As the morning stretched out, so did the shadows cast on the lawn by the climbing sun whilst we pottered about inside prior to a trip to Christchurch.
After lunch we drove to Curry’s/PC World just outside Christchurch to investigate the possibilities of buying a new laptop and giving my old one a good clean up. Yesterday I had discovered that I can exchange my NatWest Your Points for vouchers to be used in this store. I have more than enough for a Windows laptop, but nowhere near sufficient for a Mac Book. The vouchers are in the post, so I have deliberation time. The old laptop has been left for the clean. The reason I want a new one is that the old Toshiba dates from the days before built-in card readers, and I’d like to be able to simply slip the card from my camera into the device when I am not near my iMac.
We then wandered around the town.
On this fine springlike day crocuses brightened the Priory car park, where we must have secured the last available parking spot.
As we left our car, the view of the Priory Church was blocked by a vehicle from which two women and a child were being decanted, so I waited until the man with them had driven off, no doubt in search of the advertised Mayors Mead, to photograph the people and the building.
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On leaving the church precinct, my attention was drawn to an ancient ruin peering above the sloping red-tiled rooftops of the town. This Jackie knew to be the castle, so we walked round to have a look at it. 
Dazzling direct sunlight striated the sward covering the mound on which this small relic stood, so I walked further into the grounds to view the castle with the sun on its back. Whilst I was doing so, my lady appeared from behind the pile, waving her arms in delight at having ascended the steep steps to her goal. The red-legged little girl who shares the shot must have raced up and down the two sets of steps at least a dozen times before settling into the stocks to have her photograph taken in them.
From the top of the mound, through the vestigial castle arches, we enjoyed interesting views of the town, in particular a fascinating display of roofing through the ages.
The town centre juxtaposes the old and the new, with many buildings, such as The New Forest Perfumery, having changed their use, no doubt on numerous occasions over the years. The Perfumery, still bearing its original sign in old script looks to be a building from the sixteenth or seventeenth century. It now houses tea rooms, as indicated by the more modern board outside. Perhaps because our house in Sigoules was built in the eighteenth century and because Patrick Suskind’s 1985 novel entitled ‘Perfume: The story of a Murderer’, is set in the France of that era, I speculated that maybe Suskind’s perfumier worked in a similar setting. The novel focusses on the sense of smell and its relationship with the emotional meaning that scents may carry. Even if the tea rooms serve a vast array of teas and coffees, I doubt that their aromas are likely to match the variety of fragrances that once permeated the fabric of the building.
Jackie and I were immediately transported to our youth at the sight of the Regent Centre, this picture house from the brief heyday of the cinema, sandwiched between a Subway and a Poundshop. The old Regent still shows films, but is now a much broader entertainment centre. Originally opening in 1931 it operated as a cinema for just over forty years, after which it spent a decade housing Bingo. A partnership between volunteers and Christchurch Borough Council has turned it into a theatre, cinema, concert hall, studio and art gallery. 
This afternoon there were a number of stalls inside, displaying jewellery, models, CDs and DVDs among other articles for sale. Tables and chairs for takers of tea lined the entrance hall. The building is well maintained, and retains its Art Deco style.
This evening we dined on mushroom omelette also containing onions, garlic, and a dash of Worcester sauce; baked gammon; fried potatoes, and baked beans. Lemon and lime jelly floating in evaporated milk was a suitable dessert. I finished the Lidl Bordeaux and Jackie saw off the zinfandel rose.
Tag: crocuses
A Beguiling Smile
I had my first extended conversation with the local roadsweeper this morning. It was mostly about the weather, but that still counts. We are to have rain, which had already begun, on and off over the weekend. But it is needed for the fields. This was more successful than my attempted contribution to the discussion in the Post Office about a young lad who had just skidded off his scooter outside. Like the boy, my words fell on stony ground. He got up unscathed. I departed in disarray.
The delivery of loft insulation materials did not happen yesterday ‘because the driver is on holiday’. It is now arranged for next Wednesday, the day before I leave. Preparatory work will continue on Monday.
In the rain, I walked along the Pomport Road and up the route around the field I still call the donkey’s. 
At most corner junctions in Sigoules there are bright floral displays which brightened up the grey atmosphere. 
Yellow crocuses burst forth in clumps in the gardens and along the grassy banks by the side of the road. Some months ago I watched roofers working on what I take to be a barn conversion. 
Their work now forms an attractive patchwork quilt.
My assinine friend has not been in residence for some time now, and at first I thought the field empty. Two goats, however, still occupied the top corner. 
One hung its head, but the other clambered from beneath the tree that had sheltered the donkey back in April, stuck its nose through the wire fence, and gave me a beguiling bearded smile.
Le Code Bar, post-summer, is now closed on Sundays, and not serving food on Saturdays. Today being Saturday I was saved disappointment by Fred, who, although in sole charge of the bar, vanished into the kitchen and produced roast duck, chips, and salad. He needn’t have worried that the duck might be too dry.
Renovations
Shafts of sunlight from across the frosted lawn early this morning signalled the glorious day we were to have. As I walked through Minstead joyous church bells vied with celebratory birdsong for attention. The solitary crowing cock barely competed.
Berry stopped her car and got out for a chat. She has been engaged in rescuing a pony. This creature, now billeted with her own two, disappeared last summer and has been sought ever since. He turned up recently in a very sorry state, really thin, and not eating much. Apparently he is not a good forager and has just spent an awful winter trying to do just that.
