Castle Malwood Lodge – Page 2

Knight & Colbourne Candles

Jackie, for the second time in two days, drove us to Southampton Parkway to collect Alison who had come for a brief visit. The M27/A31 going west was almost at a standstill with people pouring in from other parts of the country to take advantage of what seemed to be the first real day of summer. Deciding to avoid the motorway on our return, our driver took a different route that was still busy enough to turn a twenty minute journey into one lasting an hour.

Eleanor and Henry are a couple of resourceful young folk who occupy different parts of the Lodge. Two days ago they developed a car cleaning project. As there are seventeen flats, all of which often also have visitors, this could be quite lucrative for our ten and nine year old neighbours. We had actually been asked for the names and numbers of the most likely punters. This afternoon they sought Jackie’s advice on how they could expand their empire. I was invited to join in the discussion. It had occured to them that some people might like their shopping done at the village shop, but as this was a good twenty minutes walk away it needed careful co-ordination. They offered the opinion that most residents of the building, ‘not you of course’, were quite old and therefore likely to require such a service. Given that there is only one couple who are marginally older, I suppose we should have been flattered.

It was Eleanor who had tolerated the attention of Jessica and Imogen who had been so smitten on their recent visit (see 12th May post). I told the children that Jessica and Imogen’s Mum had, when she was not much older than Eleanor, gone into business with her friend Matthew. They had made and sold candles. Eleanor wasn’t really into candle making.

Louisa and Matthew Colbourne, great friends still, had been very like Eleanor and Henry. Ever resourceful, inseparable, and immensely loyal, what began as a sale of refreshments in the garage developed into an established company, with a bank account, producing hand-crafted candles. Their parents had to dragoon their friends into the garden to purchase curled up sandwiches and luke-warm orange squash, but the candles sold themselves. They really were quite good. It was a proud Dad who took Louisa and her business partner, in their very early teens, into the bank in Newark to open their official company account. Like all candles, it eventually fizzled out, but it was very exciting while it lasted.

It was quite late in the afternoon today when I set off to walk the two fords Q. Starting with the back lawn of the Lodge garden, the early evening sun lent a gorgeous light to the landscape. Midges appeared to be floating on the beams, and long shadows produced dramatic affects. Hedgerows chirruped and sang, for all the world as if they were flocks of joyful birds.

For the first time this year my sandals came out and my feet went into them.

On my return we were joined by Eleanor’s parents, David and Nicky. We had a drink together before they repaired to their barbecue and we came inside to consume Jackie’s chicken jalfrezi (recipe) with her savoury rice which has really taken off. I drank Blason des Papes Chateuneuf du Pape 2011 with this.

I had met Nicky before when I had had the temerity to offer her running tips as our paths had crossed twice when I was on a walk and she was on a run. She had told me later that I had been very helpful, which was a relief, but I hadn’t connected her with her daughter.

She Does Make Exceedingly Good Books

On another glorious day, I had a wander around the garden of the Lodge, the shrubberies of which are now blooming splendidly. Jackie had spent the morning attending to her little garden on our kitchen corner, after which we drove to The Firs to put in a stint there.

In less than a week the trees lining the M27 have burst into leaf.

Jackie and I and Danni worked on the beds. My task was to mix topsoil, all-purpose compost, and farm compost and apply this as top dressing to weeded beds. In preparation for this the grass edges were trimmed and weeding carried out.

We continue to be pleased with the fruits of last year’s work, if only because the really heavy work has all been done. There are examples of serendipity, usually created by self-seeded primroses, such as their coordination with epimedium, or their contrast with forget-me-nots. And there are happy results of planting, such as the numerous tulips planted everywhere.

I was particularly pleased with those I had bought at last year’s Bishop’s Waltham Garden Fair.

They have all come up again, in a bed which didn’t exist a month or so before they were planted.

Danni took the opportunity to photograph Jackie and me taking a break.

