The Answer Must Lie In The Postcodes

Windmill landscape

Billingford Mill is maintained by The Norfolk Windmills Trust:

Norfolk Windmills Trust (1)

WindmillThere may be more water pumps than mills, for these former relics of times past were used to pump out water from the county’s precarious terrain reclaimed from the sea.

Were it not for the rooftop in between, the Billingford Mill would have been beautifully framed by our hotel bedroom window.  It was this that drew me out early on this dewy morning to wander into the field in which it stood, and along footpaths around it. Willowherb Sunlight lent a glistening sheen to the willowherb running to seed, and a warning glitter to delineate the strands of the spider’s webs thus deterring flies from entering.Spider in web  These circular spun traps festooned the long grasses bent under the weight of the recent rain.

Returning to the side road by the pub, I passed The Old Smithy, The Old Bakery, and various other cottage dwellings, and walked down to a junction at which I turned right to Brome and Oakley before retracing my steps in time for breakfast.

Field stubble

Shorn stubble stubbornly protruded from some of the fields.Cattle at dawn  In others cattle were enjoying their own morning fodder.  The road crossed a surprisingly fast-flowing stream.

Stream

As Jackie and I descended the fire escape on our way to the bar, a fast-moving vehicle pointed out a hitherto unnoticed fact.  The fire escape led directly, and I mean directly, into the road.  There was, in any case, no pavement.

The Horseshoes

Our most congenial hostess provided a breakfast equally as excellent as yesterday’s.  She confirmed she had, indeed, prepared all the Sunday lunches herself, having a little waiting help. I have revised my impressions of this establishment, which is in fact much more pleasant than the rather basic room suggested.

Pondering the two Billingfords conundrum, I decided the answer must lie in the postcodes.  That of The Horseshoes begins IP (Ipswich); whereas Sue and John’s home, The Old Chapel, starts with NR (Norwich).  Maybe The Horshoes was once in Suffolk, the county of Ipswich.  Newark, after all, in Nottinghamshire, was originally part of Lincolnshire.  My former home there, Lindum House, translated from the Latin, would read Lincoln House.  Our landlady said she sometimes receives mail which should go to The Street in the other Billingford.

We had a more pleasant drive back to The Firs where we learnt that visitors had continued to trickle in during our absence, and my cards had continued to sell.  After a short stay we returned home, Jackie having intended then to drive us to Walkford with a present and card for Shelly, whose actual birthday it is today.  In the event, after driving several hundred miles in three days, she decided she couldn’t do it.

Berties (sic) has moved to Lyndhurst.  This fish and chip shop graced Lymington Road in Highcliffe for about forty years before being sold to the current owners, who moved to our nearest large village in 2012.  Unfortunately for the proprietors and prospective diners, builders let everyone down over the work in the new restaurant, so locals have, until very recently, made do with a takeaway.  Having eagerly awaited the opening, we learned that it has at last happened.  When she woke from a well-earned sleep, Jackie drove us there where we enjoyed large haddock meals.  Jackie drank coffee, while I had tea.

Raq

Jackie is now providing morning coffee for Brown Brothers Builders, who are painting the downpipes.  I am not sure whether or not Gladys is doing the one o’clock tea (see post of 4th June).  I will soon expect a queue of tradespeople offering their services.

The atmosphere was dull, warm, and humid as I walked the Football Green/Bull Lane loop. Settling down for storm Cattle and ponies on the Green were settling down for the promised storm.

Raq and RuinI had originally planned a different route but was diverted by two collies racing in pursuit of I didn’t know what.  As I neared them I noticed John Edward Bartlett, otherwise known as Jeb, throwing something. Jeb and Rack and RuinOn closer inspection it proved to be a slingshot used to launch a rubber ball.  The dogs clearly enjoyed the game.  When the ball landed inside the roped off area, the smaller animal waited for permission to retrieve it, nipped through the gate, and gathered it up.  I am thinking of submitting my photograph for a Spot the Ball competition.

G. Bramwell Evens, Romany of the BBC, broadcast nature programmes in the 1930s and ’40s.  He also wrote numerous books.  His dog was a spaniel whose name caught the attention of my first brother-in-law, Bernard Murray who, in the 1960s, as a young teenager, named his pet after Romany’s companion.

