbour at The Firs this morning, Jackie and I speculated about how the hedgehog had got itself perched up on the top of an unidentified tree.

Mike Kindred telephoned me and we talked through my views on a new Listener Crossword he is preparing for publication. Although there were a couple of clues I didn’t greatly appreciate, the general idea and its execution I thought were excellent. As we usually solve each other’s puzzles cold, that is without any assistance, and this one involved cracking a code, I spent rather a long time on it and had to confess myself beaten. Codes in advanced cryptic crosswords are my weak point. We agreed that Mike’s title for the puzzle doesn’t quite work, and are both therefore thinking about another.

Leaving Jackie to the gardening, Elizabeth and I went off to Winchester with Mum to change a couple of pairs of slippers which didn’t fit. We had a great deal of trouble finding a parking spot. Even disabled bays were all full. At last we found a space in what turned out to be a loading bay. Mum is now able to walk a short distance with the aid of two sticks. We helped her out of the car and I walked her to the first of the shoe shops she was to visit, while Elizabeth sorted out the car. We sat on seats in the shoe shop, explaining that we needed to change Mum’s slippers which would be arriving in a minute. I assured the puzzled assistant that they did not possess magical qualities, and would be carried in by Elizabeth. When my sister entered the shop she said parking was not allowed there and several people had tickets. A woman in a car in front was disabled and had not been given a ticket, so Elizabeth felt sure she would herself be safe from being charged with transgression. I wasn’t so sure, and volunteered to go back and stand guard over the car. Soon after I arrived a large, fully loaded, car drew up and the driver asked me about parking facilities. I recounted our fruitless search, and told him what I was doing. As a woman and two children emerged from his car, he decided to do the same.

Naturally we got talking. James, the driver, was a very large opulent looking gentleman who had driven all the way from Croydon, to transport his friends to Winchester to buy school uniform. A very friendly man, he sported a huge jewelled cross around his neck and wore a decorative shirt and cream winkle-picker shoes. He was proud of the boy he had brought down from Lewisham, because he had won a scholarship to a school which cost £35,000 a year. His siblings, the children of a wealthy Nigerian family, not being so intelligent, were fee-paying pupils. I didn’t ask how many there were.

My conversationalist began to wonder how he was ‘going to get out of here’. He indicated some rather confusing traffic signs. He thought they must mean he should turn right, but there was another sign forbidding this. My reading was that cars should go straight on. This would mean ploughing through pedestrians enjoying shopping in the sunshine. And we didn’t think, if he left first, Mum would be able to get out of the way. We were in a one-way street. Every car which travelled down it whilst we were there, either turned right, or reversed back up to the entrance to the street. I told James that Elizabeth would know what we were meant to do. She did. She explained we should go straight on and turn left at Monsoon. He didn’t look convinced. We went straight on and Elizabeth did a pretty good impersonation of Moses parting the waves of the Red Sea.

We went on to visit the National Trust’s Winchester City Mill. This is a mediaeval mill, recently restored to full working order. Elizabeth dropped us off as near to the mill as she could and I walked Mum to the mill, holding up the traffic for her to cross the road. Our mother was justifiably pleased that she could negotiate several flights of steep steps and take herself across a metal grill with only the help of a handrail, because her sticks would have gone through the grill. Always a determined character, she was dead set on seeing the mill works. I bought Elizabeth some hardy perennial plants which we left at the till until we left the mill. At least, that was the intention. As we were reaching West End, I remembered them. They are still at the till. Until Elizabeth collects them.

It had been a beautiful morning, but the sky clouded over soon after we returned. I was able to trim the lawn edges preparatory to mowing, which will have to wait until tomorrow.

This evening Elizabeth, Jackie, and I relaxed and ate in Eastern Nights. We were their only dining in customers, and the new waiter who recognised us from another restaurant whose employment he had just left, spent a lot of time chatting to us.

Cleaning The Dog

This was a two walk day. In the morning I took Michael and Emily through Telegraph Woods to The Ageas Bowl, the Hampshire County Cricket Ground, and back via a circular route. We actually walked into the cricket stadium and admired the pitch and surrounding areas. We were less welcome when we stood beside the golf course behind the county ground. We were rebuked for talking, because ‘this is a golf club’. In fact these golfers did help to solve a conundrum. Golf balls are often discovered in the garden at The Firs. One was actually found last night. Where were they all coming from? Could this course have been the source? Could anyone drive the ball that far? Unlikely. So who would find them and bring them back? Michael had once seen a fox carrying a tennis ball. That must be it. Foxes had been seen in Elizabeth’s garden. They were the culprits.