While the serfs slaved, the lady of the manor sat in the shade making beautiful little books for the planned summer exhibition. In fairness to Elizabeth, who normally gets stuck in with the rest of us, she is recovering from a general anaesthetic and minor ENT operation and, like Mr. Kipling and his cakes, she ‘does make exceedingly good’ books.

Danni made an excellent sausage casserole meal which we enjoyed with the assistance of red wines and, of course, for she who will be nameless, Hoegaarden. A delightful Berry Bliss from the Co-op was for afters.

The low sun was blinding along the motorway as we drove west to home. As is now quite common a handful of deer dashed across the road in front of us in the vicinity of Shave Wood.

When she had finished driving and we settled back home, I poured Jackie a complimentary. Others would call this a Bailey’s. We have renamed it in line with the custom of many local Indian restaurants who offer us a complimentary drink, usually a Bailey’s, after our meal.

Rabbit-Proof Fence

As I dug out the trench this morning for Jackie’s protective netting, and she was planting seedlings in pots, I noticed that blossom has indeed come to the Lodge garden. By mid afternoon the sun has always moved across to the other side of the garden. Today John’s lawn mowing looked splendid in its light. The natural landscaping, presenting different sweeping levels, with a distinct slope down to the East, reminds us that the building occupies the site of an Iron Age hill fort. Unfortunately my enjoyment of the sunshine was somewhat curtailed by my spending much of the day on administration, too boring to record, most of which should have been done months ago. I just managed to get to the village shop in time to post ten letters and collect my dry cleaning.

It was still a glorious day. The slow clip-clop of the wild ponies’ hooves as they strolled down and across the road, their haunches undulating awkwardly and their heads imitating car drivers’ nodding dogs, was almost all the sound I heard. There was also the occasionally purring of the engine of a car brought to a standstill when one or all of the animals decided to take a diagonal amble. When they are headed straight for you it is still a bit disconcerting. It is best to convince yourself they are not going to bite you. A snorting I heard came from two magnificent farm horses, which must be a particular breed, now occupying a field across the road from Minstead Hall. I don’t think the ponies have the energy for blowing air through their noses. By the time I returned home, Jackie had almost completed her little garden fence.

When preparing the ground for this rabbit and deer proof structure, I was thinking of ‘Rabbit-Proof Fence’. This is a marvellous Australian film drama from 2002 directed by Philip Noyce, adapted from ‘Follow the rabbit-proof fence’, the book by Doris Pilkington Garimara. It tells the story of the author’s mother and two other dual heritage Aboriginal girls who ran away from Moore River Native Settlement situated to the north of Perth, Western Australia, where they had been forcibly placed in 1931. They knew that if they followed the 1,500 mile (2,400 km) fence it would take them to their families in their homes in Jigalong. They covered this ground in nine weeks, all the while being pursued by a white authority figure and an Aboriginal tracker.

It is some years since I saw this film, but it is not one I am likely to forget. The terribly mistaken policy that separated so many families; the cruelty to which the children were subjected; the pain of the bereft parents; and the magnificent fortitude shown by the escapees burns in one’s memory like the searing heat which they endured.

The tasteful symphony in white and cream with an intro of orange that Jackie served up for our evening meal was smoked haddock, cauliflower cheese (recipe), mashed potatoes, and carrots. Accompanied by a 2012 Bordeaux sauvignon blanc, it was followed by a delicious plum crumble.

The Benefits Of Hearing

A new visitor alighted on the bird table today. Jackie was able to view this creature from the hide she had constructed in the kitchen. As usual, as for the would-be panda photographer in the Kitkat television advert, when I arrived with the camera, the bird disappeared. She had to look it up in Dave Farrow’s ‘A Guide to the birds of Britain and Northern Europe’. At first studying the illustration for an apparently rare garden sparrow, she eventually settled on the female blackcap. A pied wagtail did battle with another bird that it saw off so quickly we couldn’t identify it. A blue tit showed a preference for the fat balls.

In celebration of a much brighter day, blossom has come to Castle Malwood Lodge garden, and fresh lemon coloured leaves are beginning to festoon Running Hill. I chose the first ford Q walk this morning. A distant cuckoo intruded upon the conversation of other forest birds, just as its chicks will intrude upon their unwilling foster parents.

