bricks – derrickjknight

King Henry VIII’s Favourite Warship

CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. REPEAT IF REQUIRED.

This morning Jackie drove me to New Milton for a visit to the bank, and back to Milford on Sea where we voted in the general election.

Three days of strong winds had wrought their usual havoc on the garden. After lunch we tied up and dead-headed roses; gathered broken branches and taller plants; and generally tidied up. The big beast has also returned, so Jackie blocked up the newest hole under the fence. All this came to a halt when heavy rain drove us inside.

I then worked on representing the tour of the Portsmouth Historic Dockyard that was our last family adventure before Sam, Holly, Malachi, and Orlaith set off for France.

On the approach to the waterfront, H.M.S. Warrior https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/HMS_Warrior_(1860) comes into view. This vessel is a mere youngster compared with our main target of the afternoon.

We were advised that we would have insufficient time to view the two main attractions. Despite the figurehead of Lord Nelson from H.M.S. Trafalgar (1841) watching over

H.M.S. Victory, the latter vessel was the one we decided to forego.

We did, however, marvel at what we could see without going on board. Orlaith, sporting her new red plaster cast, perches on Sam’s shoulders, while Malachi, Holly, and Jackie stand beside them.

On 19th July 1545, 465 crew members from a complement of 500 drowned in The Solent. They were on board the Mary Rose which, after 34 years of active service, and just having fought off the French invasion fleet, sank with frightening rapidity and with no apparent cause. After years of searching, the wreck was discovered in 1971 and finally raised in 1982. Not until 2016 was the careful preservation work completed.

The museum we visited, by keeping the lighting low, discouraging flash photography, and with carefully controlled air conditioning, provides us with a wonderful experience of what life was like on board. One of the attendants told me that, on the upper levels, at that very moment engineers were working to revive the air conditioning that had developed a fault. I imagine the little modern gadgets visible in some of the cabinets must be monitors of some kind.

Suspended on the upper level hangs a model of the ship with an invitation to visitors to draw it. Almost everything else has been brought to the surface from the silt of The Solent.

What has been revealed of the original vessel is essentially a cross-section preserved by the mud and silt as it lay on its side. There are nine viewing galleries from which visitors may gaze upon skeletal decks first assembled almost 500 years ago. The first of these deck pictures shows scenes of sailors screened on the boards; in the background of the last are visitors looking down from various other levels.

We are greeted at the entrance by a very lifelike waxwork of the monarch himself.

The first exhibit is a wooden emblem of a Tudor rose, still decipherable after half a millennium beneath the sea.

A number of cannons and cannon balls are displayed as if piercing the decks to fire on the enemy.

A number of cabinets are dedicated to the barber surgeon, that essential crew member. We see his cabin furnishings,

and various items of equipment.

Bricks and a galvanised bath lie in a heap.

The skeleton of a dog and a backgammon board give a good touch of ordinary life.

Another waxwork is of an archer

remains of whose outfit lie in one cabinet,

and whose bows

and arrows appear in others.

This sturdy-looking gentleman trying out his pulling power blanched a bit when I asked him to repeat the effort for the camera. His arms were aching from his first two attempts.

Other weapons are the pikes and bills used to repel boarders.

A brick fireplace

was essential for the cook whose barrels, jugs, dishes, and other utensils were near at hand.

Many items of rigging were recovered,

as was the crow’s nest.

This is unlikely to be our only visit.

This evening, back in the 21st century, Jackie and I finished off the last of the Chinese takeaway meal.

Before And After: The Back Drive

A good part of the day, until I set the incinerator going at 4 p.m., was spent in selecting and printing the next section of the garden development album.

If there was any task more daunting than anything else in the Old Post House garden, it was the back drive.

This is what it looked like on 14th June 2014. An extremely careful examination of the picture will reveal Jackie at the far end embarking on spraying herbicide. After about a metre this was abandoned. The gate in the foreground didn’t fit and was roughly attached to a rickety makeshift fence.

Nine days later the main burning pile, which will be featured later, had encroached onto this area and the old wheelbarrow that was to hold the pyre, had been put in place. The barrow itself stands on a few inches of soil forming a shallow raised bed on which vegetables had been grown. A ring of granite sets held this in place. There were several such booby traps lying about. The panels leaning on the new fence are, we think, part of what was described in the inventory as ‘greenhouse, unassembled’. further down, the older fence has been pushed over by the neighbours’ firs.

By 21st July, further encroachment made combustion seem an impossible task.

Thick brambles attacked from both sides, rooting freely in the earth strewn gravel. This one was lopped on 28th July, because It kept clawing my head.

By 19th September we had made some little headway on weeding, but were still burning branches, many of which, of course had come from other parts of the garden.

Two days later, felt we were getting somewhere. This was the scene at 10 a.m. when we began taking out the shrubbery and trees growing up the side of our neighbours’ house;

and this at 1.30 p.m.

Another four days and Jackie had made considerable progress in keeping the invasive firs in their rightful place;

and by 1st October we had begun defining the entrance, making yet more use of the excavated concrete slabs.

