When you wake up at 6 a.m. in an all-electric house to find you have a power cut and cannot make your morning coffee; and you have often passed a cafe in New Milton that professes to open at 6.30, there is only one thing to do. We did it. Dopily, Jackie drove us to Sunny Side Up Cafe. When, on entering, you learn that the big breakfast contains Ferndene Farm Shop sausages, suddenly coffee doesn’t seem enough. Jackie enjoyed her poached egg on toast, but I just had to have the full works.
And I could read about the Test match in yesterday’s Sun. Moeen Ali, permitted by the English Cricket Board to wear wrist bands bearing the legend ‘Save Gaza – Free Palestine’, had been stopped from doing so by the International Cricket Council. Steve Harmison, M.B.E., former England fast bowler has been quoted as saying that the spinner’s action on a cricket field was dangerous. Perhaps so, but Gaza has been an insurmountable problem for generations. Even without being able to unravel the rights and wrongs of the situation, I don’t see why he shouldn’t have made his statement.
Through the cafe window we watched the driver of a huge articulated lorry tidily loosening his load for delivery to Travis Perkins. We had watched him drive past the depot, presumably because he could not negotiate the left turn, and on to the next roundabout where he could backtrack and execute a right turn from our side of the road. Others were queuing, awaiting the store’s opening for their reception. From the top of the pillar box a POST OFFICE sign has been removed. Our home therefore has a shared history with the eating place, as does the Upper Dicker Village Shop, and no doubt many others of our smaller post offices which have been lost.
I took a walk along the maize field and collected more flint stones, completing the head gardener’s path on my return. I blame my Dad for the visual pun, because I thought of him as I peered down a hollow tree branch lodged in the hedgerow. One day when I was very small my father appeared in the doorway with one cardboard centre of a toilet roll held up to each eye, thus forming a pair of makeshift binoculars. Somewhat mystified, I gazed up in amazement.
‘Not two peoples’, said Dad. ‘Two peepholes’. Yabba dabba doo!
He would have been proud of his grandson Matthew’s offering related on 31st August 2012.
Between the tyre tracks on the path alongside the field, bees worked their way along ground covering convolvulus. Back home, another burrowed into a morning glory.
This afternoon I dug up and stacked more of the heavy concrete blocks and a few bricks from the kitchen garden, and Jackie completed her compost wall, then pruned and trained the wisteria.
This evening’s Red Admiral butterfly perched on a solar light, presumably waiting for it to come on in order to enhance its colour. It is of a duller, more orange, variation than, and consequently perhaps envious of, its redder and brighter relative seen yesterday.
We dined on Hordle Chinese Take Away’s delicious offerings. Jackie drank T’sing Tao beer and I finished the Cotes du Rhone.
Tag: bees
That’s One I Made Earlier
The Milford Conservation Volunteers have developed a Wildlife Garden Project. This morning, as we travelled to Studland Drive, couples were seen walking all over the village clutching brochures which gave them admission to 25 gardens in the small coastal town.
One of these was the home of our old friend Giles Darvill, coordinator of the project. Giles himself has, in sixteen years, transformed a garden, except for a few extant mature trees, fully laid to lawn, into a haven for insects, birds and small animals. The local badger is not particularly welcome, as it eats hedgehogs. We were there to take the first 90 minute stint on the ‘door’. One of our tasks was the distribution of leaflets.
Giles’s garden, not manicured enough to pass muster for the National Gardens Scheme, is nevertheless truly inspirational,
and drew a steady stream of visitors.
The gardener has provided several useful notices, like that placed in front of the viper’s bugloss, a favourite of bees, giving informative ideas about installations to encourage various fauna.
Dead wood provides hibernation and nesting facilities for insects, whilst heaps of branches provide something similar for other small creatures. Creepy crawlies and bees are at home in the long grass.
Translucent blue damselflies flitted and hovered above the small pond bearing artefacts from our friend’s yachting activities. Other, smaller, containers of water are strategically placed around the delightful creation. One small pan contained two large pebbles. Realising that they would be for a particular purpose I asked Giles what this was. His answer was ‘mice’. These would be the field variety, such as the one I saw climbing and swaying on our poppies this morning.