The lambs that caught my eye as I walked towards the bridle path were black with white faces. Two of them vied with each other for either shelter or suckle under their mother. In a display of modesty the ewe, as I peered in their direction, waddled awkwardly off. How, I wondered, did those thin legs support that ungainly, wool-covered body? Her offspring hopped and skipped over each other, trying to latch onto their moving target.

At the top end of the path I tried a new route by taking Tom’s Lane. On a bend I soon saw a notice that made me change my mind. I was first inclined to ignore it, because it had probably been there some time. However, around the bend there were two houses, neither of which possessed a gate. Discretion was called for, so I retraced my steps and took Forest Road, beside which bony cattle basked in the morning sunlight. Walking back through Newtown, watching ponies grazing, I marvelled at the amount of unrelenting mandibular exercise required to feed these animals for a day. It is little wonder they don’t do much else.

On two occasions I had differing reasons for being grateful for the sense of hearing. About to approach the hill back into Minstead from ‘The Splash’ ford, the familiar clopping of an as yet out of sight horse drawn cart alerted me to the photo opportunity that was on its way. I was therefore able to take up a suitable position. As the carriage passed me the riders laughed at my poised lens. ‘I’ll bet you have lots of these taken’, I cried, as I clicked. ‘Just a few’, was the reply.

There is a particular blind bend on the road up to Seamans Corner. As usual I walked up the narrow road on my right hand side, so I would face cars coming towards me on their left. Round the bend sped a car I had only heard. The driver was looking in the direction of her passenger. Had I not pinned my back to a thorn hedge in anticipation, the vehicle would have hit me.

This afternoon, my granddaughter, Alice, visiting Soho with her Mum and Dad, sent me a photograph of the front door of Nos. 1 – 2 Horse and Dolphin Yard, where Michael had lived with Jessica and me during the 1970s. It was the roof of this building that formed part of the route to Michael’s rabbit pens described in my post of 21st May last year.

Jackie’s luscious lamb’s liver casserole followed by bread and butter pudding was for dinner. This was accompanied by Hoegaarden by Jackie, whilst I finished the Piccini.

Sisyphus

Continuing with my scanner compatibility problem I telephoned Epson, to learn that the two different downloads Apple advisors had sent me were incorrect. I dragged those into the trash, and the Epson man sent me another which worked. It is not quite the same as I’m used to, but I’m getting there. I have scanned and enhanced the two earlier photographs from Elizabeth’s series, but have decided not to change them in the posts, as it is all part of the story. Not only that, I can’t be bothered.

While doing this I received an e-mail attachment of an inspiring photograph from my friend Geoff Austin. Well into his sixties he turned out at the weekend in the front row of the scrum for an Old Whitgiftian testimonial match. The mud on the hooker’s face is reminiscent of the many muddy hours I spent in the second row in my thirties and forties rubbing my ears against Geoff’s thighs. Purely in order to raise cauliflowers, you understand. Like me, Geoff can be identified by a white beard. Before my short-lived first retirement, from the Old Wimbledonians, in 1972, at the age of thirty, I was joined in the second row by a sixty five year old who had been pulled out of the spectators to fill a gap. I’d always thought our combined age took some beating, but I think Geoff and his colleagues have probably pipped it. Although we turned out regularly for Geoff’s Old Boys team every week, Alan Warren, another member of our Social Services Area Team, and I, could not at first appear on a team sheet. This is because we had never attended Whitgift School. Geoff had inveigled us into playing one day when his XV was a player or two short. So I got my boots out again and didn’t put them away until we moved to Newark in 1987. Forty five seemed to be a bit old to join a new club. Not too old to be playing, of course.