Elizabeth collected Mum to bring her for lunch, and we spent a soporific couple of hours in the sunshine. After Mum’s return home the rest of us were driven by Michael to Stockbridge. This is an historic village full of elegant buildings and tasteful shops with a stream running down the high street. Like the stream at Mottisfont, this had ducks swimming on the surface, occasionally diving for food; and trout lurking in the shadows against the current, ready, like whales with plankton, to snap up smaller prey. Taking a route through two shops we came to a riverside walk which led to Common Marsh, an open space alongside a stream, owned by The National Trust. Children and dogs alike frolicked in the cool, clear, water. In fact some owners were encouraging their animals to enter the stream, even, in one case, to the extent of offering a helping foot. One man was throwing a tennis ball into the water and exhorting his dogs to go in and fetch it. One of these searched the marshy area for an easier vantage point, and stood there wondering whether to take the plunge or not. His companion had no such hesitation and was soon swimming to the bank with its trophy; climbing to comparatively dry ground; and showering everyone not nimble enough to avoid it with spray as it shook itself clear of water.

Back at The Firs we dined off the week’s leftovers. I ate Jackie’s Shepherd’s Pie, and the others had my Chicken and Egg Jalfrezi and Sausage and Bacon Casserole. Red wines and Budweiser were drunk sparingly before Michael drove Emily back to Croydon.

Mottisfont

Michael and Emily drove down to join us for the day. As they are great National Trust fans, Michael having made a superb investment by subscribing to life membership at the age of nineteen, I suggested a trip to Mottisfont, a National Trust property situated just four miles North of Romsey. Michael drove us all there and we enjoyed a day at this establishment dating from a thirteenth century priory. Rightly famous for its walled rose gardens, there is much more to enjoy there.

We were greeted by a small bridge over a stream, the river Test, from which a number of families were throwing bread into the swirling waters. Upon investigation we saw that trout and ducks were vying for the offerings. Later on we took the riverside walk which had clearly inspired Kenneth Grahame to write ‘The Wind In The Willows’, incidentally one of my favourite books of all time. The highlight, for me, of the visit to the house was the exhibition of E.H.Shepard’s illustrations to that wonderful novel. In an exhibition case, among other editions, was one sporting Arthur Rackham’s marvellous work.

Although the roses were clearly past their best, it was apparent that the walled gardens were a wonderful display, still featuring many different species, still blooming. Buddleiae were attracting a range of butterflies and bees.

During the visit to the house itself, Elizabeth was being sold a raffle ticket in one of the rooms. As I approached the desk, I realised I would be invited to buy one myself. I don’t believe I have ever won a raffle in my life. I hate selling tickets. In fact, if an organisation I am involved with sends me a book of tickets to dispense, I buy them all myself. I still never win. So I look the other way when I am expected to buy someone else’s. This time there was no avoiding it. I sidled up to Elizabeth, looked as if I belonged to her, and glanced from the volunteer sales assistant to my sister, in a proprietorial way, hoping to indicate that I was with her and her ticket would cover us both. It worked. I was unsolicited. Michael, who had followed minutes later, was not so fortunate. You never know, one of them may collect the £10,000 first prize. Then I will feel I’ve missed out.

We really did pick a gorgeous autumn day for our visit. The light was superb and the temperature was warm. As we entered the building we passed a knot garden which had been planted in a most suitable arrangement in this year of the Queen’s 60th. Jubilee celebrations, the football World Cup, and the London Olympics. Jackie was upset by the sight of one particular weed in the arrangement, and therefore pleased to see it extracted.

When we returned to The Firs I immediately began the preparation of a sausage and bacon casserole. Jackie and Danni rendered invaluable help with the vegetables. As is often the case, I was quizzed about ingredients. The mention of green cardamoms took us back ten years. It has long been a tradition that I produce a Boxing Day curry with the left over turkey or other unfortunate bird that has graced our Christmas table. When Oliver was about five, I forgot to mention that the meal contained this particular spice. Oliver bit into one and promptly threw a tantrum. He rushed out of the room, to be persuaded back in by Jessica. I had to explain and apologise. Eventually he calmed down, the offending items were removed from his plate, and we continued to enjoy the meal. The next year we again enjoyed Gramps’s curried turkey. Soon after we began, Oliver asked: ‘what were those green things we had last year?’. I told him. ‘Can I have everybody’s?’, he asked. Donations were readily given. He promptly and proudly ate the lot.

