Ace Reclamation – derrickjknight

Happy Hunting

CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. THOSE IN GROUPS ACCESS GALLERIES THAT CAN BE VIEWED FULL SIZE.

Those who have read posts from April 2014 onwards will know that we moved into a house that had suffered from much bodged D.I.Y. We are only putting this right at a very slow pace.

Here is our badly painted crooked mantelpiece made from a bit of wood trimmed with beading. Note the gaps behind the tiles stuck onto the walls, and that between the shelf and the wall.

We can’t stand it any more, so we travelled to Ace Reclamation in West Parley to investigate surrounds created from reclaimed timber. We are now to submit a measured drawing to have one made for us.

Our morning was spent in heavy rain. Here is the entrance to the architectural salvage outlet. The staff member waving in the distance is acknowledging the postwoman who has just delivered the mail to

Ace Reclaim letter box through wet windscreen

an old postbox which serves as Ace Reclamation’s letterbox. This is what that looked like through our car windscreen.

Readers can already imagine that I wasn’t about to make a complete inventory in the rain, however I did what I could. This yard is a wonderful repository of artefacts and materials. There are garden ornaments and furniture galore, some of which, on past visits, has found its way to Downton. Figures in stone and bronze, a giant cockerel, carriage lamps, urns, tiles, timber, rust, telephone boxes, a suit of armour, a mangle, a garden roller, gargoyles, can all be found therein. You could enjoy happy hunting in reality, or, if you’d prefer to stay dry, virtually, through searching through these photographs.

The wooded areas on either side of the long, unmade, road, the potholes in which give a whole new meaning to the phrase ‘off the beaten track’, are waterlogged.

The ditches are filling up fast,

and flooding a paddock,

in which stood three damp horses, two of which were a sandy colour I have not seen before.

Mind you, the gorse glowed a grateful golden yellow.

On our way home we visited Friar’s Cliff Café for brunch. There was just one other customer couple who had braved the blustery seafront to reach the comfort always available there.

This was the sea through the rain-splashed window.

Anyone who has seen a photograph of a Friar’s Cliff Café breakfast will not be surprised to learn that a selection of small Asian snacks, such as samosas and spring rolls, more than satisfied us for our evening meal with which jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Cahors.

‘Strike While The Iron’s Hot…….’

A comment from my blogging friend, Mary Tang, on yesterday’s post led me to contemplate first names. Mary has met many people who share her prenomen. Apart from my Uncle Derrick, I have only come across three others who share my spelling. Strangely enough, they also all had the same surname.

The first Derrick Knight to create a certain amount of confusion was a documentary film maker who began working in the 1950s. Some of his films were used in Social Work training. I never met him, and I didn’t make films. But I needed to convince a certain amount of Social Workers that it wasn’t my name on the credits. The above photograph is borrowed from Guy Coté’s site.

When my picture appeared on Google’s images page heading the story of a man on Death Row, this causes a little consternation for half a day. As a black American footballer he may have shared my name, but not my appearance.

The one namesake I did actually meet put a flier through our letterbox sometime in the 1970s when we lived in Soho. He was the proprietor of a new shop called Knight Games, just opened in Dean Street. I just had to walk round to meet him. Imagine our joint amazement when I entered the establishment and we found ourselves staring at our doppelgangers. We were the same height, the same build, the same hair colouring, with similar features, and wearing similarly framed spectacles.

This morning a courier called Phil delivered my brother Chris’s chair which Frances has sent me from Wroughton in Wiltshire.

On a warm, wet, and overcast afternoon, after visiting the bank in New Milton, Jackie drove us out to Ace Reclamation at Parley, beyond Christchurch.

As we negotiated the bumpy potholes of the mile and a half long track to this architectural salvage outlet, Jackie observed that ‘you must really want to get to this place to come down here’.

Once we had parked outside the truth of this came home to me as we clambered over a pallet laid alongside a large puddle in the entrance. I was reminded of Walter Raleigh spreading his splendid cloak over one such, so that Queen Elizabeth I wouldn’t spoil her shoes.

The yard and and the sheds comprise a cornucopia of reclaimed artefacts. A giant cock perches above an old telephone box. New corrugated iron sheets are piles alongside covered planks. Pub and Post Office signs are suspended above various garden ornaments of dubious provenance. Just opposite The Crown, for the past two years, has stood a very tasteful item of garden statuary. Not so today. The figure I had intended for Jackie’s Christmas present had been sold.