Jeb described himself as head gardener of Malwood Lodge.  He was happy for me to photograph his activity and offered the names of his collies, ‘for [my] records’.  He had acquired the smaller dog first, and had always wanted to name a dog after Romany’s. He hadn’t told me the story of the name when I demonstrated that I knew how to spell it. He stopped me relating it, so he could do so himself.  The name was Raq.  Obviously being a man after my own heart he could not resist calling the second one Ruin.

Soay sheep with black lambs

When I was introduced to Soay sheep on 29th May, I had been told their lambs were black.  This was very clear today.

A shopping trip to Ringwood was followed by a diversion to Bransgore to have another look at the outside of 93 Burley Road (see 14th June post).  It’s still there.  Back at our flat we sat outside for a drink before our meal.  The temperature today has been 23c and we did not receive the expected rain.  Jackie’s hanging baskets are now full of colour.  Unfortunately they are all clustered on the lawn outside the back door because of Brown Brothers’ work on the house.  We also pondered about the little brown circular patches in the grass.  Probably nothing to do with the builders.  My guess is that they represent the toilet facilities for a small bitch who is brought out at 6 a.m. each morning to be emptied.  They are rather like those Paddy left on occasion on the Lindum House lawn.

Jackie made a delicious chili con carne (recipe) for our dinner.  I enjoyed it with Maipo reserva merlot 2012, while she drank Hoegaarden.

Picking Up The Tab

Ossemsley Manor view

Although the weather cleared this evening, it was through steady rain and silvery mist that Jackie drove us on a second window shopping trip.  The windows in question being of course attached to residences we wanted to check out from outside.  We scoured bits of Hampshire and Dorset.

First on the list was Ossemsley Manor.  Taking a rather different route than yesterday we managed to find it this time.  One reason for our previous confusion had probably been the sign that read Tiptoe and Sway, which, until we realised it was leading to a couple of villages, we had thought was an indication of how we should proceed.  It would, in any case, have been quite difficult in a car.

Ossemsley ManorThe problem with Ossemsley is that it is in the middle of nowhere, yet not far from Bashley.  As far as we can tell, even the correct road through tree-lined lanes, is exceedingly pock-marked.  We decided we would need to invest in a 4X4 for a suitable measure of sturdiness.  The house itself is a wonderful Edwardian castellated folly.  We loved it and its ambience.  Not that we went inside or saw anyone.  There was evidence of children in a summer house, shells laid out on a table, a sand pit, and a boat;  someone like Jackie had filled various pots with flowers, and even constructed a raised bed in a frame that contained various vegetables.  The mature gardens contained a giant redwood tree, and a pheasant emerged from a hedge.  There is an idyllic view across sloping fields. Cattle A string of cattle of differing ages hugged the tree line in an attempt to shelter from the rain.  This prospective dwelling tugged at our hearts but Jackie insisted that we should think about what it would be like when we grew old and she couldn’t drive and I couldn’t walk.  Why did she have to bring in a note of good sense?

Have I mentioned that only a small part of this building, in the shape of a flat, is either available or vaguely affordable?  And there would be nothing left over for a jeep.  Well, one can only dream.

From there we viewed the outside of a similar flat in a possibly older building in Salisbury Road, Burton.  Far less romantic, it had the advantage of proximity to the village green with all necessary amenities including a GP which should come in handy for the aged. Salisbury Road,Burton HouseWe could just see the patio garden that came with this apartment.  This is, of course, a plus for my lady, the lack of which is a minus for the first place.

Then it was on to North Street, Bere Regis to recce a corner house and the village.  We wandered by the side of the house next door in an attempt to see the garden which wasn’t visible from the road.  A very friendly couple called Rachel and Phil invited us to the very top of their steep terraced garden in an attempt to satisfy our curiosity.  In fact, all the gardens were perpendicular and needed layering with steps.  North Street house, Bere RegisWe still couldn’t see much, but we did learn that whoever bought the house would have very friendly neighbours.  Sadly, what was originally two cottages didn’t have much kerb appeal.  Phil told us which of the two pubs to patronise for lunch, so, after a walk down the main street, we repaired to Drax Arms in West Street, and enjoyed a cheese and bacon sandwich and cheesy chips, and cod and chips, with Kronenbourg and Badger’s First Gold.