What Geoff forgot to mention was that the lower sides of his club were always a player or two short. But Alan and I could not officially make up the numbers, because this organisation was a closed club. This meant we outsiders could not join. After a game or two with the fourth team, we became regulars with the third. At about the time I had gravitated to the second side and was being considered for the first, the fact that this was all unofficial and required some steadfast members to be kept in the dark, suggested something must be done. Alan and I were duly made Associate Members of The Old Whitgiftians Association. That meant we had to pay subscriptions, but it was a small price to pay. For me to play for the first XV remained, however, out of the question

Jackie and I moved more belongings into the garage today. I then ordered some bookcases from IKEA on line. When asked for my feedback on the remarkably smooth process, I commented that it ‘beats trailing round the store’.

Before venturing for a walk to the church and back via the ford footpath, I waited for the hail to stop. John, who was mowing the lawn when the thunderous storm came, was forced to divert his attention to raking gravel. By the time I returned there had been no further precipitation, and our gardener was continuing to mark the centuries old rocky, undulating moss-covered lawns with perfect mowed lines. This man, once a week in the summer and fortnightly thereafter, works like a Trojan on this four acre communal plot. When we first arrived in November his task was clearing the fallen leaves. It was then that Jackie gave him his nickname, not Trojan, but Greek. In that country’s mythology, Sisyphus was a king of Ephyra who was punished by the gods, being given the task of pushing a huge boulder uphill. Whenever he reached the top the stone rolled back down again. As John was blowing together one pile of leaves, others were torn down by gusts of wind and followed on after him. And of course his pile was blown about as well. Do it all again was the order of the day. A nice simile. John will be forever Sisyphus.

As I rounded the house, approaching the back door, I sensed wonderful curry smells. Not imagining I could be given a brilliant chicken jalfrezi, such as to do all the local restaurants out of my business, so soon after a chilli con carne, I wondered who else in the building enjoyed and cooked such food. The anwer was no-one. Jackie was cooking our evening meal which she later served up with pudding rice to follow. I started on an excellent Bouchard Aine & Fils red burgundy harvested in 2010. Thank you Helen and Bill for this Christmas gift.

A Screwdriver Comes In Handy

Just as I was about to set off for this morning’s walk, an alarming drip, drip, dripping sound disturbed the living room peace. The light grey carpet then began to develop a spreading dark patch. Peering up at the ceiling we were able to discern globules of water. It was fairly obvious that this would be emanating from the flat above. But which was the flat above? I really didn’t know. I described the rabbit warren of buildings between Gerard Street and Horse and Dolphin Yard in my post of 17th October last year. That is fairly straightforward compared with Castle Malwood Lodge which has far more corridors and landings. Our bathroom, for example, is beneath the main staircase.

I found my way to number 9, which looked a likely prospect. Not even that was a certainty. Some time after I had rung the bell, the sound of a slight stirring came just in time to prevent me from turning away wondering what to do next. A muffled voice addressed me from within and we established that this was the correct flat. A small space then appeared between the door jamb and the knuckles of fingers holding the door. Above the fingers, roughly in the right place, was a bare shoulder; and above this a cheek containing an eye and topped by a section of turbaned towel. This was Chris. She undertook to go back and research the problem, which clearly must have been connected with her ablutions. I waited outside for at least five minutes, then rang again. Chris, now fully clad, had the confidence fully to emerge, and explained that there was an airlock in her system which, for the first time, had caused water to flood onto the floor. She would ring the agent. When I returned to our flat the problem had ceased. There was no harm done.

It is not generally known that, ever since Louisa’s bedroom floor in Newark was sanded, when she was in her teens, I have been something of an expert in dealing with leaking ceilings.

John Parlett, a plasterer who lived nearby, dramatically came to the rescue when water began to pour into our living room. I was in London at the time, but Jessica sought John’s help. What had happened was that the man who had sanded the floor had managed to slice into the radiator. This remained unnoticed long enough for it to damage the ceiling below. John grabbed a screwdriver, climbed a stepladder, and punctured a hole in the plaster. This enabled the water to pour straight into the bucket underneath rather than fill the cavity above. Had he not done this the ceiling would have come down.