In the new year it became apparent to us that we were definitely in need of help. I reluctantly had to admit that there was a limit to what we could manage alone. By 21st February 2015 we had had the good fortune to engage Aaron of A.P. Maintenance. As I told him today he has had a far bigger impact on what we have achieved than by his work alone. Here he is digging out a clump of ornamental grass which I couldn’t lift. We now call this plant ‘the Phoenix’, because it resisted all attempts at destruction, including burning. It flourishes in Elizabeth’s Bed.

Aaron only visits on Sundays, but this is the progress he had made by 8th March, in levelling of the soil, much of which was transferred to the rose garden, and edging the right hand border with found bricks. Jackie and I had pruned the griselinia hedging which has been allowed to become an avenue of tall trees.

On 5th April, Jackie was able to use the strip for its intended purpose. On the left hand side, Aaron has used the granite sets for edging.

Three weeks later, he and Robin had covered the drive with most of the gravel.

This was completed on 10th May, after Aaron had cemented a retaining bar outside the entrance.

By 11th October the drive was in full use. Jackie has lined both sides with flower beds. No doubt I’ll have to tackle the fallen leaves soon.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s classic chicken jalfrezi, special fried rice, vegetable samosas, and onion bhajis. She drank Hoegaarden and I drank another glass of malbec.

Before And After: The Rose Garden

The Unidentified Fir Bed is now a Cryptomeria Bed.

It seemed a simple, straightforward, task today to dig over the bed cleared yesterday, in preparation for planting. Not so. Beneath the top layer of soil; itself riddled with spun skeins of fine vinca roots; more rock, concrete, tiles, and snakes of perished rubber hose were buried. I got no further than digging this lot out and raking over the plot.

Jackie then added access stepping stones dug out from the Weeping Birch Bed.

A number of my more recent readers have asked for before and after pictures of the work we have done in the garden. This has coincided with Margery having floated the idea of a feature on ‘The Making of the Downton Garden’ at The First Gallery. The Head Gardener would also like an album telling the story. I therefore made a start on one today. The subject is The Rose Garden, which is entirely our own creation.

The earlier pictures have appeared on previous posts, But I have decided to repeat them here. Links to those previous posts are given in brackets, should anyone wish to read the text that goes with them.

We begin with a view looking towards the south eastern corner of what was then the derelict kitchen garden. The left hand fence is covered with ancient clematis Montanas and thick-stemmed brambles. To our left, another particularly unhappy clematis struggles against the odds. Various box hedges struggle in very thin soil. A frame of some sort lies in the centre. (Not Fit For Purpose 26.6.14)

The Montanas on the left hand fence were held in place by a thick wire mesh nailed into our neighbour’s fence. Removing the mess was a lengthy and difficult process. (Escape From Alcatraz 5.7.14)

Not very far below the surface of the soil were the remains of concrete paths that I chose to unearth. That was the very least of that particular problem. Throughout the area large concrete blocks were interred underground. Many of these were placed vertically and were very difficult to extract. (Jack Russell 23.8.14)

There were also many buried bricks. All these materials were piled up in an ever-increasing heap. (A Deterrent 8.9.14) and The Bhagavad Gita 9.9.14)

By the time Aaron came on the scene, I had removed most of the greenery. He levelled the soil (Communing With Ponies 8.2.15) in preparation for the

garden we see today. Water butt and brick pile have been removed. Aaron has laid the paving. Various items of furniture have been added. And, of course, a few plants.

This evening Jackie produced impressive sweet and sour chicken, chicken in black bean sauce and savoury rice with pork for our dinner. Chocolate ice cream was to follow. She drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Pedro Jimenez

The Correct Number Of Toes

Jackie spent much of the day creating a new bower, called Gardener’s Rest, by the head gardener’s path, thus offering a new view across the garden. This meant some paving material was required. I therefore transported some concrete and bricks from the pile in the former kitchen garden. In an effort to select only bricks that may suit my lady’s aesthetic sense, I leant on the lid of the plastic water butt behind the heap. The lid caved in and two bricks descended into the murky depths. They are still there.
After that I decided I was best employed on a photographic project, and continued with my 1982 negatives. The last set had presented Sam preparing for his new sister. The group scanned this morning were taken not long after Louisa’s birth on 24th May. Her brother seems pretty happy with her arrival, unless he was simply enjoying his Smarties. Seriously, his genuine enjoyment had nothing to do with the sweets.
Michael was also present in St George’s Hospital on this day, and held his sister. Most parents count the toes on their newborn infants, just to make sure. This picture ensures that there can be no doubt that Louisa had the correct number on at least one foot.
Twelve years earlier Matthew had welcomed Becky, eight days after her birth on 19th August 1970. It is probably a sign of the attitudinal changes in that time that Mat had to wait until Becky came home, whereas Sam could be happily ensconced on his mother’s bed. The two sisters don’t look at all dissimilar.
After finishing this project I walked up Hordle Lane and found the elusive footpath across the fields and into that through the woods, where sweet chestnuts are falling from the trees. The sign leading from the lane had, as I thought, been obscured by foliage.The next one, almost worn out, pointed diagonally across the ploughed field. A man patrolling this area on a quad bike scowled at me and declined to return my wave. On the path to Peter’s Farm, I was stopped by a gentleman who politely informed me that he rented the farm and I was trespassing. A lengthy discussion ensued during which I learned that this was all private land. One public footpath sign had completely disappeared, and there were no signs indicating privacy. He told me where I could pick up a footpath that would lead me onto Christchurch Road. I didn’t fancy that, so I retraced my steps back to Hordle Lane. Oh to be in Aquitaine where, in my experience, wide footpaths are clearly marked, well maintained, and ramblers are welcome. I didn’t think it politic to ask if I could photograph either farmer.
Later this afternoon Jackie drove us to Emsworth for a birthday meal with Ian, Becky, and Flo at the Spice Cottage Bangladeshi restaurant in Westbourne. Ian and I walked to the restaurant where the others joined us by car. The curry house was very good indeed. Food, service, and atmosphere were excellent on this packed out Saturday evening. There was no piped music, but muted Bollywood films were shown on a television mounted on the wall. I slept most of the way on our journey home.