We had a look around anyway, if only to confirm that we had aimed for the best piece there. The red Egyptian replica bearing implausible bare breasts didn’t quite cut the mustard, although one of the staff members did suggest she might.

Neither did we fancy the two huge dogs standing between an assortment of vacuum cleaners and an ancient bath. They appeared to be guarding an assortment of doors, roof tiles, and paving.

Another hound, set up a warning clamour when I presumed to photograph a jumble of chairs, radiators, bath, mirror, and fireplaces. Fortunately, he was penned in.

Autumn leaves adorned part of a carding machine

and a heap of rusting grates.

Wooden planks and metal posts stood opposite them.

Some items are deemed requiring protection from the elements. These are kept inside,

which can get rather dusty.

A string of fairground horses line up alongside everything including the kitchen sink.

Finally, pinned to an arrangement of doors was a sign pertinent to our predicament today. Examples of various fireplaces were also displayed.

As a parting quip the manager advised me to ‘strike while the iron is hot next time’.

We drove on to Lyndhurst where we intended to buy another present. We didn’t find that either.

Never mind, we dined on a juicy chicken and bacon pasta bake, with a medley of roasted vegetables. I drank Cimarosa Reserva Privado malbec 2013.

Little Black Sambo

Steady, heavy, rain, with ever increasing momentum, teemed from a dirty white sky throughout the day.

We deemed this excellent for the garden but not conducive to gardening, so we drove out to Ace Reclamation at West Parley, where we bought a wrought iron arch and two stately armchairs which will be delivered next week. Close to this architectural salvage outlet lies that village’s garden centre where we bought five new climbing roses which have stayed in the car.

I spent the afternoon locating and scanning more of the prints Elizabeth has returned to me. This task is becoming more difficult as I don’t have the negatives and have to plough through photograph albums looking for gaps. I managed to place four from May 1986 and one from 1987.

I am not sure who took this one of me at Jessica’s Aunt Elspeth’s 70th Birthday Party in May, at her home in Rugby. On my left wrist is a stopwatch, the purpose of which will become apparent in the final picture today.

In ‘Does This Remind You Of Anyone?’ , I have described, and featured other photographs from, a trip to a recreation ground in Tooting that same month.

Here, Sam looks a little unsure about whether he will make it across the climbing frame. He may remember better, but I seem to remember rescuing him.

Louisa points something out to Jessica, whilst holding onto her mandatory ice cream.

It was probably on the evening of Louisa’s fourth birthday party, on 24th May, that Sam reads to my Mum, his Grandma, whilst Louisa is engrossed in ‘Little Black Sambo’.

Louisa is reading one of her mother’s favourite childhood stories, which Jessica read with altered names. This children’s book, first published by Grant Richards in 1899, was written and illustrated by Helen Bannerman. Criticism of the work began as early as 1932. The word ‘Sambo’ came to be deemed a racial slur, and Bannerman’s illustrations derogatory caricatures. As a result, both text and illustrations have undergone considerable revision.

I only read the book once, so I have resorted to Wikipedia for the plot. “Sambo”, we are told, “is a South Indian boy who lives with his father and mother, named Black Jumbo and Black Mumbo, respectively. Sambo encounters four hungry tigers, and surrenders his colourful new clothes, shoes, and umbrella so they will not eat him. The tigers are vain and each thinks he is better dressed than the others. They chase each other around a tree until they are reduced to a pool of melted butter. Sambo then recovers his clothes and his mother, Black Mumbo, makes pancakes out of the butter………..

In 1996, noted illustrator Fred Marcellino observed that the story itself contained no racist overtones and produced a re-illustrated version, The Story of Little Babaji, which changes the characters’ names but otherwise leaves the text unmodified. This version was a best-seller.”

The final print in today’s batch was made by Mike Nicholson on 26th January 1987. I may look hot and bothered, but the the Fareham 10 mile road race I ran in aid of my nephew, Adam’s day nursery, was competed in sub-zero temperatures, which is probably why, according to my watch, I managed it in 64 minutes.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s chicken in black bean sauce, stir-fried vegetable noodles, and rice noodles. We both drank Tsingtao beer. Hordle Chinese Take Away has to look to its laurels.