Before collapsing into bed last night we watched episode 5 of ‘Downton Abbey’. Only 37 more to go, not counting Christmas specials.
Over the festive season, the skin encasing Scooby’s stomach has become rather tight. He was off his food yesterday evening, and this morning he puked up on the kitchen floor. He perked up immediately afterwards, so, in order to liberate his nostrils from the aroma of disinfectant, Jackie took him out to smell the roses. These were frost-covered, as was a pieris that has risked blooming early. This latter plant is one I bought, potted and repotted whilst living in Sutherland Place. Left there until I removed my belongings, first to Michael’s house in Graham Road, and ultimately to Downton in April, it miraculously survived and has taken well to our garden soil here.
Allowing the sun time to come up, I took the woodland walk, this time walking round the field before fording a muddy ditch leading to the stream. It was a little warmer today, so the frost dripped from the foliage onto felled logs and the forest floor. Sunlight streaked through the trees, setting the bracken alight and casting shadows on the rippling, sparkling water.
This evening’s meal was a miracle of mother/daughter invention. Becky produced Chinese Takeaway Pie. She took the left-over dishes from the meal of a couple of days ago, laid them in tiers along an ovenproof oval dish, and covered them with the pancakes that had been provided for the duck. This was gently heated in the oven, and was an enjoyable melange. Jackie’s contribution was Egg Foo Yung – well, all right, egg and bacon omelette. They went very well together. Peroni and J2O was drunk by all except me. My choice was Gran Famila Las Primas 2013.
Tag: bracken
Woodland Settings
As I stepped out of our front door this morning I was attracted by a veil of mist hanging over distant trees. This determined a left turn and a walk across the field of brassica, through the woods to the road near Taddiford Farm, and an about turn back to home.
From the middle of the field I looked back to the strip of houses that is Downton. Our blue painted house is visible on the far left. Also in evidence is the Downton Service Station sign. Father Christmas, perched on the garage roof of ‘Badger’s Meadow’, surveyed the traffic on Christchurch Road. On my return, I had a long talk with Mark, the owner, who had moved here some years ago from Worcester Park.
On a whim, I photographed the same woodland scene on four different camera settings. The first was automatic, then came the positive film effect, then vivid, and finally black and white.
Crossing a bridge over the stream, and seeking to create the impression of non-existent sunshine, I continued to play with my settings. So absorbed was I, that at one point I inadvertently retraced my steps earlier than I had intended. Fortunately this was soon corrected.
The more recently planted trees sported tubular shields, no doubt to protect them from nibbling by wildlife, probably of the cervine variety.
Foresters had sawn others, some of which bore interesting fungus, lichen, or simply discolouration, and fallen leaves carpeted the paths, which were not particularly muddy.
The mist still shrouded the more distant trees.
Ian went out for his walk just before the rain set in for the day. He returned looking like a drowned rat, which was interesting, given that we had just seen a real one disappearing into Scooby’s favourite corner of the garden.
One of my stocking presents was a copy of ‘New Forest’, Georgina Babey’s contribution to the Tempus Publishing Images of England series. This is a fascinating social history of the area through the medium of captioned photographs. I devoured this at opportune moments yesterday and today. The cover illustration is a detail from one showing ‘a steam engine transporting logs in Lyndhurst High Street during the First World War. The Steam engine is called Queen of the South and was owned by M. Slater of Eling. It is standing opposite the Stag Inn’. The buildings behind the transport are still there. One is now Honeyford’s butcher’s.
Yesterday Jackie roasted two turkeys, but we didn’t even finish one. With all the other goodies provided for yesterday’s lunch there was plenty left over for us to graze at will today. A delicious mixed meat and vegetable broth in the evening completed the day’s nourishment.
Optical Aids
As the dawn sun emerged behind the trees in our back garden, the moon still occupied the sky at the front of the house.
By the time I returned from my Hordle Cliff top walk the bright, cold, day had warmed up a little because these skies had clouded over.
Framed by a leafless arched bough, Ivy Cottages, dating from 1897, with their neighbours beyond Downton Service Station on 
Christchurch Road, could now be seen from the hedgerow on Downton Lane, where bracken has browned, and a Coca Cola tin blends with red berries. Most cans and bottles similarly discarded are not so happily juxtaposed.
Shards of ice shattered by passing cars had been tossed onto the verges.