Just past Football Green, on the right, there is a rough road going uphill past a large imposing building. Ignoring the ‘No Through Road’ sign, I took that route. Williams Hill House is the big one. There are also two farms, one of which is called Mill Lane Farm. Eventually the road peters out into a wide footpath. 
This is very churned up. Walking down it I was puzzled to see two bridged streams in quick succession running under it. I also had to battle with the mud-suction for possession of my walking boots. Having run down to the streams the path then rose and turned round to the right revealing a most idyllic sight. Perched atop a wooded bank was a group of old brick buildings having undergone recent renovation. 
The bank sloped down to a wide and deep millpond whose clear waters reflected the surrounding trees.
I considered that if it were possible to continue the way I was going I might emerge somewhere in the vicinity of Emery Down. As I wasn’t sure, I was rather relieved to see the sunlit steam of human exhalation billowing like tobacco smoke from the leafy bank. A woolly-hatted bearded head, and then an athletic looking body, rose into view. 
I was looking up at Robert, with whom a long chat ensued. Robert had spent twenty years turning the buildings into a most attractive home. He explained that the mill itself was no longer in existence. He also confirmed that if I continued up the slippery path, I would soon reach a road which, turning right would bring me to Emery Down.
Some time later I was in Emery Down, from where I took my usual route back home. In that village there is a rather beautiful collection of almshouses, a banner on the railings of which announces a refurbishment project for 2013.
After lunch we joined Elizabeth and Mum at The Down House in Itchen Abbas. This is a large private house that was open today under the National Gardens Scheme. The organisation enables home owners to display their gardens to the public on two or three days a year. The small entrance fees are donated to various charities. Jackie and Mark Porter, the owners, had a splendid day. Parking was well organised and catering was excellent. 
The garden was very well laid out, the woodland walk being at its best at this time.
In the evening, Elizabeth, Jackie and I dined at ‘The Hampshire Bowman’, at Dundridge, near Bishop’s Waltham. This is reached by following a long winding single track road perhaps a couple of miles long. I had been to this real ale pub once before for a drink with Paul Newsted. Tonight we chose to sit close to the log fire. The mantelpiece contained a row of candles in their brass sticks. As the barman lit them before transferring them to tables, he told us why the one on the left hand end burnt down quicker than the others and produced nobbly stalactites. It was in the direct line of a draft between two doors, so the flame was always flickering with interesting results. A small boy, on leaving the pub, couldn’t resist peeling off some of the nobbly bits.
Proud of its range of beers, the establishment only reluctantly serves the odd lager. Fortunately for Jackie, there was Becks on offer. Elizabeth and I drank Wallops Wood. Jackie and I consumed excellent mushroom soup. The very good main courses were roast chicken for Elizabeth; roast lamb for me; and fish and chips for Jackie. Blackberry and apple crumble; sticky toffee pudding; and bread and butter pudding, were all equally delicious.
An ageing lurcher, to no avail, sat hopefully under our table.
P’tang Yang Kipperbang
For some time now Jackie has been collecting toys, books, and dressing up material for visits from grandchildren. She has now taken this a stage further. Buying such as Disney Princess dresses in various stages of use and abuse from her favourite charity shops, she has washed, ironed, mended, and added flouncy petticoats and sequins to the originals. Now they are nine. They are too good to dump in the dressing up box, and must be hung up.
This morning I walked the two fords ampersand, amending its shape by walking up the footpath past All Saints churchyard. The track alternated between a quagmire and a clear gravel river bed. The last time I took this path the two horses in the adjacent field were grazing in a blizzard.
There was such an array of spring bulbs emerging in the graveyard that I was almost afraid to walk in it. Careful as I was, it was almost impossible not to tread on any. Snowdrops and crocuses were in bloom, while daffodils were coming into their own. They provided a thick pile carpet of a white, golden yellow, and purple abstract design on an emerald ground. Treetrunks and gravestones were festooned with these harbingers of spring.
After a light lunch Jackie drove us to Mat and Tess’s in Upper Dicker where we, together with Becky, Flo and Ian, joined our son and daughter-in-law for a belated Christmas celebration. Tess had been ill at the end of December. We exchanged presents and pulled Flo’s crackers. Matthew couldn’t resist tossing a packet of Jacob’s Cream Crackers onto the table to save me going to the other room for the party type. 
As always we enjoyed good family time with a deal of hilarity. Tess, a superb cook, produced an excellent tagine and couscous meal. Somehow the meat dish was always full. Her homemade Christmas cake, still moist, was to follow. Whilst I had been in France there was a repeat showing of P’tang Yang Kipperbang on Channel 4. This was a wonderful film about adolescent yearning set against a cricket commentary from the legendary John Arlott, originally shown on that channel’s second night in 1982. Whenever it is repeated it is a must for family viewing because Mat and Becky, along with many of their classmates, were extras in the film. We were entertained by renditions of their respective performances. Mat in particular came in for a certain amount of parody. It seems that he took his acting role seriously, but that wasn’t wholly appreciated at the time.
An interesting issue of historical accuracy was raised during the filming. The production was set in that post-war period before there were any black and Asian children in Wimbledon. Those young people were therefore unable to appear in the film. Given that those who did appear in the film were given a fee, £5 per scene, I do hope those who were excluded were similarly compensated.