Aesop’s crow had to work out how to bring the water in the pitcher to the level at which it could access it to drink. Giles’s mice have no need to scratch their heads for a solution.
The garden also contains many examples of its owner’s penchant for creating sculptural effects from found stone and wood. He has, for example, simply planted a cotoneaster stem to make its meandering way skywards.
I have mentioned before that Old Post House is decorated with a number of pieces of Giles’s stained glass. So is his own home.
When we admired a bird feeder featuring one, he said ‘I made that last night’.
Back home this afternoon, I walked down to the postbox and back,
meeting a pony trotting up the hill drawing a trap and its occupants.
This evening we dined at The Royal Oak, our neighbours. I enjoyed roast pork followed by blueberry cheesecake and ice cream; Jackie’s choice was mushroom stroganoff with ice cream to follow. She drank Becks. Doom Bar was off, so I settled for Ringwood Best.
I Have Written Down The Process
The crow has now sussed the bird feeder. It is over to us to work out how to deter it. We have nothing against the creature, but we can’t afford to feed it.
A midnight dark thunderstorm that kept us inside this morning made way for a gloriously sunny afternoon.
My friend Norman is something of an authority on coastal passenger ships. He is currently writing a book on those in the Bay of Naples which he has visited many times in a long life. His comprehensive collection of photographs goes back almost sixty years. There are a dozen or so of which he has negatives but no prints. I have undertaken to make the prints, and began the task whilst it was raining. It took the whole morning just to produce two scans.
The black and white negatives are 2.25 inches x 3.25 inches. I spent a frustrating hour trying to stop my scanner, set for 35 mil, bisecting the images. This is a difficulty I had surmounted a month or so back, but couldn’t remember how. When I had managed this today I reproduced pictures of boats with their names back to front because I had inserted the film into the holder the wrong way round. Having corrected this error I needed to remove a lot of spotting. I’ll do the rest, and make the prints, when I’ve got over the experience.
And yes, I have, this time, written down the process. These are Norman’s pictures to publish, so I won’t reproduce any here.
Three trips to Walkford and back were all that was needed to bring the last of the portable garden back home.
All the roses we have brought to light, are now smiling aloft. There is a red one at the back of the oval path; there is a pink one alongside the first path we cleared; and the white one on the new arch is multiplying.
There are a number of aromatic plants, such as lemon balm, scattered around the garden.
One I have not met before is the eau de cologne mint outside the back door. When subjected to a certain amount of friction it really does emit the aroma of certain elderly relatives’ handkerchiefs.
I made considerable progress on clearing and raking the oval path today until I realised that the last section joins a wing of the older brick route. I decided I couldn’t really call the job completed unless I fully exposed this. I began to do so, rapidly flagged, and decided, as Sam would have it, I couldn’t be assed. I’ll do it tomorrow.
Once again Jackie outlasted me. Some might say it is because she is a woman. Not just any woman, but Superwoman. She continued cutting back, tidying edges, and planting both new purchases and flowers retrieved from Shelly and Ron’s, in hanging baskets and recovered beds.
Wherever you turn there is a heuchera.
In the evening sunshine, the Chinese lantern tree was alive with the ceaseless hum of worker bees. The walk along the path carried the sound of passing a thriving hive.
Yesterday, in order to have more gardening time, Jackie had made enough delicious sausage casserole (recipe) for a couple of days. We therefore dined on that with freshly cooked vegetables and new potatoes. We each continued with the same choices of wine.
Aviemore Revisited
Jackie was thrilled this morning to see that the third of her sunflowers donated by the birds has bloomed. She tried very hard to coach one bee simultaneously into each of her trio. Two out of three can’t be bad.