This evening, the casserole was followed by Jackie’s apple crumble. A variety of red wines were drunk, except by one of us who had Hoegaarden.

A Chicken And Egg Situation

At last, this morning, the preparation of the new bed was completed. This involved composting the soil and tidying up the edges. I had to fetch bracken compost, having mixed it with horse manure, in several trips with a wheelbarrow; spread the mixture across the recently prepared area; and dig it all in. Having done this, I made a defined trench between the bed and the grass with a hand trowel. A thrush which had obviously been watching me, waited until I sat down, then hopped into the trench and began to pull up and consume worms and other creatures. Had it been the robin, he would, no doubt, have done his foraging under my feet. The thrush, being a more timid bird, waited until the coast was clear.

Jackie continued with her planting and weeding. She also changed the location of plants which were not thriving because of the nature of the soil, or the amount of sun or shade they were subject to.

After lunch we sat with Elizabeth on the benches by what will become the scented bed, and marvelled at the range of insects swarming on the Joe Pye Weed, which is a variant of Hemp Agrimony. Apparently Red Admirals use it for breeding on. This cluster has also a number of different flies, bees, and butterflies. I had never knowingly seen a hoverfly before today.

After this, Jackie and I went shopping in Sainsbury’s for some of the ingredients for tonight’s meal.

We then went to visit Mum for a while. She is getting about better now, although she still needs two sticks.

Jackie had bought some samosas yesterday, which I forgot about until she reminded me as we were about to start eating tonight’s Jalfrezi. That didn’t go down too well, especially as Elizabeth, Danni, and I opted to continue drinking Lussac St. Emilion, which we had been consuming whilst I cooked, rather than the Kingfisher Jackie had bought especially. Jackie stuck with the Kingfisher. The vegetable samosas themselves, however, did go down well, as we ate them before the sweets which consisted of blackberry and apple crumble made by Jackie, or apple tart made by the supermarket.

Being an avid reader of these posts, Danni was rather disappointed to discover yesterday what she was going to be eating this evening. She prefers to read about the Knight/Keenan meals after the event. In explaining why we had eaten the same meal two night’s running, I had given her advance notice. Sadly, she knew that tonight we would be consuming chicken Jalfrezi, and that therefore there would be no culinary news to read about. But I could not leave my niece in her unhappy state. And I could not produce a wholly different meal. It seemed logical to add boiled eggs to the dish, thus transforming it in a perfectly legitimate manner.

Now, Danni, whenever anyone poses the old conundrum about which came first, the chicken or the egg, you will always have a ready answer.

Holiday With The Jubilee Sailing Trust

Today was a beautiful autumn day. At last we are reaching the stage in The Firs garden where we can spend as much time in sitting and enjoying the display as in ’tilling and sowing’. This was just as well today, because I had left my camera battery charger at home in Morden, so we went to Jessops to buy another. It will be useful to have one in each abode. The shop was unable to supply a specific charger for my Canon camera. They could sell me a universal charger which seems to be magic. It charges mobile phones, AA and AAA batteries, cameras; and even has a lead with an adapter for the car. Unfortunately when we got it home, not one of the three of us was able to pass the intelligence test required to make it work. After an hour or so’s trial and error, the emphasis being on error, we had to go back to the shop where the assistant acknowledged the paucity of the instructions, and showed me how to turn a couple of wheels and position the battery without closing the back of the gadget. It looked rather precarious to me, but seems to have worked.

The shape of the new bed is now established. All that remains is to compost it tomorrow. Planting continues apace. Yesterday, Jackie finished her work on the bay tree. A few months ago this large specimen was surrounded by suckers, so that it looked more like a shrub. She began by removing these, to give it more shape. This being a very stony garden, she began to place stones around the base of the plant. Finally she gave the stones a framework of hexagonally shaped tiles. Like much of what is happening here this was incremental. If I wanted to misquote Topsy of ‘Uncle Tom’s Cabin’, I would say it ‘just growed’. Topsy explained her arrival in that phrase, not, as is generally assumed, her manner of gradually developing. This living supply of an essential cooking ingredient now has the appearance of a lurcher practicing deportment.

