cow – Page 3 – derrickjknight

‘What Else Can you Do On A Rainy Day?’

CLICKING ON IMAGES, TWICE IF NECESSARY, WILL ENLARGE THEM.

It rained steadily all day, so we decided to take another large bag of garden waste to Efford Recycling Centre.

Almost immediately we were held in a long tailback trailing down Christchurch Road. Clearly there were roadworks ahead. Eventually the sight of a yellow cherry picker on the other side of the road, its operator vanishing into foliage on high, confirmed what we had begun to suspect. Yes, it was our old friends BT/Open Reach engineers fixing an outage. Even worse, there was another further along the thoroughfare. (As I typed this, we lost our connection. Sod’s law.)

I had suggested the trip because I thought there wouldn’t be many people patronising the dump on such a day. I was wrong.

We sat in possibly the longest queue for a dump we have experienced. It offered no convenience.

I ventured to suggest this had not been such a good idea after all. My lady kindly replied with ‘What else can you do on a rainy day?’.

Eventually we unloaded our clippings. I attempted to get straight back into the car. But. Jackie didn’t. She was off to the Sales Area where she bought a stack of plain white plates and two white metal lanterns. Whilst she was in the undercover section,

I thought it would be a hoot to sneak off and buy the smaller of these, which I did. The Head Gardener then spotted the second, which it would have been unkind to have left on its own. Both were beautifully weathered. So it had been worth the trip after all.

Not wishing to join the traffic queue back home, we took a diversion around Sway and Tiptoe. As usual in such weather, ponies were largely absent, presumably sheltering deep within the forest.

A string of cattle, however, stubbornly cropped the heathland. Presumably in an attempt to keep reasonably dry they walked along at an unusually steady pace as they chomped.

A few loners, not minding soggy hooves, paddled in the ditches.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s succulent beef and onion pie, crunchy carrots, Brussels sprouts, runner beans, and new potatoes. She drank Hoegaarden and I partook of Bodega Toneles 22 malbec 2012.

Cherry Blossom

Today, perhaps thinking cherry blossom had no business blooming in our front garden just six weeks before Christmas, 54 m.p.h. winds strove unsuccessfully to rip the flowers from their ultra-flexible branches.

Perhaps it was therefore serendipitous that, among the unsorted negatives from 1983 that I identified and scanned this afternoon, I should have found more of those featured in ‘A Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On’.

Hannah, Ben, and Sam frolic here in May 1983.

I also discovered more of the holiday, later in the year Jessica, Sam, Louisa, Matthew, Becky and I enjoyed in North Wales.

A couple more of Sam planted on a cow by Matthew, are now included.

Here are some portraits of Jessica:

and one of me taken by her.

This evening we dined at The Smugglers Inn in Milford on Sea. Jackie chose chicken supreme and Peroni beer; I enjoyed Cajun pork and Doom Bar. We had eaten a good quantity of our meals before I thought to photograph them, but you get the picture.

A Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On

Today, I identified, dated, and scanned another batch of loose negatives from 1983.

The first was one of Louisa at Fontaine in France on one of the Memorable Holidays posted on May 18th this year. For that illustration, not having the negative to hand, I had scanned a print.

In May of 1983 Jessica, Sam, Louisa, Matthew, Becky and I paid a visit to Giles and Gill and their children Hannah and Ben in their home at the village of Penn Street near Amersham. It was a beautiful day, but not quite windy enough for Matthew, who wanted the children to experience a cherry blossom storm. So, what did he do? He sneaked up into the tree and shook the branches, sending flickering cherry blossom cascading down. This was even better than snow.

Back at home, in Gracedale Road, probably that same month, Sam decided to shake himself up when he used a duvet as a trampoline in the back garden where the washing was drying. This set of pictures could not be complete without the one of Sam’s headless body. I didn’t have the negative of this, so I scanned a print.

I do hope that duvet was very well filled, with a tog rating of 13.5.

Later that year, probably after we returned from the French trip, we holidayed near Cerrigydrudion in North Wales, where friends Anne and Don were refurbishing their recently acquired house.

Sam was soon at the wheel of an elderly tractor, whilst Louisa engaged the attention of the cattle.

I think this misty shot down the valley must have been taken early one morning.

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ojbd1jFDJBw&w=420&h=315]

For today’s title, I am indebted to the incomparable Jerry Lee Lewis.

This evening we dined on a Hordle Chinese Take Away meal. I finished the Madiran and Jackie drank Hoegaarden.

I Watched The Needles Disappear

Since, except when there is no visibility, I always look across at the Isle of Wight when I walk along the cliff top to Milford or Barton on Sea, it is quite fortuitous that the next two of my interchangeable large format photographic prints that I substituted this morning should be of a trip to Shanklin taken by Jackie, Michael, and me in September 1968. This holiday is described in my post entitled ‘Mumbai’. The unframed picture of Michael, happily buried in the sand, also illustrates that article.

