cyclists – Page 9 – derrickjknight

‘You Wouldn’t Like To Do That Again, Would You?’

On another warm and sunny day that, once we had got going in the garden, felt like the height of summer, we continued soil preparation. In addition to all her other maintenance tasks

Jackie dug in the compost she had laid on the Palm Bed yesterday,

and I completed the mulching of the rose garden with three more 100 litre bags of Landscape Bark. I swear they are becoming heavier by the day.

Looking from the Back Drive towards this section,

or across the Helicon Path towards the house,

one can see the burgeoning new growth popping up everywhere.

We now have profusions of Spanish bluebells,

and of forget-me-nots.

Permanently perched on the telephone cable over Christchurch Road is a male collared dove,

pretending he is nothing to do with the nest in our holly tree upon which his lady is incubating.

Even when paying a visit, he first lands on the flowering cherry photographed yesterday. Since he is quite a ponderous creature he shakes the boughs freeing many cherry petals,

just as Matthew did to the delight of Hannah, Ben, and Sam in May 1983.

This evening we dined at Dynasty in Brockenhurst with Elizabeth, Danni and Andy. My choice was lamb shatkora, special fried rice an onion bhaji. Along with Jackie I drank Kingfisher. The others drank red wine, cobra, or coke. Service and food were excellent.

The restaurant is close to the ford which we could see was waterlogged. As we were ten minutes early, I sniffed a photo opportunity and wandered down the road.

This was the scene as I approached, directly into the sun.

I was a bit slow to catch two cyclists wheeling through their spray. As they passed me I cried: ‘You wouldn’t like to do that again, would you’. ‘Do it again?’ was the reply. ‘Yes’, I answered.

They immediately turned tail, sped through the water,

and, returning quite happily, enjoyed another shower.

The Grinch

As we set off this morning for Jackie to drive me to New Milton, and back this afternoon, for my lunch date with Carol, the sunlight on the house at the corner of Hordle Lane attracted my attention. It was then I noticed the electricians installing street lamps on an existing pole.

The attractive early light was short-lived. In London the skies were overcast, and at home there was much rain.

My up journey to Waterloo proved to be interesting. Perhaps because it is Friday, the only seat I was able to find was occupied by a pile of bags and coats. It was one of two groups of four flanking the gangway. Pointing out that there were no other available seats I politely asked for this one to be vacated. It was. With no problem.

Thus I became surrounded by a party of one man and six women out for a day in London. Naturally there was much conversation which did not detract too much from my reading. It was when sandwiches were dished out that I began to feel I was decidedly in the way. One of the women diagonally opposite handed them out. Without a word to me, the gentleman to my left stretched out his arm across the front of me. Swallowing my discomfort, I said nothing. The second time I refrained, but knew one more occasion would warrant a word.

There was a third passage of packaged sandwich. I pointed out to the man that I had been very polite when I had asked for the heap on the seat to be removed and would appreciate it if I were accorded a certain amount of courtesy when stretching across me. A somewhat surprised exchange followed. I said I did not wish to spoil their party, but would appreciate their registering that I was actually there.

There followed a long silence, during which the gentleman read his Daily Mail, taking great care to keep his elbow way from me. Feeling very Grinch-like, I said I would try to find a seat elsewhere, but my fellow passengers urged me to stay.

The thaw continued. Conversation resumed, and, having been offered a sandwich, I was even included. We parted at the terminal station with good wishes all round. I was not asked to carve the turkey, but I felt as if I had gone through the whole gamut of Dr Seuss’s story, since filmed, about his famous curmudgeon.

In ‘Farewell To Westminster‘ I mentioned how the Victorian town hall in which I had worked, had, except for its facade, been demolished for a different use. Many such buildings erected in a more optimistic era for permanent purposes, have met similar fates. Wimbledon’s 1930s Town Hall, gutted to make way for supermarket shelves, is now a Tesco’s.