Danni joined us for lunch. Capitalising on the success of my coastal walk yesterday, she tried her hand at persuading me to join the crew of one of the tall ships of the Jubilee Sailing Trust. My post of 3rd. June featured Tenacious, one of their two sailing vessels providing holidays on tall ships crewed by people of all physical abilities working alongside each other as equals. Apparently they are in need of two septuagenarians, slightly younger being acceptable, wishing to join a week-long holiday group. As it is not actually my scene, I declined. But if you fit the bill and would like to join, visit www.jst.org.uk/ or telephone 023 8044 9108.

The main course of our evening meal was the same as yesterday. To follow, Jackie had made blackberry and apple pie, using blackberries from the garden. These were completely worm free. You can tell that by soaking them in water. If no grubs come up spluttering, there aren’t any in there. Elizabeth and I drank Carta Roja Reserva 2005, whilst Jackie consumed La Gioiosa Pino Grigio 2011. If anyone is wondering, there is a purpose in our having roast chicken two nights running. This is so that I will have enough left-over meat to curry, and enough bones to make stock, for tomorrow night when Danni is joining us. I will produce Jalfrezi, which Indians would serve dry, but we English like our gravy. This is perhaps why chicken tikka masala is now, in the view of many, our national dish. Personally, as you know, I love my curries, but for English food, give me steak and kidney pie any day.

A Walk With Paul

The other day Lynne had offered me her husband Paul as a walking partner. ‘Paul walks’, she said, and she felt sure he would want to walk with me. ‘But he won’t be up to your pace’, she added. I thought that a bit strange, as she couldn’t have known what my pace was. On Sunday evening Paul popped in to confirm our date. ‘You are all right with hills?’, he asked. ‘Yes’, I replied. After all, I walk up and down Wimbledon Hill regularly. The plan was that Paul would work out one of his favourite routes and off we would go.

When Paul called to collect me and we set off at 9.00 a.m., I arranged to go shopping with Jackie in the afternoon. However, there is walking, and there is walking. We were definitely on a walking trip. As Paul drove off, I imagined that we would just take a short drive to the countryside, take a walk for an hour or two, and return with plenty of time for a shop. That is what the women imagined too, as they waited until well past one for lunch. I began to become a little concerned when I glanced at the in-car satnav and realised we were on our way to Dorset. I thought that would make us a bit later than I had imagined. I still didn’t realise where we were going. The marvellous navigational tool took us directly from The Firs to a car park in Kimmeridge. Paul changed into his walking boots and donned his backpack. ‘I see you’ve come well prepared’, I observed, but it wasn’t until he extricated a pair of professional-looking walking sticks that I began to realise I might be in for a Ken Coleman experience (see post of 31st. August). Trotting down into Kimmeridge we stopped for coffee. This, explained Paul, was part of the tradition shared with his friend Dave with whom he has a monthly walk. Then out came the Pathfinder Walks book. This is a guide to country walks throughout England. Paul showed me the chosen route. It was the 8 1/2 miles Kimmeridge Bay and Swyre Head circuit. This looked uncomfortably close to the coastline for my liking.

Anyone who has read the Vertigo post of 14th. July, will realise that anything too close to the edge would not be very comfortable for me. In fact Elizabeth and I had been on a landscape photography course a year or so back, and I had been unable to walk down to Lulworth Cove, having to settle for taking pictures of inland scenes. My sister had been happy to walk down a series of steps I found just too scary. So, when I discovered that the first long section of our walk comprised part of the Dorset Coastal Path, I was a little disconcerted. This meant footpaths with barbed wire fences on our left, and the sea on our right. I did wonder at one point what would be my chances if I had to grab hold of the fence. Even more difficult were two very steep upward climbs which soon had me panting away. Indeed, I couldn’t manage the second one without a rest. I have to say that Paul, who has no head for heights himself, was an excellent calming influence, and I found the stick he had suggested I try, was a great help in balancing me and helping me ensure that there was something firm between me and the cliff edge.

Once we had got beyond this rather frightening part of the journey we made our way inland and looked down on Edcombe dairy and Edcombe house, which is apparently quite an ancient pile. Later we were able to see these from the other side of the valley in which it is set, with the ridge along which we had walked in the background.