The water spout drained onto the beach.

It was late in the afternoon before today’s rain stopped. Except that, attracted by the ever-changing light over The Solent, and deterred by the muddy footpaths, I returned by the clifftop and the coast road, I took my usual route to Milford on Sea and back. Crows perched on the edge of the cliff before taking off and soaring up above. It was a much cooler day and the wind brought a chill from the sea, so walkers were well wrapped up.

The rainfall I had seen earlier falling on the headland to the West, eventually made its way across to the Isle of Wight, and I watched the Needles disappear before making my way home.

A cow momentarily left off its grazing in order to have a good scratch.

For this evening’s dinner Jackie produced her most edible chilli con carne (recipe) with savoury rice that was a meal in itself, followed by blackberry and apple crumble and clotted cream. She drank Hoegaarden whilst my choice was Castillo san Lorenzo rioja reserva 2009.

The Chicks Have Hatched

One of the consequences of moving house is the need to wonder where to put things. This is very helpful in encouraging one to complete unfinished organisational tasks begun years ago. In about 2008/9, when living in Sutherland Place, I discovered that some of my books and slide boxes had been damaged by damp. The colour slides themselves were sound, but the boxes were on the wet side, so new containers were essential. I bought some, and decanted the positive films from the worst of the moistened ones. Although I had enough new receptacles to take the contents of the last, least damaged, box, I didn’t finish the task until yesterday. All in the interests of reducing by one the number of containers needing a home.
This led me, this morning, to resuscitating the ‘posterity’ series. My first photo-shoot of Jackie was made on Wimbledon Common in April 1966.

Here is one of the pictures, with the War Memorial in the background top left.
Before this I walked the whole length of Shorefield Road and Sea Breeze Road, taking in the vast acreage of the Country Park. The high-pitched screeching of the gulls over the stubble field on

Downton Lane gave way to the deafening racket of the rookery, at times indistinguishable from that of a reversing Highway Maintenance vehicle.

The lofty nests of the frenetically active rooks are now apparenty occupied by ravenous chicks. The parents flap to and fro keeping their offspring from starving. Each rounded cluster of sticks is guarded by one adult whilst its mate energetically forages.

At the far end of the Sea Breeze section of the park, where building continues unabated, is a meandering stream-crossed woodland walk leading to Studland Common Nature Reserve. Although partly gravelled, the paths tend towards the muddy.

The ear tags of cattle grazing in Studland Meadow reflected the gorse around them.

On my return I met and conversed with two separate dog-walkers. I was quite relieved that the West Highland terrier poised for attack was on the end of a lead, and had probably already had his breakfast.

This afternoon, as promised, our chests of drawers were delivered by Fergusson’s House Clearance.

Before dinner I finished reading Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel ‘The House of the Seven Gables’, in the Folio Society edition illustrated by Francis Mosley. First published in 1851 this is an intriguing story rich in characterisation. The author’s skill in story-telling surmounts the wordiness of some of his language commensurate with his time of writing. The reader’s interest is maintained throughout. There is a touch of mystery about both the house and the writer’s tale, and he ties it all up tidily in the end.

Mosley is a versatile illustrator who remains one of my favourite Folio Society artists.

Our evening meal was roast lamb in tasty gravy, served with crisp vegetables. I drank Cimarosa Chilean merlot from 2013.

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.

Aviemore

Beside many cattle grids are placed small pedestrian gates, for ease of crossing. Most people seem to either drive or walk over the grids. Mat’s little Jack Russell, Oddie, simply trips across them. Flo’s Scooby, on the other hand, managed to slip and hurt his foot on one. Our lower drive gate is so seldom used that the latch grows moss.

Today’s walk, starting by crossing the grid, was to Fritham where Jackie met me at The Royal Oak for a ploughman’s lunch and a pint of beer, and drove me back afterwards.

The sheep in the field alongside Furzey Gardens road were looking very shaggy this morning. All but one unfortunate, who appeared to be masquerading as the sheepdog in the Specsavers advertisement, and consequently retained straggly bits of fleece. Or maybe the shepherd, having somewhat unsuccessfully sheered just one, had decided to have his eyes tested.

There were still some boggy patches across the heath on the North side of the A31. So maybe sandals wasn’t a good idea. But the ponies usually find a way through, and they know it is much more fun to ford a gravelly stream than to squelch through a soggy quagmire. At one point I disturbed a dear little doe who scutted away from the gorse bushes before I had seen her. Had she just lain doggo I would have missed her altogether. But then, she didn’t know that.

Taking a short cut across the heath near Fritham, and hearing the drone of a single propeller airplane, I looked aloft in time to see it disappear into the fleecy clouds. Possibly the plane confused me, for it was soon after that that I realised the short cut wasn’t. This required the unnecessary circumperambulation of several farms and contributed to my being slightly late for our rendezvous. Had I not taken this minor diversion I possibly would not have met the smallest foal I have ever see. He will no doubt grow up to be a Thelwell pony like his Mum. A little later I was rather chuffed to be able unerringly to direct a car driver to the pub.