The Isle of Wight, The Needles, and their lighthouse were silhouetted against a pale pastel palette.
On a small piece of ground at the top of the steps leading into Shorefield from the path to the beach, fresh cow parsley still blooms. Some of this has begun to seed.
It is time to return to the ‘through the ages’ series. Today I have chosen to reproduce three, being 
numbers 53, 54, and 55, the first two from 1980 and the third from the following spring. These photographs 
were all taken by Jessica, the first two at Gracedale Road, the month of the second being indicated by its background Christmas tree.
The indentations left by over-tight nose pads in the first photo show that I was wearing specs in those days. Having been somewhat short-sighted since I was eighteen, vanity had led me to contact lenses in my twenties, but I managed to play Rugby without them, until, into my thirties I needed them to see clearly across the field. This was rather crucial for a second row forward, one of whose tasks was to cover the corners. I therefore began to wear lenses during the games. Until I lost three in a fortnight, that is. Quite apart from the cost of replacements, the search for little pieces of plastic in cold and soggy mud became somewhat disruptive. So I returned to spectacles.
The story of my first embarrassing visit to an optician, and of the accident which, many years later, resulted in a cataract operation, was told on 13th July 2012. Whether I have the eye specialist’s prediction or the new lens inserted more than fifteen years ago to thank for it, I just use varifocal lenses in specs with the close up element being plain glass, only for watching television or drawing from life. Until I purchased these about six years ago I had to choose between viewing either the model (with specs), or the texture of the paper (without them). Either that or keeping taking the glasses on and off. I have never needed such assistance to read, and don’t even take them with me on my rambles with the camera.
The third picture was taken at the very attractive Owl House Gardens at Lamberhurst near Tunbridge Wells in Kent. It was from one of the photographs in that day’s set that I made the drawing featured on 4th May.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s Cottage Pie, to which she had very successfully added a touch of garam masala; cauliflower, carrots, cabbage, runner beans and brussels sprouts; followed by blackberry and apple crumble and custard. She drank Stella, and I finished the malbec.
Crumbling Cliffs
This has been a glorious day. Our first real frost lay on those parts of Barton Common not, by 11 a.m., yet reached by the brilliant sun. That was when Jackie deposited me there after a trip to Redcliffe Nurseries where we had purchased four outsize window boxes.
I spent almost an hour wandering amongst the bracken, the woods, and the ponies, before braving the path through the golf course and returning via the clifftop and Shorefield Country Park. Now standing stock still, now chomping the undergrowth, the animals spend their whole day preserving energy for grazing.
The paths were rather muddy, and although I didn’t quite get lost, I did twice meet a ditch I didn’t fancy crossing. Strangely enough I approached it from two different directions.
Attracted by a cluster of backlit leaves, I noticed a small red blackberry struggling to reach ripeness.
As, on the path alongside the golf course, I approached a tree tunnel leading to the sea, the thwack of the strike on a ball a metre or so to my right, followed by a cry of ‘Oh, bloody ‘ell’, had me diving for cover. We are, of course, warned of the occasional sliced shot.
The flickering yellow flags protruding from rounded humps on the newly laid section of the course deterred the gulls from exploring it.
Along the cliff top I had numerous conversations with other walkers in which we discussed the marvellous weather, the extended growing season, and the propensity of 
the footpaths to plunge into the sea.
Some of the cow parsley stars twinkling in the clear light would make excellent Christmas decorations.
This evening we dined on crisp oven cod and chips, mushy peas, and pickled onions that had remained in the cupboard long enough to soften. This was followed by Jackie’s beautiful blackberry and apple crumble and custard. She drank Stella and I finished the Languedoc.
Barton Common
What I had stumbled upon three days ago was the edge of Barton Common, into which, Jackie had read, had been reintroduced New Forest ponies in order that, by their chomping and defecating, they could return the area to its natural habitat. As it was indeed a day of enticing light, Jackie drove me there this 
morning. I wandered around the common, and found the six very well fed ponies. As I crouched down to take its companion’s portrait, another crept up behind me and disconcertingly breathed down my neck.
I then walked through the golf course that was still undergoing maintenance, and back along the cliff top to West Road and home through Shorefield.
