calf – Page 3 – derrickjknight

Pig On The Road

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Hoping for the cloud to clear we drove out to the north of the forest late this afternoon.

Between Sway and Brockenhurst a woman rode a New Forest pony. This can only be managed after skillful ‘backing’ or breaking in.

Her steed carried her past a gathering of diminutive Shetland or ‘Thelwell’ ponies, ignoring both me and the hair in their eyes as they foraged away.

Along Roger Penny Way we learned that pannage continues, as pigs scampered speedily along the verges

and across the road, snouts searching out mast.

Further along, a group of normal sized ponies grazed on a golf green, as a player prepared his putt. By the time Jackie had parked and I had walked back, a pair of brandished clubs had shooed off the interlopers who satisfied themselves with the roadside where they blended with the golden brown bracken.

We enjoyed dramatic skies across the moors. Blue skies peeped out from lighter clouds, and beams of sunlight pierced the darker ones.

At Godshill a farmer, carrying a bucket, led his little herd of cattle along the roadside;

a deep bellowing emanated from one straggler who broke into a surprisingly spritely sprint, lest it might miss out on whatever was in the container;

and a cow and calf had managed to find themselves on the wrong side of the road.

By the time we reached Abbots Well the landscape, and the cattle therein, basked in warm late sunlight;

the skies on our return home added gold and magenta hues to the darkening slate.

This evening we dined on salmon and smoked haddock fish pie studded with prawns; crunchy carrots and broccoli; and fried leeks and spinach. We both drank Louis de Camponac sauvignon blanc 2015.

The Destroyers

Today was possibly even warmer than yesterday, although the sun did not fully penetrate the heavy cloud cover which I described, according to Jackie with more than a touch of hyperbole. I have no idea what she meant.

Wearing a jacket to walk down to the village shop, and return via the footpath leading to Home Farm Cottage and Seamans Lane, was definitely surplus to requirements.

A one child family of black cattle grazed in a field on the way down. Tails were whisking away with irritated regularity. Since the calf was sticking like a limpet to its mother’s backside, I wasn’t sure whether her twitching appendage was for the benefit of the flies crawling all over her, or wafting in an attempt to dislodge her anxious offspring.

Possibly the result of seasonal atmospheric affects, any piles of pony droppings that have been in situ for a while are coated with a grey fur, so that from a distance they look like a child’s cuddly toy.

We are betwixt summer and autumn. Possibly for that reason, the plant destroyers are gradually approaching nearer the house. Rabbits are beginning to tear up the lawn in earnest. There must now be a community to rival that described by Richard Adams in Watership Down. His description of the small animals’ terror of the motor car, as they became transfixed by headlights, must have been very accurate. Our rabbits seem to have no such fear of John’s lawn mower. Perhaps he should work at night with the aid of a miner’s lamp. According to Mo, their damage is cyclical. They fill the lawn with holes they are emptying. The managing agents organise a cull. The lawn is undisturbed for a year or two. The rabbits come again. The rabbits are culled. And so on, no doubt, ad finitum. Before the rabbits, according to John, came the moles, whose hills he had to clear up before he could do anything else.

I have described before how at least one deer is becoming less timid. Today, as I entered Lower Drive, one, possibly the very same, startled, leapt across my path, almost making me jump.

When I volunteered to contribute to the meal this evening Jackie, feigning panic, held up her left hand, arm outstretched, and said: ‘No. It’s all right. I’m too tired for you to cook’. Perusal of my post of the 18th should explain her reaction. Unaided, and therefore unhindered, and pandering to my penchant for alliteration, she produced a succulent chicken Kiev, crisp croquette potatoes, carrots and cauliflower accompanied by a ratatouille that Remy would have been proud of. This was followed by a luscious toffee bomb from Lidl, for which Jackie made some custard because I am going to France for a week tomorrow and ‘will have to make do with creme Anglaise’. I drank a couple of glasses from Sainsbury’s House Red box.

Resting Places

My chauffeuse was gadding about with her sisters today, so I had to take myself to Lyndhurst for Prof. Lyon-Maris to check on the freezing of my wart. I could, of course, have booked a cab, but decided to walk the four miles to the surgery via Emery Down in stages. The first stop was the bench at The Splash. A comparatively young man came striding across the grass. This was Kevin, who with his wife Louise I had met briefly on February 20th. Today they had driven past and recognised me. We spoke for three quarters of an hour. At one point we were surrounded by cattle. A loud bellowing from a cow alerted us to the fact that her calf had approached us. She was warning either the little one or ourselves to keep off. A string of passing cyclists caused the mother to turn her head, and the calf wandered off. Never take your eyes off your child in public for a moment.

Soon after starting the second leg of my journey I came across a bovine kindergarten siesta. Figuratively tucked up in their little camp beds, the youngsters, like many of their human counterparts, didn’t much want to sleep. One of their carers looked as if she could do with the rest.

As I reached the brow of the hill between Emery Down and Lyndhurst, I was grateful to the friends of Norman Sendall who had placed a bench in his memory on the forest verge. That is where I took my second break. While I was engrossed in my book, a car drew up and came to a standstill alongside me. Out stepped Berry to offer me a lift home. I had to explain that I hadn’t reached where I was going yet.

It was a hot and humid day, so it was just as well I arrived with an hour to spare to sit on the weatherbeaten seat beside the Youth Club in a corner of the carpark, and dry out before stripping off for the doctor. Forget the benches in the High Street. They were all occupied by dripping ice cream cones clutched by visitors of all ages.

The professor had a third go at freezing the stubborn wart, and, while he held me captive, gave me a pneumonia vaccination.

Lyndhurst was its usual bottleneck, so The Swan at Emery Down, to which I walked to await a taxi, became my final resting place, where I enjoyed a pint of Doom Bar. On seeing me photograph the beverage in context, a young woman asked, incredulously: ‘Are you taking a picture of your pint of beer?’ When I replied in the affirmative, her small daughter asked me: ‘Are you drunk?’. Feigning incensement, I pointed to the glass and indicated how little I had yet consumed. The taxi arrived much earlier than anticipated, so I had to down the rest in a hurry.

Before preparing my scrambled eggs on toast garnished with rather soft radishes, I once again admired Jackie’s planting, the like of which had regularly earned her plaudits from Merton In Bloom. As I was about to dish up, the head gardener, who I had expected to eat out with her siblings, arrived home and added fish fingers to the menu.