We congratulated the barmaid on the food, told her Phil had recommended her establishment, said goodbye, and toddled off down the road.  A few minutes later the rather discombobulated young woman called after us. Drax Arms tab She came to a standstill and the piece of paper in her hand told me I had forgotten to pay.  She was far more embarrassed than I was; after all, I do it often in Le Code Bar; so I apologised profusely and gave her a gentle hug which she appreciated.  Back I went inside and settled up.

Jackie is now beginning to get a little worried about me, for, in the shop attached to the petrol station where she filled up on our way there, I had picked up a Bournemouth Echo newspaper from a pile in one of those metal frames that usually contain London’s freebie newspapers.  As I walked out, the assistant called to let me know that ‘that costs 65p’.  I’d only picked it up for the advertisements that usually fund free newspapers, but I thought I’d best look big, and handed over the cash.  I could hardly say I didn’t want it if I had to pay for it.  It was a daily newspaper.  And there weren’t any housing adverts either.

The bottle of Canti prosecco that Don brought Jackie at the weekend was the perfect aperitif and accompaniment to her superb roast chicken and vegetables meal this evening.  Don, you must have sought the advice of your favourite wine merchant who has scored again.

‘Er Indoors

Judith photographing landscape 8.12

Last night and this morning I read ‘Roman Britain’, Peter Salway’s contribution to the 1984 Oxford Illustrated History of Britain, another of Ann’s books.

Thierry and Geoffrey arrived early to continue the work.  It won’t be finished before I leave, but, no matter, much was done.  They had been awaiting instruction from Saufiene who was in Tunisia.

When, in August last year, I had walked with Judith (posted 10th August), a broad circular route on the perimeter of which lies Mescoules, the conditions had been so different.  Then it had been a blazing hot day.  Today was cold, damp, and overcast.  Cattle in fieldCattle seemingly lying in a field amidst tall grass stirred themselves into an ungainly gallop as I approached, and stood expectantly by a water-trough in a far corner they knew I must pass.Calves  The adults soon lost interest in empty-handed me and, whilst they were there, visited the trough, now surrounded by a quagmire.  I retained the calves’ interest a bit longer.

Tractor tracksTractor tracks through a barleyfield left an interesting pattern, such as might be considered a crop circle message.

At least the snails were enjoying the weather.Snail

This seemed a longer stretch than I remember it.  Perhaps it does on a dull day without company.  Had I held my nerve for a few yards longer, I would have passed a smallholding I recognised and not felt the need to reassure myself by asking for directions of the only person I met en route.

A gentleman was standing, legs astride, with his back to me, beside his van parked alongside a house.  He emitted a stream, shook his right elbow, hoisted his shoulders in a shrug, and lifted the arm about a zip’s length.  The French are more relaxed about these things.  Perhaps it was his own house and he had forgotten to take a leak before he left it.  Having politely waited for him to finish I asked him the way to Sigoules.  To my relief, he confirmed my intentions and told me I had an hour to go.  Fortunately it only took 45 minutes, as the rain soon came down again.

Lunch at Le Code Bar consisted of noodle soup; chitterling salad; tender beef served with penne pasta; and apple tart.  I could have had salmon salad, but chose the chitterling because the only other time I had attempted to eat one it had been raw.  I swear the butcher had told me this was an option.  It hadn’t been palatable.  When I told David this he curled his lip in distaste.

Back at the house the trapdoor remained a problem.  Thierry is to make another, much lighter model, in his own workshop.  Even with a new system this very heavy, subject to moisture, and knackered current door will be cumbersome and just as difficult to dislodge.  I told him to stop struggling with it.

I shared great fun with the builders as I tried to explain the epithets ‘er indoors’ and ‘she who must be obeyed’ from the long-running television series ‘Minder’ and ‘Rumpole of the Bailey’.  They had asked me for the English version of femme, as in wife or Mrs.  I felt obliged to give them options.