Golfers were out in force. A trio of the sportsmen, silhouetted against the skyline, gesticulated and indicated that I had strayed from the public footpath. Once I got the message, I called to them and, waving my camera, asked for a repeat performance. One gentleman obliged. I can only assume he was being polite. The patterns on a neatly raked 
bunker had yet to be disturbed.
A helicopter, its propeller blades whirling overhead, was probably safe from sliced golf shots.
From the golf course I could see a family walking along the cliff path which, keeping as far 
away as possible from the edge, I soon joined. At one point I preferred a scramble 
between brambles and barbed wire to the precarious looking path. An approaching gentleman, made of sterner stuff, stuck to the footpath. When I told him he had more nerve than I have, he replied: “Stupid, probably’.
While I was uploading these photographs Barrie dropped in to present me with a signed copy of his latest publication ‘Lawnmower maintenance and other pastimes for the elderly’. I shall enjoy reading it.
This afternoon I continued digging up bramble and ivy roots from the North side of the back drive. Now I have reached inside the gate, I am measuring my slow progress by the lengths of the bricks in the border that we have been unearthing as we go along. Today’s total was eight. I’ll probably need an abacus by the time I have finished.
Our dinner this evening consisted of tender beef casserole, mashed potato, carrots, cabbage, cauliflower and broccoli, followed by lemon drizzle cake and evap. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the rioja.
Pollack
Our electrical timers gave us the definitive answer to how long the lights were out yesterday. It was the full hour. If we can trust them.
Widdershins, on this morning of sunshine and showers, I walked the Shave Wood Loop, returning via Bull Lane.
Fields remained waterlogged. Tinkling streams twinkled when the sun shone through the clouds. Busy little birds chirruped in the trees and hedgerows, and an ever-elusive woodpecker could be heard practising carpentry.
Toy ponies in London Minstead were unimpressed by the feeble rainbow that did its best to enhance their backdrop. A dark brown one was given the impression of being backlit by the mane and tail of its two-toned companion.
Bracken is now taking root in the branches of the gnarled old trees, although Shave Wood has received its share of devastation.
A third heap of ‘sold’ timber lies by the forest verge.
A jet trail shimmered beneath the branches reflected in the camber of the tarmac, causing me, continuing yesterday’s philosophical theme, to question how we know whether the white exhaust stream is above or below the trees? Do our eyes deceive us?
Round-bellied ponies chomping in the wood are clearly finding food much easier to come by than at this time last year.
This afternoon Jackie drove us to Ringwood for shopping and banking. The variable, but pleasant, weather continued.
Having missed out on fish and chips yesterday, we dined on them this evening. Our battered fish was pollack, a creature until recently regarded as only fit for cats. We both thought it had more flavour than cod. Not as pure white as its more popular relative, we are not put off by its greyish hue. And we are told cod is rapidly dying out from over-fishing anyway, so we had better get used to it.
Quite By Accident?
Last night I finished reading the Folio Society’s edition of Ernst Junger’s ‘Storm of Steel’. This is the story of the author’s experiences throughout the First World War. So many talented writers did not survive ‘the war to end all wars’ – which of course it didn’t – that it is miraculous that such a great one came through alive with no more than twenty or so scars. Junger’s simple, beautifully descriptive, language is the result of decades of polishing and reworking his young man’s diary notes. He was nineteen when he arrived in France in 1914. Not just another war memoir, the book is a true work of literature. I have not read anything else of his, but I understand he became an acclaimed writer. He does not take a stance. He merely describes what he sees and feels. He could have been on either side.
In his translator’s introduction Michael Hoffman is critical of earlier translations. He has himself no doubt improved upon them and has contributed to my enjoyment of this work.
Next time Dave and Gladys recommend a walk, I think I’ll just make a few polite noises and forget about it. This morning I was happily setting out on the trek I’d previously taken with Matthew and Oddie when I met them striding down past Furzey Gardens. They had been up to the garage on the A31 for their newspaper, and asked me if I’d seen the lakes. I hadn’t, so they told me about them and how to get to them.
It tends to become a little complicated when two people offer one directions at once. Especially if they are slightly at odds. I don’t want anyone to get the impression that what follows was the fault of our neighbours. I am quite capable of going slightly awry without any help. But, having crossed Forest Road, I wasn’t all that sure how far I should travel along the footpath to the right before I turned left. I did get the bit about looking down over the valley, but somehow I didn’t realise the valley should be on my left, not my right. So I turned left a little too soon and took a diagonal down the slopes.