It was fortunate for the staff and owners of Crocker’s Folly that I remembered this technique when they had their leak. Crocker’s Folly was a pub in Aberdeen Place, off Edgware Road in the Paddington area of London. It was a very grand building in decline. The ceiling was far more ornate than ours. Water was pouring into buckets that were constantly being replaced. I got a few Brownie points for the tip I gave them.

Thus was this disaster averted. Not so the very first one this rather doomed building witnessed. Crocker was a businessman who built the place as a luxury hotel intended to serve Marylebone Station which was about to be constructed. He had been unreliably informed that the station would be in that vicinity. When it was actually erected very near Baker Street instead, the poor man was ruined, and threw himself out of a top floor window. Someone else must have named it. In my most recent years in the area this establishment regularly changed hands. No-one made a go of it, and as far as I know, it remains boarded up.

Update 5.11.24: Maroush, the Lebanese Restaurant chain now has this as “the jewel in their tiara”.

After a salad lunch I walked the outline of a Sellotape dispenser: down to the pub, up to the church, down the footpath to the ford, and back via the phone box. Noticing two couples, not exactly dressed for mudlarking, walking through the gate to the footpath, I warned them of the conditions and guided them through to the ford. One of the gentleman asked me if I would care to lie across the mud for them to walk over.

Audrey was tying a yellow ribbon around what I took to be a fruit tree of some sort in her garden. She said she hadn’t got an old oak one so was using this instead. I thought it politic not to ask why.

Jackie has rigged up a birdfeeder and a wren box given to us by Michael; and created a protective, hopefully deer-proof cage for plants. I proudly brought Gladys round to see the work. She was genuinely thrilled. She told me that a wee dog was buried near Jackie’s bird station, so she might find some bones.

We are now off to Leatherhead to see Pat O’Connel’s production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s ‘The Gondoliers’. Perhaps a fitting sequel to this morning’s drama. If there is any further excitement today, I will report on it tomorrow.

Researching Seamans

On this dull dank day I took yesterday’s walk in reverse. In Minstead village there is field containing two ponies which are often seen by the gate, at this time fetlock-deep in water-filled well-drilled hoofprints. Nearby buckets perhaps contain some kind of food supplement for these animals leaving the slightly drier centre field to watch the world go by. The wooden stile has a signpost alongside it indicating a public footpath across the land. I doubt anyone has trodden it for some months. Yesterday afternoon a couple were strewing sawdust over the pools. I asked if they were ‘trying to make that passable’. ‘For the horses’, the man replied. Hoping he didn’t think I was daft enough to venture onto the footpath, I made it clear I knew it was for the horses. Mind you, this did remind me of soggy cricketing afternoons when sawdust was called for to give the bowlers a bit of purchase, as we wiped the red surface from the ball onto damp rags instead of the thighs of our flannels. Today, the brown horse was looking over the gate, its black companion preferring to remain in the field.

By the side of Football Green, a New Forest Agister’s jeep was parked. There was no-one in it or on the green so I was unable to check out Seamans Lane’s Agister’s Cottage.

On my way through London Minstead I stopped and chatted to Geoff Brown who was mending his fence. This very friendly man invited me to knock on his door any time I was passing, when he would be happy to give me coffee. He did not know the origin of Seamans Lane, but he, too, directed me to Nick on the brow of the hill. I knocked on Nick’s door. He was out, but his wife, Jeanie Mellersh, was very welcoming and we had a long talk. Geoff had told me she was an artist, so she really should know the truth of the most startling information she gave me. She thought Nick would not know a great deal about Seamans, but they knew a man who would. This was Steve Cattell who lives opposite the village shop. He runs the local history group which she recommended to me. She didn’t know the truth of the press gang story. She had heard another tale the veracity of which she could not vouch for either. This was that Seamans Lodge was a home for old sailors. There is in fact a Seamans Lodge, not visible from the road, behind Seamans Cottages.