Tending Livestock And Crops

Purple flowersPoppiesWriting three-quarters of a millennium ago, Geoffrey Chaucer, our earliest great poet, in his classic ‘Canterbury Tales’ displayed a talent for capturing characterisation with simple descriptions of clothing and habits.  Whether or not she was inspired by this writer, the modern P.D. James has this facility in abundance, as demonstrated by ‘A Certain Justice’ which I finished reading this morning.  Her descriptions of place are equally poetic and add enormously to our understanding of the natures of her subjects.  Within this elegant writing she weaves an intriguing and credible murder mystery.

Landscape from Eymet road

In a not wholly successful attempt to dislodge yesterday’s stubborn mud, I grated my shoes along the gravel footpaths leading out of Sigoules as I set off on this much brighter but still chilly morning to walk the La Briaude loop.  Apart from the rather raucus distant cawing of rooks, the birdsong was glorious, and the day fresh.

CattleUnlike the New Forest ponies, who refuse to be distracted from their grazing, the more inquisitive Dordogne cattle would often lift their heads and stare.

Stony track

BarleyTempted by a stony uphill track, I took a diversion, and was rewarded by a sight of burgeoning barley.  Through trees, this led to a road on which I turned left.  Miraculously enough, this led me to La Briaude.  I had discovered a wider loop that I will use in future.

Gardener (1)Walking on towards Sigoules, I heard a tender male voice.  Peering through the trees I saw the gentleman was addressing sweet nothings to his obviously well groomed donkey.  We exchanged greetings.  The man and I, not the ass.  Further on, another man was tending his garden.  Beyond a crop of bright yellow tulips, stretched rows of vegetables, at the end of which he tilled the stony soil.Gardener

The sometimes low and relaxed, sometimes more shrill and desperate cries of the as yet unmated woodpigeons drowned the cheerful chirruping of smaller birds as I set about sorting the sitting room.

Jackie will be pleased to learn that today’s Code Bar soup was yesterday’s veg one amplified by noodles.  There followed shredded pot-au-feu beef with a tangy tomato based sauce including little tomatoes and accompanied by half a hard-boiled egg on lettuce.  Not necessarily my favourite food, the main course of lasagne could have me converted.  Profiteroles completed the Italian theme.  Fred paid me the compliment of asking me the English word (strawberries) for the French fraises.  A group of English diners were having them, but I had them yesterday.

Cheers, Errol

Louisa, Errol, Jessica and Imogen and I made an early start as Errol drove us to Ocknell camping and caravan site near Fritham, so they could investigate the facilities. They have bought a tent and intend to start camping.  We went out along Roger Penney Way, where I thought we might see donkeys, cattle, and even pigs, to complement the ponies.  We did see a few, but more were to come.

Jessica, Imogen (and Louisa, Errol)

The nearest we got to pigs were the Peppa Pig brochures which the girls studied avidly as their parents sought information at the site’s reception office.  They had, of course enjoyed a trip to Peppa Pig World with Jackie and me on 3rd November last year.

Donkeys

On our return, I suggested a drive through Fritham, where we were treated to prolonged close-ups of both donkeys and cattle who were in no hurry as they ambled up the road. There can be no more ungainly gait than that of hoofed animals on tarmac.  Even the new calves show signs of their parents’ awkwardness.  The donkeys showed us their rear views. Cattle on road The cattle ambled towards us aiming, no doubt, for their sheds at the junction leading to The Royal Oak.  When we turned back after coming to the end of the road, they had clearly been in no hurry, so we had to follow their rears as well.  On Stoney Cross Plain there were a number of forest pony foals to be seen.

It was not yet 10 a.m. when we returned to the Lodge.  We had already had one diversionary trip to stop Jessica and Imogen from waking Eleanor’s household.  Eleanor is ten years old and my granddaughters were itching for her to join them in the den.  But the curtains were drawn in her flat and it was Sunday morning.  I therefore stood in for the young lady until our very early lunch, necessitated by the family’s long journey back to Nottingham.