For as long as I can remember Louisa has been disgusted at me for ‘wasting paper’ when I use A4 paper to print smaller photographs. She has always said it is very easy either to use smaller paper or place two or more alongside each other, and I have always been reluctant to attempt to get my head round it. When Elizabeth suggested I produced a series of greetings cards for sale at the Open Studio I knew the time had come to grasp the nettle. By sending me a link on ‘how to print multiple images on a single page’ Chris ensured that I didn’t cop out of it. I had a little trouble working out how to print the resultant document so that I could have it in front of me when I tackled my phobia. I was doing this on my small Epson printer which chose that moment to require head cleaning.
Eventually I was as ready as I was ever going to be to try multiple prints. I couldn’t produce more than one picture, although I thought I was following the directions reasonably well. That meant I needed to ring my brother Chris for further elucidation. He realised that I couldn’t do it because I had only highlighted one picture on the screen. I explained that I wanted multiple copies of one picture; not one copy each of multiple pictures.
Ah. That was different. By this time I couldn’t be doing with exploring this any further. As I needed more than one copy of each picture I thought I’d settle for placing two different images side by side. I did, of course, have to be instructed in the art of holding down the command key in order to keep more than one picture highlighted for the purpose. 
Well, it worked.
I suspect the final paragraph in the aforementioned article does explain how to do exactly what I want, but I think I’ll just rest on my laurels for the moment. I’m a fairly old dog after all, and one new trick is enough for one day.
This afternoon Jackie drove me to Hobbycraft in Hedge End where we bought enough blank cards with envelopes and Pritt stick to produce a decent stock for the studio.
The main event of the day was the eagerly awaited second open day of Aviemore in Bartley. 
Today I will let the photographs utter their thousand words, for I wrote at some length about this marvellous village garden when we first visited on 2nd. June.
Sandy and Alex Robinson welcomed us most warmly, demonstrating their appreciation of my post of that day.
Indeed, a printout of the relevant pages was on display on the tables in the tea room, as well as an article from a gardening magazine. I was very pleased, as they had been with my piece.
Jackie thought that Mata Hari, reported lurking in the bushes last time, was probably being played by Theda Bara.
The garden attracted a range of butterflies, including Meadow Brown and Cabbage White, bees busying themselves replenishing the hives, and other smaller insects such as flies, to which the eyes of my camera were more alert than those in my head.
The ‘meaty, stewy, veggy thing’ that Jackie served up this evening was deliciously tasty. Among those ingredients that were identifiable were slices of pigs’ hearts, pork sausages, various vegetables and herbs. Various different well-reduced stocks formed the base. I am told that it is like ‘the lost chord’ and therefore cannot be repeated, which is a shame. I drank Roc des Chevaliers Bordeaux superieur with mine.
Pick The Bucket
Just a week away from July, I was actually cold as I walked down to Seamans Corner and back this morning to post a letter. For a city dweller it may seem hardly worth recording such a trip, but it does take twenty minutes. I reflected on a far more painful crawl to a post box described in ‘The London Marathon’ on 25th September last year. I omitted to mention that that receptacle was just two or three hundred yards away.
This afternoon we motored to The Firs to continue work begun yesterday. Jackie finished trimming the edges and did a lot more planting; 
I performed some maintenance work on the compost bins and finished the mowing; and Elizabeth spent the afternoon tidying up the debris corner and packing her car so that she and I could do a dump trip.
Many plants are now thriving as a result of last year’s work, be it the planting of fresh flowers or the nurturing of existing shrubs and smaller flora.
The Rosa Glauca, 
Verbascum,
Geum, and Old English scented rose I have photographed were chosen almost at random.
In the early evening Elizabeth and I took her second car-load to the municipal dump. The main purpose was to transport much rubble from the house’s recently repaired chimney stack. We also found room for the rotting innards of a beehive; a wooden ladder that had lost most of its rungs; several bagfuls of pruned shrubbery and brambles; and even Jackie’s wheelie shopping bag that had finally collapsed under one of its loads of bags of compost.