The information she gave me that did ring true, however, concerned Grinling Gibbons. This seventeenth century Englishman, born and educated in Holland, who settled in England and became what many people consider the greatest woodcarver of all time is known for his realistic and intricate representation of flowers, fruit, and birds. These are often bas relief in a vertical format, much like the carved mantelpiece above the fireplace in the communal entrance hall of our wing of Castle Malwood Lodge. When I told her where I lived, Jeanie asked me if there was still a grand entrance hall with a white painted mantelpiece. This, she told me, was by Grinling Gibbons. We certainly agreed that Sir W. Harcourt, for whom the house was built, would have been rich enough to have imported the carving from an earlier source. Whatever the fabric under the many layers of paint on this piece, it is certainly reminiscent of Gibbons.

I may be no wiser about the origin of Seamans, but the search for it is already proving fruitful. Jackie Googled the word this evening and discovered it to be a surname of Anglo-Saxon origin mentioned in the Doomsday Book. Given the inland nature of the New Forest this makes sense to me. But we still have to verify this as pertinent to our Lane.

This afternoon we visited The Firs and partook of Danni’s succulent sausage casserole followed by Elizabeth’s excellent apple and plum crumble. Various red wines, Hoegaarden and Coke were drunk by the assembled company.

IKEA 2 (18)

Yesterday evening Holly’s baby girl was born, after a long labour and eventual Caesarian section. All is well, but we await further news once the little family have recovered.

Fog beset the forest today, lending a sense of the Gothic to Castle Malwood Lodge. Moisture dripping from the boughs plipped and plopped onto their plentiful plumage carpeting the ground.

I took Seamans Lane to London Minstead, turned right into Bull Lane, and right again at a junction which took me back to Minstead. Having left by ‘lower’ drive, I returned in the direction of ‘upper’, turning right just before I arrived there. This led me to our nearest neighbours in Hollybrae. I then trudged into the woods following the line of our drive, eventually recognising our garden shrubbery. I couldn’t just walk into the garden which was surrounded by a wire fence. I continued until I reached the road leading to ‘lower’ drive. There were no footpaths, so this wasn’t exactly straightforward. Beautiful as is a carpet of autumn leaves, you cannot tell what is underneath them. In some places the answer was ‘not much’. So I got a bit soggy. My wellies and walking shoes being at The Firs, my suit trousers got a bit damp.

This afternoon we returned to IKEA. Yes, we went back for more. We’ve got the journey sussed and now knew where we’d gone wrong in parking. We also knew that beds were on level 4. We had measured the space and realised the IKEA doubles would just fit into the spare room. The one we preferred would not, we realised, do. This is because one side would have to go against a wall. This means whoever sleeps on that side, if needing to, as Chaucer put it ‘rise for a piss’, having in any case to bottom-slide down the bed to get out, would have come up against an ornate bed-end. I thought about that in the middle of the night. There had to be no bed-end.

Driving to level 4 was, in itself, an experience. Imagine driving one way up a helter-skelter or a spiral staircase. Steering was scary, and when we got to the top it was best not to look down over the railings separating us from the streets below and Southampton harbour. Not if you have my head for heights.

When Jackie picked up a trolley on our way in I was a wee bit alarmed. ‘I might want to buy something’ was her explanation. We chose our bed fairly quickly and went through the process of identifying the various parts. For anyone having the good fortune to be ignorant of the IKEA process, it is as follows. You are given identifying codes and numbers which tell you where, in rows of aisles on the ground floor, to find your purchases. Apparently collecting your purchases is known as ‘picking’. We know that because, had we wanted someone to do the ‘picking’ of the bed for us we could have paid a bit extra for it. Which might have been a wise move. In the event.

Before we got to that, we, of course, had to follow the IKEA maze, which meant passing other potential purchases, like door-stops, plates, duvets, pillows, sheets, duvet covers, coat hooks, and rugs. Well, I guess you know by now why Jackie wanted her trolley.