Jessica and Imogen in Eleanor's den

The den is within the spreading limbs of an enormous rhododendron which provide an excellent climbing frame.  Paving of various materials, some of which have been decorated with charcoal from a bonfire; a little fabricated gate; a patch in which carrots are being grown; a set of wind chimes; various plaster ornaments on a bird-feeder; and a wooden seat straddling the almost horizontal branches, are all features of this creation.  With immaculate timing Eleanor came in to view just at the point of lunch. Rhododendron As quick as a flash the girls were off to join her.  Imogen took her cucumber-filled crusty roll off with her, and returned a few minutes later for earth to be scraped off the filling. Naturally she was given fresh ingredients.

958264_10151632303639935_980861427_o

This evening I received a photograph from Errol that he had taken yesterday.  Strangely enough, I was walking in the wrong direction (I am indebted to Becky for this interpretation of the picture, which is more apt than my original).

We were also grateful to Errol for providing the drinks that went with our evening meal tonight.  Jackie drank a can of Stella he had left in the fridge, and I finished a bottle of a French wine he had bought at the village shop.  This beverage trips off the tongue as well as it slid onto it. It is Lazy Lizard Shiraz 2011.  We ate oven fish and chips followed by Jackie’s rice pudding and Sainsbury’s profiteroles.

The Benefits Of Hearing

Jackie's hide

Blue titA 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.

Blossom in Castle Malwood LodgeRunning HillIn 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.

Black lambs and ewe

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. Dogs running free 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.  Cattle baskingDiscretion 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. Pony grazing 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.

Horses and cart

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.

Door to 1-2 Horse and Dolphin YardThis 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.

A Damsel In Distress

Another warm day meant we could admire Jackie’s flowering violas and tagetes seedlings whilst lunching in the garden.

On 5th March I had got hopelessly lost and therefore considerably delayed when looking for Ditchend Brook en route from Godshill to Frogham.  Studying the Ordnance Survey map afterwards I discovered the route of this waterway winding through the heath to the left of Roger Penny Way coming from Cadnam.  When Jackie suggested a trip to Frogham this seemed the day for an expedition along the stream.  She drove me to Ashley Walk car park and met me at the said village.  The footpath over the heathland from that point crosses the gorse-bound brook.  Eschewing a straight path that avoided the natural meanderings of the gravel bedded clear peat-coloured water, I threaded my usual way along the pony tracks sprinkled with dry droppings.  The animals clearly chose to wander within easy reach of their drink.

Had I not done so I would not have noticed two, hopefully successfully hatched, duck eggs  hidden in the bushes.

The stream descends gently from the height alongside Roger Penny Way to its end in a valley below.  In this fairly flat area, basking in the lazy, hazy summery afternoon, lay a number of cattle including the

rare Belted Galloway, or ‘Belties’, breed , contemplating the water and hoping for shelter from the scrubby trees.  

Beyond them stood many ponies.  A trio of these, abandoning their observation of two mallards swimming across a still wet pool, began leading the hopeful march towards me.  They were disappointed to discover I had nothing for them.  These poor creatures, most of whom are displaying bony ribs, have had a hard time of it this winter.

Soon after weaving my way among the livestock, I came to the beautiful goal that had eluded me on my previous visit, the brook that I had had to cross.  This time I knew not to expect a bridge.

The route from there was familiar to me.  Feeling confident, from Burnt Balls and Long Bottom I walked parallel to, but lower down than, Hampton Ridge as far as Chilly Hill.  At this point I checked with a cyclist that I was on the right track to turn and walk up to the ridge from where it was a gentle downhill stroll to Frogham.  The young woman, who was the only person I met on this idyllic afternoon trip, confirmed I was headed in the right direction.  I apologised for stopping her on an uphill stretch.  ‘Don’t worry’, she replied.  ‘I’ll be walking myself in a minute’.  Off she pedalled around a bend.  As I turned it myself I saw what she meant.  

There she was, pushing her steed up an almost perpendicular climb.  At the top she was crouched over the bike in some disarray.  She looked up, her hair dangling in her eyes, and looking somewhat flushed.  ‘Are you strong?’, she asked.  Well, I was certainly going to be, wasn’t I?  It’s not often a Knight comes across a damsel in distress.  Of course, I know nothing about bikes, but I have got a bit of brawn, so long as bending of neither of my two rugby shattered finger joints is required.  There was a thingy sticking out that should be flush with the frame.  It seemed to be in place for casing the brake or gear cables.  I had to place my palm around the sharp end of it and apply as much pressure as I could, trying not to give away the fact that I was in danger of administering the stigmata to myself.  Fortunately I was able to demonstrate that I was sufficiently strong, and the young lady was able to wobble off without discomfort to her lower limb.