I have previously mentioned my sister’s propensity for bringing at least one souvenir with her back from the dump. Today was to be no exception. She had placed the rubble in various buckets and other receptacles and loaded them into the car. It must have been very difficult for her to have lifted them over the rim of the boot. Possibly as difficult as it was for me to lift them rather higher into the enormous skip labelled ‘Soil and Rubble’. I recommend anyone trying this at home to test lift anything to go into a Council skip at least to shoulder height before attempting the task. If you can’t lift the container, reduce its contents.
We travelled back with an extra bucket, Elizabeth’s, for £2 for cash. A prize is offered for the reader who correctly identifies the new bucket. Answers in a comment please.
Whilst I was waiting for Jackie, Elizabeth and Danni to change for a trip to the Masala Lounge in Chandler’s Ford for our evening meal, I amused myself watching the still toiling bees crawling in and out of foxgloves in search of honey. 
They would fly in their ungainly manner, loaded to the thighs already, silently disappear up the trumpet-shaped petals, take their fill, stagger out, and move on to another.
Our meal was excellent, and the service, albeit a little slow, friendly and efficient. Danni, who had found the restaurant some time ago, had often suggested we go there. It was a good recommendation. She drank a Chilean merlot, whilst the rest of us imbibed Cobra beer.
On the way there I travelled with Elizabeth, whilst Jackie drove Danni. At one point my driver, addressing no-one in particular, announced that she had to charge up her eye pads this evening. As I hadn’t realised she had an ocular problem, other than the family short-sightedness, I wondered why she needed such appliances. After all, she was at the wheel and had my life in her hands. This sent her into helpless laughter which made me all the more nervous since she appeared likely to lose control altogether. When able to gather herself together she explained that she now possessed two i-Pads, one specifically for work, and they both needed recharging.
Gathering Supplies For The Queen
I do not close my bedroom shutters in Sigoules, and am usually awake at daybreak. Six telephone cables, stretched loosely along the street, pass the now double-glazed tall window. There is a lamp fixed to the outside wall on my right. As I stirred very early this morning, a fluorescent flash, lit by this illumination, streaked diagonally upwards across the panes, to perch momentarily on the topmost wire, then, emblazoned against the deep indigo of the pre-dawn sky visible above the trees opposite, to dart away. An early bird indeed.
The local people think I am joking when I tell them it is far warmer in Minstead than it is here. Yesterday’s high was eight degrees and Carrefour had welcoming industrial fan heaters mounted high above the shelves exhaling steadily. One beneficiary of the unseasonal wet weather has been my tiled garden. Everything is blooming. 
I am particularly pleased with the Valerian which I bought as a single stem and planted in the stone wall. The pale pink geraniums growing in a couple of inches of soil beneath it were brought here by Maggie and Mike from Dover Street, Southwell a good ten years ago.
It was a bright enough morning for bees to venture out busily labouring to load their limbs with pollen.
Tarpaulin protecting scaffolding next door flapped frantically, battered by the threatening gusts of wind, reminding me of our neighbour opposite in Gracedale Road during the great storm of 1987 (see post of 2nd June 2012).
Dusting, polishing, and hoovering continued on the first floor after I had figured out how to change the bag for the machine. In switching attachments I learned how I had managed to cut my thumb yesterday. I had only spotted that when one of the picture frames displayed a smear of the wrong colour on its top left hand corner.
After this a late lunch consisted of a scrumptious baguette and sausage.
Bed-making
Jackie and I were up and out in the garden at The Firs before seven this morning. It was a beautiful day, and we were determined to enjoy the fruits of our work over the last year and a quarter. 
We shared the garden with early morning bees. Whilst I have been in France Elizabeth and Jackie have continued to plant, weed, prune, and generally maintain what has been done. 
Some of the wilder parts have been opened up a bit. Unfortunately, Elizabeth has decided she would like a scented bed. Nothing wrong with that in principle. In fact it is a very good idea. She and Jackie have decided where it should go, and have assembled a mail-order bench and chair which has been sited so that there is a wonderful view through the pergola.
Elizabeth spent some time today painting a couple of occasional tables to complete the viewing area. So what is unfortunate about the idea? Well, whose task is it to dig new beds and compost them in preparation for planting? Exactly.