The predicted rain held off until after I had returned home, but, on this dull, yet sultry, day my shirt became as wet as if it had not.
I did travel hopefully in search of the lakes. Gladys had said I would come to Acres Down, where I knew there was a ford. But I didn’t. Not before I was tempted through a gate and up past some inclosures. By that time I realised I must surely have skirted Acres Down. But I didn’t imagine quite by how much.
Nevertheless I enjoyed the walk along the paths of heath and woodland. Rowan trees were in berry;
bracken was turning brown; and heather was coming into bloom. Ponies chomped away and a bird I could not identify from its sound called from the undergrowth. It kept well out of sight.
It was fascinating, and perhaps should have been a little alarming, to see how far away was the A31 that I had been walking alongside some time earlier. When the photograph is enlarged, a yellow lorry in central far distance pinpoints the road.
This area was, as is sometimes the case, rather criss-crossed with footpaths.
Unfortunately they are not signposted, so there is a fifty percent chance that the average person will, when faced with a choice of direction, turn the wrong way. In my case of course it is one hundred percent likely.
Eventually I did come to a bridge over untroubled water. 
This surely couldn’t be Dave’s lakes. If so they must have dried up a bit. Beyond this I saw the gate, went through it, and climbed up through fir trees and past several inclosures, one of which I thought I recognised from a walk with Berry. Well I would, wouldn’t I? They all look the same.
At last I came to a road I knew I certainly didn’t recognise. Just to my left I discovered a Canadian War Memorial. 
A large wooden cross stood in the centre of a collection of smaller ones, some having attached photographs of those young Canadians who gave their lives in the conflict of the Second World War. 
Regular services of remembrance seem to have ceased, but someone replenishes poppies. Was it quite by accident that I had stumbled upon a remembrance of those sacrificed in the second great conflagration of the twentieth century, to follow the completion of Ernst Junger’s autobiographical record of the first? I certainly gave my thoughts for a while to that second multitude of young men who never had a chance to reach my age. Will the human race ever learn?
From here I had no idea which way to turn. A New Zealander was standing in the bracken near his car relieving himself. As I approached he climbed into the driving seat and started up the engine. I waved and asked him if he had any idea where we were. He didn’t. A couple of cyclists were more help. They got out their map and demonstrated, to my horror, that I was at Bolderwood. I knew that was some distance from home, but didn’t know quite how far. I walked to the Bolderwood Tourist Information Centre where I was shown a map and told I was three or four miles from Emery Down. I knew that Minstead was two and a half miles from there. I’d already walked for over two hours. That was enough. I rang Jackie who came out to collect me.
Whilst I waited for my chauffeuse I had plenty of time to study the map. I hadn’t gone far enough along the first path to reach the lakes. The rather dried up stream beneath the bridge I had walked across looked like Long Brook.
When we arrived alongside The New Forest Inn at Emery Down, we realised we had probably found a route around the summer log-jam that is Lyndhurst.
Jackie’s mixed meat stew followed by rhubarb and gooseberry crumble and custard, provided our evening’s sustenance. I drank more of the Roc des Chevaliers.
The Siren Deer
I’d really rather not mention this morning’s walk, but my innate honesty determines that I must. Actually, although that wasn’t quite the intention, it extended well into the afternoon of this scorchingly hot day.
My plan was to walk the two underpasses loop via the Sir Walter Tyrrell Inn. Somehow it went horribly wrong. I blame the siren deer.
I reached Sir Walter in good time with no mishap. As I passed The Rufus Stone I saw a small family trailing after Dad who was clearly aiming for a picnic spot. It was almost two hours later before I met anyone else not in a car. This was a young couple, the man in shorts, and the woman in a bikini, settling down on a blanket with their little toddler in the shade provided by the forest near Suters Cottage. They were local people, and so knew their way there.
Everything went swimmingly until I reached the now rather dried up stream, and was able to cross it at a hitherto impassible point. Had I stayed on the other side I would probably not have followed the Brook tributary and been distracted by the sirens. They played hide and seek with me in the trees.
I managed ultimately to catch them with my lens. If you zoom the picture by clicking on it, and look very, very, carefully, you, too will glimpse some of them, in this cervine version of Where’s Wally? (or Waldo if you are in USA). I believe the ancient sailors who were tempted by the sirens’ calls became somewhat disorientated by toxic influences. I shared their fate, because once the deer finally disappeared I had no idea in which direction I should proceed.