Jackie arrived back at the Abbot’s Well car park at the same time as I did.  She had thoughtfully gone off to buy me a bottle of water, for which I was most grateful.  

Today has been a day of glowing gorse and a bank of pastel primroses.  On the Cadnam roundabout on the A31 cascades a bank of these latter plants that has attracted us every time we have passed them.  This afternoon Jackie parked at a safe distance and I took my chances among the traffic to walk back and photograph them.

Dinner was Jackie’s chilli con carne with which I drank Piccini chianti reserva 2009 and she didn’t.

Whose Road Is It Anyway?

Coal titsBack home in Minstead the coal tits on their feeder made up for the elusiveness of the small birds in Sigoules.  After a morning spent preparing my papers for Philip, my accountant, I took a later than usual ford loop walk.  Upper driveUpper drive was looking resplendent in the mid-afternoon sun.  The deciduous trees, not yet in leaf, displayed their shapely naked limbs.  Elsewhere, hedgerows and other, smaller, trees were producing young, yellow-green, budding leaves.  Daffodils still thrust their way through thorny hedges.  Susan Hill, in ‘The Magic Apple Tree’, her record of a year in the country which I began reading yesterday, calls spring a ‘yellow season’.  After the masses of dandelions, marigolds, and buttercups in and around Sigoules, and now us, too, being treated to its awakening, I see what she means.  On this very pleasant afternoon there were even a few brief April showers.

Ponies on roadA car that sped past me on the very narrow road to the ford, barely wide enough for a pony to straddle it, came to a sudden halt around the next bend.  Hearing its approach I had stepped smartly to the side.  No such courtesy was offered by the seven or eight ponies that idly blocked the road.  They ambled up and down and from side to side investigating possible fodder.  The driver just had to wait.  Also waiting, in a side road, was a tourist driver who wasn’t sure what to do.  I gave him the benefit of my vast, all of five months, experience, and helped him and his passengers on their way. Ponies on road (2) Mind you,  I was very wary about passing the rear end, by which was all the space that was available, of the first  horse.  Having negotiated this back passage safely, I arrived, after walking up from the ford, at what passes for the main road through the village.

Cow following meSusan Hill speaks of cattle being sent into Buttercup Field at the beginning of May, having been sheltered for the winter.  Obviously, in the New Forest the freedom to roam comes a bit earlier.  This was brought home to me as I started up the hill through Minstead.  A strange lowing sound from behind me alerted me to the fact that I was being followed up the road.  Indeed, the only sense I could make of the increasingly agitated, closer and closer, mooing was that the tagged cow wanted me out of the way.  I soon realised that it was keen to join its companions who had taken possession of the road and more or less covered Seamans Corner.  At a rough estimate half the bovine population of the New Forest now blocked the roads and stripped what was left of the foliage.Cows on road  As I approached the Corner, Cow in hedgeapart from the odd cow occupying the usual headless stance, pausing only to plop their own recycled fodder offerings, they were all following me up the road.  It was just a wee bit disconcerting.  I must admit that I did occasionally take a sneaky look to make sure there was no pizzle in sight.  Had I seen one, I’m not sure what I would have done. Cows on road (2) Watching tradesmen negotiating these natural obstacles I often wonder how their time-sheets are affected.

Jackie produced her usual excellent arabbiata with mixed pasta for our evening meal.  I had cherry pie for afters.  Jackie drank Peroni while I had some Marques de Montino  reserva rioja 2007.

Carry On Walking

Deadmans Hill view 3.13It was such a glorious day that we decided to set off early to find some of the wonderful locations we had stumbled on yesterday.  Jackie drove me as far as Deadman Hill on Roger Penny Way, with an agreement to meet in Frogham carpark after two hours.  Cattle from Ashley Walk 3.13Shortly before I reached Ashley Walk on Godshill Ridge, Jackie, who had driven on to Frogham, drove back, passing me.  She paused to explain that she was going home for her phone in case we needed it.  That, as we will see, was a fruitless exercise.