Surveying the bedroom area I could see that I would need to mark out the undulating line which we prefer; dig up some grass; take out a number of weeds; prune some shrubs; remove most of an overgrown honeysuckle from next door; dig it all over again; compost it all; dig that in; then put the tools away. ‘That’ll be my weekend’s task’, I said. Ah, well. Nice idea. But if I finish it tomorrow, I’ll eat the horse manure.
Marking out the line was comparatively straightforward. I actually have a good eye for a curvy shape. This garden has parts which are very stony. In fact we have made a virtue of this by planting Erigeron where there is not much else but stone. Jackie and I had seen it placed to grow through brick paths and steps at Hinton Ampner, a country house at West Meon. We thought it just the job for The Firs. It has thrived. The stones, however, made it a little difficult to cut a clean edge.
Naturally, the first part of the new bed, this morning consisting of mown couch grass millions of years old, lay on stones. Persuading the tufts of grass to leave their fakir-style resting place, was difficult enough. As much earth, a very rare commodity, as possible had to be shaken off. The turves were than transported by wheelbarrow to the compost heap. The fledgling robin that had sat on Jackie’s lap in June was quite interested. It was extremely humid, and the dry earth on my arms soon had the consistency of mud. A salad lunch was a welcome respite.
Raring to go, after a meal and a rest, I hit the first obstacle. There seemed to be a solid, immovable, square of concrete. ‘Ah’, said Elizabeth, ‘that will be the base for the brick pillar which was a continuation of the arbour’. ‘There’s another on the other side.’ Well, that can stay there. Most of the area I was then working was covered in rampant honeysuckle. As I cleared this, all sorts of other goodies emerged. Such as small trees which at some time had been cut down. Their roots had been left, and they were sprouting. There were suckers from the damson tree in the garden at the back. Some of the trees bore thorns. Some pricked me.
I had brought out quite a number of tools when I began, I hadn’t thought I might need an axe. I did. So I went and got one. For those who’ve never tried it, there follows an instruction in digging out small trees. First you must clear the area of brambles, couch grass, dog roses, and geraniums. The geraniums, of course, you must preserve most carefully. Wiping your brow occasionally, being careful not to get soil in your eye, you must apply a garden fork to loosen the earth. You then dig out as much as you can, stick it somewhere else on the bed, and have a go at moving the stump. Naturally it won’t move, so you have to dig a bit more. By this time you will have struck thick roots stretching across areas you haven’t dug and didn’t want to. Then you have the pleasure of wielding the axe. By this time, any thoughts of gentle care will have evaporated. Cut through the stubborn roots; pull up the tree; and try not to fall backwards into a pergola post as it suddenly becomes free.
After that, if you are lucky, someone brings you a beer and you have an excuse to sit down. Even though your back is aching you may claim that this is the only reason you have stopped. And if they weren’t having one too you would not have sat down whilst drinking it. Actually, Elizabeth did provide me with one respite during the above process. She asked me to sand one of the tables she was painting. I was only too ready. In fact the previously described mud on my arms, mixed with blood from the scratches, took on an even more interesting consistency when mixed with sawdust.
Jackie’s paprika pork went down well and Elizabeth produced a merangue mess which was eaten. I’ve had too much of the rather nice French red wine to remember what it was.
The Bees
The magpies were cranking up a sound this morning. This time it was the presence of a cat that alarmed them.
After an enjoyable visit from my friend Dominic I set off for Raynes Park via Wimbledon and back. In Mostyn Road I overheard two gentlemen taking their leave of each other. In response to one person’s goodbye his companion said ‘now you take care’. Now this is a farewell that really puzzles me. Quite common these days, it seems to imply that if you don’t do what it says something unpleasant will happen to you. Whilst anyone would be advised to take normal sensible precautions, for example when crossing the road, am I really alone or indeed most fortunate in getting up in the morning imagining all will be well? This despite what follows.
