derrickjknight

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.

A Long Drop

Raindrops on blade of grass 8.12

This was a dreary day, covered in cloud and drizzling. ¬†However, we were able to continue in the garden; Jackie with her general maintenance, and I making further inroads into the ivy-clad corner. ¬†A framed nursery bed is to be returned to grass. ¬†I had removed the frame in readiness for creating the scented bed. ¬†Jackie dug and sifted the soil so it is ready for seeding. ¬†She also weeded and potted up some plants which require a certain amount of thought for their final resting place to be determined. ¬†The head gardener, Jackie, and the lady of the manor, Elizabeth had both bought carloads of plants this week. ¬†I had never thought we could run out of available space. ¬†Until now.

Over lunch we discussed, among other subjects, plant varieties and boundaries between properties. ¬†The subject of plant names came up because I had misinformed Michael Watts as to the identity of the Leycesteria photographed for yesterday’s post. ¬†I confused it with Abutilon, which we don’t have. ¬†Michael, the qualities I described do apply to the Leycesteria, but the Abutilon is not hardy. ¬†Hopefully this will demonstrate that I am definitely the under-gardener in this partnership. ¬†It was natural, given that we were eating an unusual variety of cucumber, that our expert was able to tell us that there is one called ‘Burpless’. ¬†I thought that did bear repeating.

In retrospect, the boundary issue was a little more alarming. ¬†Potentially. ¬†Apparently Richard Barbe-Baker (see 26th. May), when splitting up his land for sale, ensured that the neighbours on all sides would be responsible for fences, wall, hedges, and the like. ¬†This caused a minor dispute when one set of neighbours wanted to replace the laurel hedge which I had been attacking all morning. ¬†Whoever is responsible for the fixture dividing properties, the people on the other side must agree to the nature and materials of what is proposed. ¬†Elizabeth and Rob did not want their wonderful, well-established, hedge replaced by a fence. ¬†Perhaps having been unaware that I had been tugging away at thick stems of ivy entwined around that very laurel, Elizabeth casually remarked, in passing, that there was a sheer drop the other side. ¬†I was a little less vigorous in the afternoon. ¬†The neighbouring houses, you see, were built in a disused gravel pit.

Something similar pertained at Lindum House in Newark. ¬†Our garden ran along the side of the back gardens of Wellington Road. ¬†Ours was on a higher level than the others. ¬†There was therefore a similar drop on the other side. ¬†Against the wall between us and No. 10 Wellington Road, on their side, was a small ladder. ¬†This had been placed to enable the small boy who lived there to hop over and play with our previous owners’ dog. ¬†When we took up residence we left the ladder so the lad could nip across and play with Sam and Louisa. ¬†Paddy, our dog, when she arrived into our household, and when the little boy had made way for two other canines, took to leaping from our side into the new neighbour’s garden, relishing the opportunity to frolic with her own kind. ¬†Being, until she ruptured her stifle chasing a hare, a nimble creature,¬†she would scale the ladder back to us when she’d had enough. ¬†Unfortunately the ladder eventually disintegrated. ¬†This meant the owner of her playmates had to lift her up to the level of our wall. ¬†This was all right when he was at home. ¬†When he wasn’t she would have to call for assistance from our side. ¬†Which might take some time.

Danni and Andy joined us this afternoon and stayed on for Jackie’s evening meal. ¬†This was a very tasty Shepherd’s Pie, which, among other ingredients, contained mushrooms. Jackie drank her usual Hoegaarden, Andy orange juice,and the rest of us, assorted red wines. ¬†As usual at The Firs, this was followed by the eponymous mess. ¬†This consists of applying whatever is available to the bed of a merangue, and crunching it all up.

Ratatouille

Just before this dull, humid, noon, whilst Jackie was out shopping for our trip to The Firs, I took a brief stroll through Morden Park. Apart from two friendly couples, one gay and one heterosexual, walking their terriers, I had only magpies and rooks for company. The birds, scratting about among the stubble, didn’t much fancy mine.

An absent couple seemed to have discarded their wardrobe in a hurry. Hopefully they had something to change into.

So enamoured of the window boxes adorning the railings at the front of No. 7 Garth Road was Jackie, that she had to drive the long way round to the A3 to show me the display. The nasturtiums were grown from seed.

On the A31, Jackie skillfully avoided squashing a vole scampering across the road in front of us.

Arriving at The Firs in the early evening, we were able to enjoy the effects of the lowering sun on the garden before it sank slowly behind the elderly corrugated iron Free Church building next door. The images above are of abutilon, lobelia cardinals, and prunus pisardii. Whilst Jackie and I were sitting with Elizabeth in the garden, contemplating our next projects, we were joined by her friend Lynne. We spotted our little friend, the robin, whose absence had been alarmingly noted last week. All is well. The work done on the new bed has exposed the compost heaps of the Tardis, the home of Geoff and Jackie at the bottom of the garden. We saw a rat emerging from the heap and scuttling away. Apparently the heap does harbour rats. This led to a discussion about these rodents. We were generally agreed that wild ones were not the same as the tame variety. Tame rats make incredibly good pets, the only problem being that they don’t live very long, so ownership of one is bound to end in tears. Matthew and Sam, each in their turn, have owned pet rats. Mat built a whole network of cages which housed up to 70 at one time. His own particular favourite was kept in an unlocked cage. At six o’clock every morning his little friend would trot up and sit outside Mat’s bedroom waiting for him to get up. It was he who introduced his brother Sam to these pets. Some time in the late 1980s, Jessica was featured in an ITV programme, part of a series about people working at night. This was in fact the first one, the subject being Social Work. In one scene Sam is seen seated on the sitting room floor with his white rat crawling up his clothes and nestling in the crook of his shoulder. Jessica is on the phone to a client. Rats, therefore, can be friendly and loyal pets. This is not necessarily the case. When we lived in Soho’s Chinatown the story was rather different. In London you are said to be never more that a few metres from a rat. In this area, where the sun never sets on restaurants, it was more likely centimetres. We had very thick window frames and one very stout window box. We wondered what could be gnawing its way through this seasoned timber. Our friend Carole Littlechild, one night provided the answer. Asleep on the floor in the sitting room she had been disturbed by the patter of tiny footsteps. Across her face. It was indeed a rat.

Remy, a wild rat who became a great friend of the main human character is the star of the Pixar computer-animated comedy film of 2007, ‘Ratatouille’. This is a wonderful story, beautifully filmed. If I say any more it will spoil the experience of those of you who accept my recommendation and see the production, even if it means buying the DVD.

After a month struggling with a virus, Elizabeth was able to join us at Eastern Nights in Thornhill. Thornhill is not the most salubrious Southampton suburb, but it is home to the best Bangladeshi restaurant we have found in the area. And our research has been extensive.