With less than a mile to go I found my way barred. A cow had adopted the standard New Forest stance of head in hedge. She stirred herself sufficiently to extract her tagged ears and fix me with a stony stare. This necessitated a little rear negotiation on my part. I shifted a bit sharpish as she twitched her tail and tap-danced her back legs. She may have also moved her front legs, but I wasn’t looking at those.

It is just possible that my ‘poof redders’ may be tempted to inform me that you won’t find either ‘scutting’ or ‘circumperambulation’ in a dictionary. As far as ‘scutting’ is concerned it seemed to me to be a perfectly good way of describing the bobbing of a deer’s scut, or rear end, as it romps away. And why not describe a circular walk as a ‘circumperambulation’? After all, sailors get away with circumnavigation. I’m hoping the Oxford Dictionary scouts spotted that one when I first used it on 20th July last year.

This afternoon, having slumped a bit after our lunch, we stirred ourselves to visit a National Gardens Scheme open garden in Bartley. We were so pleased we did because we could not have anticipated the breathtaking display that greeted us in this comparatively small establishment in a village street.

Having been planted with expert knowledge and care it is clear that this garden has been planned for all-year-round colour, with an eye for texture and shape. So varied is the fare that I could identify only a fraction of the menu. Trees have been carefully pruned; when one plant is over for the year, up pops its neighbour, like the poppy by the pond; variegated leaf adds to the palette; and all kinds of artefact are used as containers. Butler sinks are filled with succulents and alpines. One of these lies atop an old mangle. Mata Hari lounges in a corner by the stream that flows through the bottom of the back garden. A chair has faced the front garden pond long enough to harbour plentiful lichen. Almost every tree or trellis has a resident clematis or other climber. Raised beds have been constructed for vegetables.

A tasteful, artistic, and skilled hand has planned the optimum use of the whole plot, a modest one that can be viewed on an epic scale. I remember my surprise when I first saw the originals of some of William Blake’s engravings and realised how small were these monumental works. Aviemore is not dissimilar.

I could go on and on about this home of Sandy and Alex Robinson and their eldest son, Gavin. Perhaps the attached photographs may be more eloquent.

Helen and Bill’s champagne, Etienne Dumont 2012, was a slightly incongruous, but nevertheless delightful, accompaniment to our evening meal of fish and chips, mushy peas, pickled onions, gherkins, sliced bread and butter, and tomato sauce.

Any Van

Today we moved to Minstead. Up before seven we continued packing. The removal men arrived twenty minutes early and sat and waited outside until the appointed time of eight o’clock. This courtesy was extended throughout the move. Two men, possibly Polish, friendly and helpful, worked at a great rate loading the van; arrived at Castle Malwood soon after we did; and cheerfully unloaded in continuous drizzling rain, unfazed by the fact that they had to walk across soggy grass peppered with rabbit poo, carrying all our furniture and belongings. I was quite chuffed to be able to use my previous incarnation as a furniture remover by suggesting that a desk which refused to go through the door to the sitting room would possibly go through the window, It did.

This has been the most efficient and economical move I have experienced in the last few years. It was arranged on line at http://www.anyvan.com, a service I would thoroughly recommend. Within an hour of posting our details and requirements I received four quotations all within £35 of each other. The successful bidder phoned me and we fixed a date which was adhered to. The man’s name was Andy, and his firm was Easy Move. When a Globe Removals van turned up I assumed Andy, who introduced himself as he arrived on the doorstep, had hired his van from Globe Removals. As we said farewell, his dark and my white hair plastered to our heads by the rain, I noticed he sported a Globe Removals logo discretely placed on his T-shirt. I said I thought his firm was Easy Move, yet he was wearing a Globe Removals T-shirt. He laughed and explained that there were two Andys. They each ran removal firms and exchanged jobs when necessary.

Facing the task of unpacking was just too much. After we had collapsed and relaxed for a while, it was off to The Trusty Servant for lunch.

On the way we realised that our new home was surrounded by primaeval creatures. We arrived there just after 2.30 to learn that food stops being served then. The chef was in the bar and he said he was still there so we could have food. What a contrast, as we told him, to our experience at The Flower Pots Inn on 1st October. We were given excellent ploughman’s lunches; Jackie had draft Budweiser and I drank Doom Bar. Then it was back to Castle Malwood to do a bit of unpacking before going to Elizabeth’s for the evening. Apart from a wonderful roast chicken meal served with Hardy’s Stamp of Australia shiraz, cabernet sauvignon 2011 and, in Jackie’s case, Stella; followed by minced pies and custard, we needed showers at The Firs because we have no hot water at No.4. A contractor is coming in the morning to see what he can do.

On our return to our new flat we passed a cow in a hedge.