As usual, generations of thoughtful ponies had prepared my passage across the heath.  Gliding along on layers of bracken stalks and desiccated droppings, my walking boots felt like carpet slippers.  The fresher excreta was best avoided, especially as it was above that that the numerous clouds of midges gathered.  These flying ticklers reminded me of those by the River Wandle in Morden described on 2nd November last year.  On the approach to Godshill a large pool of water had not yet dried up.  A short, fat, hairy pony, reminding me of Ernie Wise, was drinking from it.  As I neared the animal it raised its snout, turned, and lumbered towards me in an amorous manner, with green matter hanging from flaring nostrils and liquid dripping from its whiskers.  The green matter, fortunately, was pondweed.  I wasn’t sure about the liquid, but as it was nuzzled onto my suit jacket sleeve, I rather hoped it was water.

Daffodils 3.13Roadside daffodils were now in bloom.  What a difference a day makes. Well Lane, Godshill 3.13 Soon after spotting some of these in Godshill, I was tempted by the entrance to Well Lane, which sported a footpath sign, to depart from my planned route which did not include leaving the beaten track.  It was a mixed blessing that I did so.  Labouring up the steep rise ahead of me were an elderly man and his ageing dog.  This was Peter Trim.  Peter had lived there for twenty six years, all but the last he had spent guiding walkers.  He knew these forest areas like the back of his hand.  Which was just as well for me.  He described the route I should take to reach Frogham.  Initially it involved two stiles and a bridge over a stream.  Fields had to be crossed.  When I had finished speaking with him I got some of it right.

Peter Trim's garage 3.13This friendly widower pointed out his garage to me.  I had walked past it without noticing it, largely because I was watching him climb the slope.  That was an omission.  The facade of this structure is covered in small paintings Peter has produced, each one having some significance for him.  He described many of these for me.  The Riding for Disabled logo represents his years as a volunteer for that organisation.   One more worth singling out is that of the rear ends of four ponies, showing the cuts of their tails, each kind indicating a different territory, as an aid to identification.  This is midway on the right side of the gallery.  The dog hobbled across the front as I was taking the photograph.  Peter urged it to remove itself.  I asked him to let it be, as it would add to the ambience.

Since he arrived in Well Lane Peter has never wanted to be anywhere else.  A sweep of his arm took in the whole of the valley below, where much wartime preparation had taken place.  He recited much, but all I’ve managed to take in is testing of bouncing bombs in the Second World War, and Boer War rifle practice.  Someday a visit with a notebook might pay dividends.  I’m sure this man would be amenable.

Almost as soon as I had taken my leave of Peter I realised the value of his guidance.  Just a few yards down the lane, building materials and a wire fence blocked the path.  I could just ease myself past the obstacle, reach a gate I needed to open, and cross the first stile. Sheepfield 3.13 I was now on farmland.  Across the stream there was a sheepfield to the right, its flock grazing in the sunlight.  As I traversed the bridge I was rewarded with a rare sight indeed. Stags 3.13 Trooping in single file from a copse onto the field to the left was a stately parade of magnificent stags.  A small rabbit hopped over to meet them.  He didn’t stay long.  Maybe he’d had in mind a comparison of scuts, and realised theirs were bigger than his.  In any group there is always a straggler.  This was no exception.  As the rabbit reached the trees, the lagging member trotted down from the bank.

Stepping stones 3.13The final stile opened onto a still very muddy area.  In contrast to yesterday’s farmer who had ensured only the most intrepid wayfarers would enter his land, this owner had laid a series of helpful stepping stones.