It was the unusual sound of the animals trooping through the trees that had alerted me to their presence, and, as so often on clear, warm days, the A31 noise was very loud. I headed for it. I was confronted by a stout wooden fence, lots of undergrowth, and a ditch, providing a pretty insurmountable barrier to this major road. Not recognising the point at which I reached it, I had a choice of turning right or left and following the fence as closely as I could. I always go left and it is always the wrong option. Well, I couldn’t break my rule, could I? Sod’s law would be bound to kick in.
Today was no exception. Sparing a thought for the walkers I had directed to the Sir Walter Tyrrell on the 11th, I tramped on. Eventually, above the bracken, I spied a road sign that informed me I was going in the wrong direction. I didn’t really want to go to either London, Southampton, or Winchester. So what next? Well, if I continued I would come to the Cadnam roundabout which was just a little bit out of my way. If I turned around I’d be retracing my steps, and would eventually reach the underpass. But that wasn’t very adventurous was it?
I continued heading for the M27, London, and all points East.
The next A31 motorists’ guidance was to non-motorway traffic. I must, I thought, be near the roundabout. I was. Soon the traffic sign confirmed it. The motorway barriers were to my right. When I was faced with a fence in front of me, I realised I was looking at Roger Penny Way which would take me to the
roundabout. There was no gate, and no cattle grid. There was nothing else for it. I was going to have to climb. At least I could be confident I would have no audience for the ungainly performance of scaling the stout timber construction. I thought it rather unsportspersonlike of the biting insect that took the opportunity to sink its fangs into my right knee as I straddled the top bar of the fence. In fact I made a better job of the assault than I had of leaping the gymnasium horse in my schooldays. That was a sight to behold. I never did get over it without a certain amount of crawling.
Cadnam roundabout should strictly be given in the plural, because there are in fact two, each of which has to be negotiated before reaching the comparative safety of the rather dangerous A337. The exercise is not to be recommended at any time, let alone the height of summer. I did it. Only two drivers called me rude names and one little boy was rather impressed.
Not far along the A337 I noticed a gate on my left that appeared to be padlocked but wasn’t. I went through it and walked into the forest keeping the road on my left. There wasn’t any real footpath and I had to cross a number of dried-up streams, but suddenly…….. Eureka!…….. I came to the gravel road I had discovered on the 10th.
I had a result at last. I now knew a safe route from the home side to Cadnam roundabout.
It was a straight line from this wide track, through a narrow, partially obscured, partly soggy, footpath to the gate into the forest that flanked Running Hill. It was on this stretch that I met the couple mentioned above. From the gate I improved on my uphill diagonal so much that I emerged onto the Hill just a few yards from our Lower Drive. Dave’s path had been totally obscured by bracken that I walked through to my goal.
The rest of the afternoon was for drinking water and recuperation. Jackie produced her marvellous chilli con carne (recipe) and wild rice, with which we shared a bottle of Setley Ridge New Forest rose she had given me for my birthday. I finished with rhubarb crumble and custard, from which Jackie abstained.
A New Audience
A bright, warming, sun lit the horse chestnut candelabra in the garden this morning as I set off to walk the two A31 underpasses route this morning. A cool caressing breeze offered welcome refreshment. As the day went on it remained bright, but didn’t really warm up unless you were directly in the sun.
Fresh growth of all kinds is piercing the forest floor. Near the edges of the woodland new spring flowers emerge daily. 
Young bracken, just two weeks ago crouched curled and cowering from the cold conditions, now stands proudly erect, flaunting its youth beside its withered forebears.
In parts the ground is hard clay pitted by ponies’ hooves; in others the darkened soil warns of a quagmire beneath.
I nearly found my way between The Rufus Stone and Castle Malwood Farm without a hitch. Not quite. I am now recognising a few fallen trees and just about know which way to turn when I cross the stream. 
However, crossing the stream is only a first step. What to do when you get to the other side is not always clear, and clambering over sleeping giants that once rose aloft gets more and more difficult as the months pass.
We drove to Shelly and Ron’s home in Walkford for a barbecue lunch which extended into the evening and was shared with Helen and Bill and Jackie Ryder and Malcolm. Ron presented us with skewers of sausages, swordfish, beef, and chicken tikka. 