‘Picking’ the bed for our guest bedroom was an experience. I do hope those of you who will try it out will appreciate the effort involved. What you do when you ‘pick’ is go to level 1 where, if you very carefully follow the arrows, you will find numbered aisles. Rather like most of our street numbering, evens are on one side and odds on the other, so if, as in our case, one bit of your bed was in aisle 16 and the next bit in aisle 17, you would have to shove a heavily loaded trolley across the road, which was in fact filled with other goods. Actually we only bought one bed, but the bits were in three different aisles. And the first bit was in three differently numbered boxes. And we couldn’t find these at first because they were buried under heavy mirrors in containers which had fallen over from the next ‘location’. I should have said that in each of these aisles there are 30+ locations. Our mattress, for example, was in location 32, that is at the furthest end of the aisle. Loading that onto the trolley, on wheels, but with no brakes, was no mean feat.

During the two hours we spent in, with the possible exception of Carlsberg, Scandinavia’s most popular export, I realised that one of the most energy-sapping aspects of this store is the tropical, airless, atmosphere. How the staff manage, I do not know. Given the temperatures in Sweden, you may think this rather surprising.

Having ‘picked’ and paid for our bed we wheeled the various parts on the trolley to the Home Delivery and Assembly desk. Now, we already had a large supermarket type trolley loaded with the items mentioned above. And the flat trolley containing mattress, bed-head, and all the other pieces which make up a double bed, extended too much for me to push on my own. This meant that we each took a handle of that trolley and Jackie pushed the other with her other hand. A number of people coming towards us tried to walk past without making way. This was rather difficult.

The thought that IKEA would actually assemble our piece of furniture was very exciting. Anyone who has assembled such items themself will understand why. It was one thing to build something out of Meccano for fun, quite another to attempt to follow instructions to put a bed together. So. It was a great disappointment to be told by the young lady on the home delivery desk that they didn’t do it any more. I pointed out the sign behind her, suggesting that if they didn’t do it they should take down that sign and all the much larger, upper case, signs which had led us to her. This rather discombobulated the young woman who felt the need to go off and check her facts. She returned, somewhat embarrassed, and confirmed that she was right. The small print in the sign states that it is their partners who do the assembling and she could give me the number to ring. But, as I said, the heading claims they do it themselves and is misleading. And needs removing. And she should tell someone that she had a customer complaining. And I don’t suppose she will. As Jackie says, it gives a whole other meaning to the phrase ‘we’ve made up a bed for you’.

This evening we dined on fillet steak purchased in the Lyndhurst butchers, which was much more successful than his only half-cooked pork pie. Dessert and wines were the same as yesterday.

Iron Age Hill Fort

Whilst Jackie went off to buy a stepladder this morning, I wrestled with my Apple computer. The ladder was needed because of the height of the ceilings in Castle Malwood Lodge. Even with this, standing on the platform at the top of the steps, and putting my phobia out of my mind, I could only just reach up, arms outstretched, to unscrew the smoke alarm which was emitting regular beeps crying out for a new battery. I felt like giving it a battering.

The Apple Mac problem was how to recover each page of my current Listener crossword puzzle, when neither I nor the kindly relative who decided several years ago to clean up my desktop, knew where they were. And I couldn’t remember much about clues written six years ago. I managed it.

After lunch we returned to the flat to unpack what we had carried in last night and to check the inventory. A very thorough job had been done on the inventory on behalf of the agents. Everything was in good order except that the closer on our front door had dropped and was preventing entry unless someone my height could reach up and push it upwards. I telephoned the agent who immediately contacted a repair man. Just as we had got in the car to return to London, I received a call from the Morden landlord tying up details about our departure from Links Avenue. She had been ill and there had been a miscommunication between her and the agent. Whilst I was speaking to her I received a voicemail from the maintenance man who wanted to come there and then to mend the door. We waited for him and he fixed the problem. He thought someone had been swinging from the bent bar. Given that he had to stand on the recently purchased stepladder to reach it that seemed rather unlikely. But you never know.

The garden to Castle Malwood Lodge is entered across a cattle grid designed to keep out the various New Forest fauna. On either side of the road leading to this you are in The New Forest. The house itself was built in 1880 for Sir W. Harcourt, the then Chancellor of the Exchequer. Now divided into flats it is a grade 2 listed building. This means the exterior cannot be changed. It was built on the site of an Iron Age Hill Fort, with the fascinating consequence that the row of modern garages is situated on top of one of the walls. There remains a considerable amount of sloping to the lawns that probably reflects the original use of this piece of land. We will enjoy looking further into the history.