Brickbats

We were promised pleasant weather today, and when we set off late morning to Elizabeth’s, it certainly looked that way. By midday the rain had begun again, just as we arrived at Bursledon Brickworks industrial museum. When we left, a little more than two hours later, it was teeming, and continued to be so for the rest of the afternoon.

The trip to Bursledon had been arranged by Elizabeth for Mum to have a tour of the works on this their open day. Paul Robinson is a member of Elizabeth’s bookbinding class in Winchester. He is also a volunteer at the Brickworks, which was the last steam driven factory of its kind in the country. He patiently, amusingly, and informatively, gave us two hours of his time and attention. Mum managed, on her two sticks, to last the course. When it came to going upstairs, Paul carefully strapped her into a stairlift and stepped up alongside her to assuage her fears.

Until the rain set in for keeps, we had wandered around the outside area where people were being given rides in trucks tugged along by steam engines and trains; and where there was a display of steam driven vehicles and engines. Looking at the stacks of different bricks lining the railway tracks, I speculated about whether any of the recycled bricks I had used to build the compost heaps earlier in the year could have been made at Bursledon. Speaking to a woman polishing the brass on one of the steam engines, Mum told of her childhood in Manchester where children with chest infections were led to steam rollers so they could inhale the supposedly curative fumes emanating from the creosote being laid on the roads. This was a free expectorant before the National Health Service made such medicines available to all. I remember these engines in the Stanton Road of my childhood. There would always be lots of sticky black tar with an intoxicating smell.

Upstairs, the display areas, where we were shown bricks, plasterwork, chimney pots, and war horses, were on slatted floorboards with gaps in between them. The war horses were small terra cotta horses which people had paid to make and decorate as a fundraising activity. One display was of a model roof and chimney pots showing the various ways in which lead had enhanced roofs. It was in a bit of a dark corner. In order to make it easier for Mum to see it, Paul unplugged an electric lead and plugged it in somewhere else. ‘Oi. You’ve turned off my light’, came a cry from below. ‘You’ve turned off mine’, cried Paul. Good-naturedly he gave the man back his light. Which was just as well, for the complainant was Santa in his grotto.

We were shown a plaster cast sculpture of a man who, at the age of 92 had still worked a nine hour day creating hand-made bricks at the rate of three bricks a minute, which was a better rate than anyone else. They were all on piece work in those days. One area which had long queues was where children could make such bricks. They paid £1 and could take their creations home with them.

Some years ago Paul had been told how the men working brick making machines gained their lunch or loo breaks. Scattered around the floor would be broken off bits of brick. These would be picked up and thrown into a kind of hopper in the machinery. The result was that the machine would sieze up. This gave the men the opportunity to take a rest. These fragments were called brickbats. Nowadays the word has come to mean criticism.

By the time we had returned to The Firs for lunch and Elizabeth had taken Mum home, we were just in time to take in the end of The First Gallery 38th. Christmas show and stay on for a couple of hours carol singing. This is the gallery of Margery Clarke who has featured at times in these posts. On 22nd November I explained the link between Norman, Margery, and Alvin Betteridge. I was therefore very pleased to see some of Alvin’s work on display, and to buy Norman a Christmas present of an owl made by this potter.

The carol singing was an entertaining mix of traditional carols and more secular works like ‘Enery the Eighth’, and Old Macdonald. The pianist was accompanied by her rather young black labrador who got very excited at the dog verse of ‘Old Macdonald Had A Farm’. After the singsong there was a raffle for the prize of a bear made by animal sculptor Suzie Marsh in aid of Animals Asia’s campaign to end bear bile farming. Elizabeth bought her tickets at the very last minute. She won the raffle.

After this entertainment the three of us dined at Eastern Nights on the usual excellent food; Bangla being drunk by Jackie, and Cobra by Elizabeth and me.