Consulting my Ordnance Survey map I turned right onto the minor road ahead.  So far, so good. Hart Hill 3.13 Then I turned left too early and found myself on Hart Hill.  A string of ponies were making their way to a gorse bush above me as I realised I shouldn’t be up there and turned back to the junction at which I should have gone straight on.  A woman was standing in her garden on a bend in the road.  She told me I was well on my way to Frogham, I had to go straight on, cross the brook, turn right and walk up over a ridge which she indicated on the distant horizon.  As I continued a car stopped and the driver asked me for directions.  I ask you!   She asked me for directions!  Although I was a bit dubious about it, she decided to go straight on.  Soon she turned around, stopped, and got out her mobile phone.  I quickly realised why.  The road had ended.  It now became a scarcely trodden footpath.  I carried on, seeking the brook.  All that remotely resembled a brook was a ditch alongside the footpath and a few little streams that were now not much more than mudholes, running across the path into it.  Eventually, the path becoming less and less well travelled, my nerve cracked, and I reversed my steps to the helpful woman’s house.  By now I had to negotiate my way among a large group of ponies lolling about all over the road.  Rounding a bend I met a really evil-looking black and white terrier of some sort.  It guarded the gate to a property.  As far as I was concerned it was on the wrong side of the closed gate.  Silently waiting for me to come alongside its home, it let out savage war cries and rushed, snapping, at my legs.  I had to kick out a bit.

The helpful woman was not at home.  I decided to go back and have another go.  This time a driver, getting into a van told me there was no way through to Frogham using that lady’s directions.  His advice was to go back the way I had come and look for a footpath on my left.  I found it.  There, facing me, were the stepping stones I had crossed earlier.  That wasn’t going to be any use, so I went on to Newgrounds where I met another woman who confirmed the first woman’s directions.  She said it would take me about an hour and a quarter.  Now, since Jackie would be expecting me in the Frogham carpark at that very moment, that was a bit awkward.  But we both had our mobile phones, and Jackie was very patient and had Miranda Hart to entertain her, and it was a good hour to lunchtime, so all would be well.

Ah.  No signal.  Try again.  I had a signal but she didn’t.  I left a message.  I did that several times in the next three quarters of an hour.  What I didn’t know was that she was doing the same, and had even driven off to find a signal, to no avail.

Before setting off yet again, I had a really good look at the map, and, there, clearly marked, not very many yards from where I’d turned back, was Ditchend Brook. Ditchend Brook 3.13 I reached it in double quick time, especially when, as anticipated, I had to encounter the terrible terrier again.  This time he had brought his little mate along.  Warding off two snapping, snarling dogs is a bit more difficult.   I had not received instructions about how to cross the lovely cool rivulet with clear water running over an albeit shallow stony bed.  Of course I had to walk across it.  Which, trousers hoisted, I did.

This was hopeful.  Just turn right, up and over the heath, and Frogham and Jackie await.  Ah.  But, which of the numerous tracks criss-crossing the heath would be the right one? Long Bottom 3.13 Burnt Balls 3.13I rather liked the look of one which skirted areas marked as Burnt Balls and Long Bottom.  Hopefully it would lead to Hampton Ridge, which runs down to Frogham.  Hampton Ridge view 3.13Paying attention to the contour lines on the map, I should stay along the bottom edge of that ridge, otherwise I’d end up on Thompson’s Castle.  Since my Thompson family live on Mapperley Top near Nottingham, I didn’t think there would be much point in that.

Hampton Ridge is a wide thoroughfare.  Once on there it was downhill all the way.  Jackie was waiting.  I was three quarters of an hour late.  From her vantage point, not having any idea of the direction I would be taking, she had actually spotted me coming down from the ridge, and jumped up and down waving her arms in the air.  Sadly, I didn’t notice.The Fighting Cocks 3.13

As we settled down to lunch at the Fighting Cocks pub in Godshill, Jackie commented that, what with Burnt Balls, Long Bottom, and Fighting Cocks, it had been rather a ‘Carry On’ walk.  Her quip refers to the scurrilous series of films throughout the 1960s, all entitled  ‘Carry On……………’.  They were notorious for their suggestive scenarios and double entendre dialogue.  Well, whichever way you look at it, this morning’s effort had been a bit of a carry on.

Whitebait and pate starters 3.13The lunch was amazing.  We took the pensioners’ special, two items for £7.95.  We both chose starters, pate for Jackie and whitebait for me; and each had haddock chips and peas to follow.  The starters alone were a meal in themselves.  All homemade and very well cooked.  Peroni and Otter Ale were drunk.

Aldi’s pork spare ribs were almost as good as Jackie’s special fried rice which combined for our evening meal.  I finished the Saint Emilion while Jackie savoured Hoegaarden.