We returned to London and dined at Le Chardon in Abbeyville Road, Clapham, with our friends Wolf and Luci. Jackie ate haddock, I had rump of lamb, and Wolf and Luci each had dover sole. Tarte tatin and chocolate cake were the sweets. Luci and I shared a bottle of excellent Chilean merlot, which the waiter informed me was what I always had there; Wolf drank apple juice and Jackie Stella.

Rump of lamb was a meal which, in Cafe Rouge in Clifton Road in Little Venice a few years ago was the vehicle for my favourite unwitting spoonerism. When I ordered a lump of ram the waiter, a Croatian who was here to learn English, fell about laughing.

Surprise Reprised

Over coffee this morning Jackie and I spoke of large Victorian houses. She had spent part of her childhood in a magnificent mansion in Cator Road, Sydenham. Sydenham, of course, doesn’t have an elegant ring about it any more, and the house, like many of its generation, has been broken up into flats. Jessica had been born in a similar house in Nottingham, which she last knew as a children’s home; although it will not be that now. When I first walked into Lindum House in Newark, a building of a similar ilk, I had a very comforting sensation brought by an ambient memory of my Knight grandparents’ home in South Park Road in Wimbledon. That grand house and garden has, like most others in that street, been demolished to make way for a block of flats. My only clear childhood memories of 18 South Park Road are of coal fires at Christmas and, strangely enough, iron fruit bush stakes in the garden. I have a vague sense of wooden railings around an upstairs corridor. I had told Mum about my feeling, and when she first visited she said: ‘I’m not surprised. It’s exactly the same’. We always had open fires in the beautiful grates in Newark; although there was central heating, the earlier radiators having been provided by the Beeston Boiler Company, by coincidence Jessica’s paternal family firm. There were fruit bushes supported by iron stakes in the same position of the large Victorian garden. Sadly, Dad never got to see it, as he died two weeks after we moved. I’d have loved him to have enjoyed that relative of his childhood home.

Throughout the morning people were arriving to help prepare for the party this afternoon. Michael, Heidi, Alice, and Oliver had driven down early from Sanderstead for the purpose. Thea joined them when she and Adam arrived. Others, including Jackie and me, were in and out shopping. Just as I had been given on 1st July (see post), Mum received a surprise 90th birthday party. Yesterday’s rain having cleared up Michael arranged chairs in sunspots around the garden, and Jackie completed the garden room transformation. Alice had made four tiers of a sponge cake which she layered and decorated in situ at The Firs. Angela brought an array of her own home cooked Chinese savories and an attractive noodle dish. She really is a very good cook.

When Jacqueline brought Mum to the front door everyone was gathered in the hall to greet her with ‘Happy birthday’. From her children to her great grandchildren everyone was represented, and Danni gave her a large framed set of photographs, one of which each of the grandchildren had had produced of themselves. There was a last minute stress when my printer ran out of ink and Elizabeth’s kept jamming, but Danni, with Andy’s calm influence, stayed with it and completed the task on time. Unfortunately Louisa and her family were unable to come because because she has tonsilitis; and Malachi had to leave his mother behind because she is expecting his new sister quite soon.

As always with these events this was an opportunity for us all to catch up with each other, and particularly for the cousins to meet. It is very pleasing to see them all mingling and chatting in earnest. Mum was on good form and was not whisked away until 10.45.

Now it can be revealed that yesterday’s trip to Minstead and this morning’s conversation about grand houses were no coincidences. I had been circumspect yesterday because Jackie and I wished certain of my readership to learn face-to-face today that we have put a holding deposit on a flat to rent in Castle Malwood Lodge. Everyone is very pleased for us. We will be living in an albeit small section of a wonderful building in absolutely beautiful surroundings. Perhaps my recent forest walks will not have been in vain.