It was with some relief that we reached the Scots Arms in Kingston and had two pints of well-earned ale for me and cider for Paul. From the garden we enjoyed an impressive, if hazy, view of Corfe Castle.

Paul was excellent company, and we shared a wonderful day. Having had to make several phone calls putting our return home later and later, I managed not to completely spoil Jackie’s roast chicken dinner, for which I was certainly ready. Since I was pretty dehydrated, I needed sparkling water with my share of the Carta Roja 2005. Jackie didn’t need any with her Hoegaarden.

Bats

Sparkling dew greeted us on this glorious early autumn day, encouraging an early start in the garden. I tackled the ivy once more, and Jackie, general maintenance, including a bonfire.

An incinerator built by Rob many years ago from the innards of two washing machines still does the job perfectly.

During lunch, Elizabeth spoke of her friend’s late mother, Audrey Randall, a teacher who was voluntarily involved in wild life rescue, particularly specialising in bats. We had harboured bats in Lindum House. We never learned exactly where they lived, but they would swoop to and from the eaves, especially at dusk. Their darting flight put me in mind of swifts. Only on one occasion were they spotted in the house. I was lying in bed reading at about one o’clock in the morning, when two of these creatures flew through the open window and began to circle the room. At first I thought they may have been attracted to the light, but, from the little I knew about bats, that didn’t make sense. Of course, I reflected, many insects were attracted to the bedroom light and the bats were attracted to them. Mat and Tess were staying at the house, with a New Zealand cousin of Tess’s. I thought my son and daughter-in-law, who had only just gone to bed, might be interested, so I let them know about my uninvited guests. Very soon the three young adults became invited guests. The most excited of all was Tess’s relative, who just happened to be a student of bats. I swear I hadn’t known that. She just happened to be writing a paper on pipistrelles. And there, clinging to my bedroom curtains, were two, probably terrified, pipistrelle bats. The young woman, armed with a camera, remained in my company for some time after the novelty had worn off for Mat and Tess. After she had gone, it only remained for me to get rid of the intruders. One was easily persuaded out. The other, obviously not having had its fill of insects, not so. I just had to turn out the light and wait for it to leave. It’s quite difficult to sleep when a bat is whizzing around your room in the dark.

During my second year at Wimbledon College, Bats was my form master. On one parents’ evening, Mum was rather keen to meet him, because, as she told him, she had heard so much about him. She knew he taught maths. She knew that somehow he always knew who had perpetrated my misdemeanours, like smashing a light bulb during a plimsoll fight. She knew he was much feared. Naturally, therefore, on shaking his hand, she wished to let him know what a well-known figure he was in our household. That would have been perfectly acceptable on its own, but, Mum, why, oh why, did you have to prefix this with: ‘so you’re Father Bats’? Upon hearing this, Reverend Father Battersby, S.J., fixed me with an evil leer. I can see it now. But his eyes were smiling. I wanted to disappear, yet surely Bats had heard this many times before. Not that I knew that. He can’t have held this against me, for it was he who offered me free membership of the school boxing club (see 10th. July post). You’ll probably understand now, why I could not refuse his generosity.

After lunch Jackie and I went off to Haskins Garden Centre for some stakes, and on to R. Owton, butcher’s at Chalcroft Farm Shop, for a chicken. They didn’t have any so we went to Sainsbury’s and bought three for £10.00.

Next to this shop lies, as does a fakir on a bed of nails, a wooden building which houses a sign-writing company. This is not flat on the ground, but supported by mushroom-shaped stones, one at each corner, and one half-way along each side. The stones are staddle stones, the job of which is to allow storage buildings to be lifted clear of the ground. The buildings once stored produce such as grain or hay, keeping the contents free of ground level water, and preventing rats or other vermin from reaching them. It was Jackie who recognised these artifacts and their purpose. The wooden building rests on the smooth round tops of the mushrooms; the fakir has no such comfort.

This evening the three of us filled ourselves alfresco with Jackie’s stuffed marrow, donated by Christine Strohmeier. It is of course a truism that non-one ever buys a marrow to stuff. They are always donated by a proud kitchen gardener or allotment tenant. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and Elizabeth and I shared a bottle of Montpierre Shiraz 2011. Afterwards we ate Sainsbury’s lemon tart and cream, followed by After Eight mints. Elizabeth was unashamedly relieved when Jackie and I refused coffee.