Shelley provided an array of fresh tasty salads and a fruit flan that was so full and artistically presented that it wasn’t until it was sliced that I realised it had a base. The barbecued items were tender and cooked to perfection; in other words to a correct even temperature, not burnt to a crisp one side and raw on the other. And they didn’t taste of firelighters. The various beverages included red and white wines and beers. Cheese and biscuits and mints accompanied coffee.
As always at such gatherings, tales are told, jokes are shared, and there is much reminiscing. A consequence of the forty year hiatus in my relationship with Jackie’s family is that we fill in the gaps in our histories; I have a completely new audience for my stories; and Bill has the opportunity to share his with someone who hasn’t heard them all before. The musical activities of Jackie’s nephews and nieces led the conversation in the direction of musicians, which gave me an opening to speak of Tom, posted on 24th August last year, and tell of his A level in guilt quip, given on stage in Newark.
As we entered Minstead early in the evening a flock of excited sheep came streaming up the hill, various young farmers following in their wake. They appeared to have escaped from somewhere.
Blonds Burn More Easily
From the garden room whilst having our morning coffee. Jackie and I watched a pigeon in the process of landing and take-off in the bay tree beside us. Apparently being a poor judge of available space and the weight-bearing capacity of a slender twig, this large, ungainly, bird flopped onto its chosen perch which was neither long nor strong enough. The result was a lot of flailing about, such as one might expect from a tightrope walker about to fall off. The twig broke, the bird fell and dropped as if it had no parachute, suddenly remembered its wings, stopped in mid descent like a cartoon character, steadied itself, and flapped off, probably looking a bit sheepish.
Jackie drove me to Cotswold in Hedge End where I at last bought some Wellington boots. Still reluctant to encounter much mud again I decided to follow a road.
We travelled to Blackwater car park on the Rhinefield ornamental drive where Jackie left me and went off to the deer sanctuary car park at Bolderwood in order to meet me after I had walked there.
I walked roughly parallel to the road, sometimes on dryish gravel paths, sometimes on more soggy terrain.
It was a beautiful, crisp day.
At one point I heard a rhythmic clatter approaching from round a bend. As I looked up, four ponies came careering round the corner headed straight for me on the path. Their leader was a splendid white beast, bearing down on me with nostrils flaring. It had got quite close before I realised it was not likely to lead its companions to one side of me, whereupon I deftly stepped aside, feeling like an ace matador, and watched the animals canter off into the forest. Pondering on discretion being the better part of valour, especially when faced with stampeding ungulates, I heard a further clattering approaching from the same direction, this time on the opposite side of the road.
I watched four more ponies rush by from a safe distance. In truth, far more frightening were the two groups of racing cyclists who followed soon after, possibly breaking the speed limit of 40 mph. I suspect they had spooked the horses.
As I neared my goal I watched a small boy repeatedly throwing his Woody (the character from Toy Story) into a tree. 
There were no conkers or nuts which could serve as a target, so I was rather puzzled as to the nature of his game. When Woody eventually stayed in the tree, the answer became clear. 
The boy’s mother had to lift him up so he could shake the branches vigorously until his toy descended. Naturally this had me thinking of socks and rugby boots (see post of 10th October), the story of which I told the boy’s Mum.
The ground dappled with the woodland sunlight took me back to July 1967. It was in a wood in Sussex that Michael and I had stopped off for a play en route to Brighton where, the summer after Vivien died, I planned a bed-and -breakfast tour of the south coast with our son. 
The photograph I took of that scene could well have been captioned ‘Where’s Michael?’. After our break we travelled on to Brighton to find a bed and breakfast establishment. Of course we had to spend some time on the beach first. Although the weather was hot and humid the sky was completely overcast, so I thought a short time would be safe enough. Not so. After 50 minutes Michael was covered in blisters which required dressing in a hospital casualty department. The nurse there was very understanding and gentle in her explanation to this rather daft Dad that the sun can penetrate cloud cover and blonds burn more easily than people with dark hair. That was the end of our holiday. Michael was safer whilst I was able to receive the benefit of advice from Veronica Rivett, my future mother-in-law, with whom we then stayed.
This evening’s meal consisted of Jackie’s flavoursome Cottage pie followed by Sainsbury’s berry fruits trifle with Fitou for Eizabeth and me and Hoegaarden for the cook.