My chosen route today was along Worple Road where the trolley buses once ran. As I walked past the various hill roads leading up to The Ridgeway and consequently Wimbledon Common, I felt reminiscence coming on. Sometime around 1950 when Chris and I were still at primary school, if you were prepared to walk home, you could spend your bus fare on a bag of broken biscuits from the old style family grocer in The Broadway, or, in season, a pomegranate from a fruit and veg stall in Russell Road.
You ate the pomegranate seeds with a pin carried for the purpose. If you wanted an ice cream from De Marco’s alongside the stall that meant walking home two days in a row and managing not to spend the first day’s fare on the first day. One day Chris and I for some reason whilst walking home decided to investigate Spencer Hill.
Some way up the hill, in someone’s garden, was a tree with an inviting hollow area at the top of the trunk. I decided to climb up to it and have a look. Chris followed. As I entered the bowl shape in the bole I heard a rather angry buzzing sound. In an instant I was covered in bees. I’d like to say I was out of there like a shot. Unfortunately Chris was bringing up the rear and seemed to have some difficulty in understanding either ‘bees’ or ‘get down’ or all of it. He didn’t seem to grasp that he was in my way. I yelled incessantly until Chris twigged and leapt from the bottom branch. I was then out of Spencer Hill and onto a bus like a shot. Having, of course, spent my fare I had no money. I’m not quite sure what happened about that, but I do remember the concern of the bus conductor for this snivelling wreck with his head in a swarm of bees occupying the first seat on his vehicle. (click for what did happen, now I’ve remembered) Chris must have made his own way home, but I was no caring elder brother at that point.
To this day I remember sitting on a stool with Mum picking bee stings and the dead creatures out of my head. I can still see them crawling dazedly inside my fairisle jumper. If ever I lose my hair and there are pitted marks in the scalp I bet they’ll be from those bees.
Walking along Worple Road on this very hot day I was struck by a heavily pregnant young Asian woman, her right hand resting comfortingly on her bulge. She didn’t hit me, I just mean I noticed her. Having passed her I stopped and waited and told her that I had been born in July and that summer was a good time to be born. She looked as if it wasn’t a good time to be carrying so I thought I would give her some encouragement. She beamed, thanked me, and said that she too had been born in July.
Naturally, after an hour and a half, I felt I had earned a Martin Cafe fry-up, so I stopped for one. On the wall is a large, rather special, framed print which I felt sure I recognised. I spoke to the younger of the two men (I imagine father and son) who seem to run the establishment. In answer to my question he was able to reply that yes, it was Venice. It did not, however, have a family connection. He had bought it from the junk shop next door because he had liked it but didn’t know its provenance. I was, therefore, rather pleased to be able to tell him it was from one of John Ruskin’s marvellous illustrations to his seminal work ‘The Stones of Venice’.
Hoping he would retain the information and find it as interesting as I had, I walked back to Links Avenue contemplating the increasing humidity and the telltale little heaps of sand appearing from the joins in the paving stones which herald the onset of flying ants. We are promised a thunderstorm.
My main time for listening to music is when I am ironing. Today, whilst listening to Tchaikovsky’ symphony no. 2 (Little Russian), played by the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra conducted by Kirill Karabits, I pressed, among other things, a beautifully embroidered lace trimmed linen tablecloth and napkins, thinking of the life of the woman who had made them.
She photographed this, her favourite example, on 8th March, 2023, in order for me to add their amendment to this post.
Here she has picked out cutwork,
tattling,
and broderie anglaise.
Jackie has a collection of this wonderfully intricate needlework given to her by various clients during her time as a Home Help some forty years ago. Many of these people were elderly women who had lost their men in the first world war. A generation of young fiances, husbands and fathers wiped out with no possible replacements. These women, many still wearing engagement but no wedding rings, lived their lives alone, some of their handiwork never leaving their bottom drawers. They were the true casualties of that first time the world went mad.
We had salad again this evening, using as always, a tablecloth and napkins possibly 100 years old. I had a bottle of Wells’ Bombardier beer, no doubt named after Billy, the famous boxer. He was before Errol’s time, but I was fortunate enough to know this grand old gentleman in his later years.