British Summer Time – derrickjknight

The Voyage Home

I didn’t take the extra hour in bed that heralded the end of British Summer Time this morning. Instead, I reset the clocks, watched a recording of last night’s grinding rugby World Cup Final between South Africa and New Zealand, and set about my customary work on blog comments.

On this, the first day of a period of lessening light and earlier darkness, we experienced further changing, mostly wet, weather. With an enticing spell of of blue-sky cloud we were about to drive out for a sunset when thunderous rain poured from above.

I pushed open the kitchen door, met gusts of wind sending streams through the door, upon the patio paving, and from next door’s guttering. In just two clicks I caught a warm, wet, blast.

I had spent the rest of the day completing my reading of the third volume of Charles Church’s autobiographical trilogy.

This is the blurb from the first edition of 1964 printed on the inside of the jacket:

I would accept this as a good outline of the man and his work, while adding some additional observations on this episode.

The quality of his flowing prose with its fine poetic descriptions continues largely as reported in my reviews of the earlier volumes, https://derrickjknight.com/2023/10/20/over-the-bridge/ and https://derrickjknight.com/2023/10/26/the-golden-sovereign/

He certainly demonstrates honesty and insight.

There is, however, one central section in which my interest wanes. This concerns the portraits recounting of his Civil Service and literacy acquaintances which lack his usual roundedness and would need more knowledge of the subjects to fully appreciate. I wonder what some of these characters would have thought of his sometimes less than flattering descriptions.

Soon after this we learn of his despairing breakdown, which may have a bearing on his writing here. He acknowledges the help of loved ones to aid recovery.

He names neither wife nor children, mentioning the latter rather peripherally; perhaps wishing to protect their privacy.

This evening we all dined on tender roast lamb; crisp Yorkshire pudding; creamy mashed potato; perfectly cooked carrots, cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, mint sauce, and tasty gravy, with which Jackie drank more Zesty and I finished the Garnacha.

Villages Of Oxford And Cambridge Shires

I walked my normal route to Milford on Sea and back this morning. Waves buffeting the beach were choppy and the wind blustery, but that did not deter families settling on the shingle, along which couples perambulated.
Part of the footpath that I had, only two days ago, described as safe, has tumbled down the cliff and been bordered by a protective fence.
On the cliff top I met a man walking his dog, who was amused at himself for having forgotten to put his clocks back last night, the end of British Summer Time. He was impressed by how many jobs he had managed to do after having risen so early, but he thought the day ahead would be a long one.
In the Nature Reserve an elderly gentleman tipped his hat to me as we exchanged greetings.
Watching fallen leaves sailing sedately on the surface of the stream, I was reminded of Flora Thompson’s book. My copy of this classic portrait of a nineteenth century Oxfordshire village is illustrated by Lynton Lamb.
At intervals along the trail, birdseed had been heaped upon tree fungus. Perhaps Hansel had been returning the favour of the white feathers.
To a certain amount of trepidation by his mother, a small boy was having great fun on the swing I had noticed previously. She had not, fortunately, seen the first episode of ‘Grantchester’, in which a snapped rope bearing a similar swing gives James Norton, playing a charismatic Cambridgeshire village clergyman, an opportunity to emulate Colin Firth’s wet shirt scene in ‘Pride and Prejudice’. Based on the detective novels of James Runcie, ‘Grantchester’ is now a major ITV television series. Norton’s Sidney Chambers develops an unofficial partnership with Robson Green’s Geordie police sergeant.
Flora Thompson’s story was published in 1948, and the detective series is set in the 1950s, so they are contemporaneous in period, if not in authorship.
Later, we watched the second episode of Grantchester. Well, we had to, didn’t we?
Although we ate it in the evening, Jackie produced a superb traditional Sunday lunch. Slow roasted beef was accompanied by roast potatoes, parsnips, and Yorkshire pudding; thick gravy jam-packed with juices from the meat; brussels sprouts, carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli. After this we could just manage a custard tart. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I drank Castillo San Lorenzo reserva 2008 rioja. As is often the case when enjoying such a meal, we spoke of our mothers’ roast dinners of our childhoods in the ’40s and ’50s, which we converted to cottage pies on Mondays with the aid of a National or a Spong hand-operated mincer that was clipped to a tabletop. You put the pieces of left-over joint into the bowl at the top, turned the handle, and the minced meat was forced through a circular grill, and dropped out of the spout into a waiting container. Jackie, herself, used one when we were first married in 1968.

Michael Fish

I’m having a bit of fun looking back over the last eighteen months of blogging, and adding where appropriate some older photographs to the posts. Today I went back thirty years in my archives add added three to ‘Reminiscing With Don’ of last August.

Albeit extremely blustery, it was a beautiful autumn day as we set out on a journey the Met Office had warned everyone against. Leaves scampered across the sky like swifts riding thermals. Indeed, as we drove to Mat and Tess’s we saw a number of birds seemingly doing just that. When reading BBC News Jackie came across advice to ‘keep away from trees’. She thought that given where we live that might be rather difficult. Michael Fish was interviewed yesterday predicting that the current gales would not be as devastating as those of 1987. Someone in charge was having a laugh. Mr. Fish, you see, is probably the best, indeed, for most people the only, known weather announcer of all time. He famously broadcast a reassurance, in 1987, that the rumoured storm would not happen. It did. So if anything was likely to confirm fears of tonight’s tempest it would be putting Michael Fish on air to refute it.

Trees were already bending beside the A27, their foliage tapping on our windscreen seeking shelter within. As the leaves rushed towards us they reminded me of the one scene in the 3D version of James Cameron’s ‘Avatar’ that made me flinch. Boulders came flying out of the screen straight at the audience’s heads.

We were not to be deterred from our trip which was a belated birthday celebration for our daughter in law. Jackie took a delicious apple and apricot crumble to follow Tess’s superb roast pork; roast potatoes, carrots, and parsnips; Dauphinoise potatoes; leek and cabbage compote; apple sauce; and dark red wine gravy. Red wines by Tess and me and various beers by Jackie and Matthew were consumed. Tess liked the presents we had bought yesterday.

After the meal we had coffee in The Village Shop so that we could see the new counter layout. Every time we go the establishment seems even more inviting and attractive than the last.

The clocks were turned back an hour at two o’clock this morning, the end of British Summer Time. This meant that it was already dark at 6 pm. when we set off back home. Dark, wet, and windy. At times the windscreen wipers could barely cope with the water that was thrown at it. Rain hammered down directly into it, splashed up on impact with the roads, and formed a fine spray spinning from the wheels of other cars. I don’t know how Jackie managed in the driving seat, but I found the wipers mesmerising as I seemed to be peering through a Jackson Pollock painting on glass. The halo effect around traffic lights and car headlamps and taillights, coupled with the sparkling bits of twig cracking on the car gave the impression that November 5th was already upon us.

In fairness to Michael Fish, the gales, as I write have not reached the force of that October night 26 years ago.