Alongside Waterloo Station, in Waterloo Road, the London County Council Fire Brigade Station of 2010 has undergone a similar transformation. Where once firefighters had slid out of bed and down their pole, leaped into their engines, and sped out into the busy road to attend to flaming buildings, a gastropub named The Fire Station now serves food, such as wood-fired pizzas and thirst- quenching liquid refreshment.

In the first of these two photographs the cyclists could possibly arrive at Euston before the bus bound for that other London Terminal station. The TO LET board advertises refurbished characterful offices.

The crane is working on a large corner development.

Whilst taking the second of these pictures, from The Cut, I wondered what the painter L.S.Lowry would have made of the scene.

‘Coming from the Mill’ is just one of his famous works portraying unconnected pedestrians.

Carol and I enjoyed our meal and each other’s company at Tas, where we received our usual warm welcome and attentive service.

From Seaside To Forest And Back

On another glorious summer’s morning Jackie drove me to the surgery at Milford, where I handed in my repeat prescription order. She then deposited me at The Beach House so that I could walk back along the cliff top and up through Shorefield, thus avoiding the ascent of Park Lane.

Sleepy yachts slipped past The Needles and The Isle of Wight, along The calm, bright blue, Solent, reflecting the clear sky above.

Scarlet Pimpernels straggled underfoot.

Colourful lichen clings to memorial benches

like this one.

What is fascinating about these benches that line the cliff paths, is that they give you some idea of the length of retirees’ twilight years, and demonstrate the longevity of lichen.

Work continues on the re-sited footpath, brought some way inland following last year’s cliff crumble. Three cyclists sped along it. One waved cheerily. In the distance can be seen the crew adding fine gravel to the tarmacked surface. When I reached them I took rather a good photograph of the workers, but their head man preferred not to have their faces flying round the internet, so I deleted it.

A gentleman and his black labrador descended the steps down to the beach. The dog dashed down the bank, possibly indicating that he didn’t want to be photographed either.

The normally reluctant crows didn’t seem interested. One just continued preening.

Another, tattooed, man, attempting a tan, toted his shirt along the shingle.

A few days ago I featured signs warning swimmers off, because of World War II defence ironwork. A photograph now shows the spikes, rather like those that in medieval times aimed to ensnare horses.

This afternoon Jackie drove Sheila and me around the north of the forest. Donkeys wandered on the road in Mockbeggar.

One, standing in the soporific sunlight, cast a sharp shadow.

Another, sensibly stayed in the shade.

Before having a drink in the garden of The Foresters Arms in Frogham, we visited the nearby Abotswell Car Park.

Dog roses decorated the shrubbery. Beyond these it is evident that the small lake is almost dry.

Just how did the owner of these keys ever leave the car park?

There was no suitable stopping place for photography on Roger Penny Way, but, as we approached Cadnam, there was enough of an hiatus in the traffic flow for me, from the back seat of the Modus, to produce an image of

the pony family that had ambled across the road.

This evening we all dined at Lal Quilla in Lymington. The meal, service, and friendliness were as good as ever. I chose a new dish called Chicken Jaljala. This was cooked in a sweet, sour, and hot tomato and onion sauce. I will certainly have it again. Jackie and I drank Kingfisher, whilst Sheila’s choice was sparkling water.

It wasn’t far off 10 p.m. when we admired the sunset from the quay.

Narrow Lanes

The day began less than delightfully. Two days ago, our dishwasher was delivered. That was an excellent service. Disappointingly, the Kenwood machine developed a fault on our first wash last night. The booklet advised us to contact a qualified technician. I tried that this morning. Curry’s customer service number produced one of those maddening systems that asks you to repeat everything before moving on to the next robotic question. Eventually I reached a person who clearly knew what he was doing, but, unfortunately for him, could only offer a visit in five days time with no specific time frame. Rather less than calmly, I expressed my frustration. ‘We are not the retailer’, he politely replied. He did sound a little upset. Of course I said it was not his fault, but I had expected to speak to the people who sold the equipment, not an engineer engaged to conduct repairs within the guarantee period. That is asking too much in our progressive age.
I then tried the number of the Christchurch store given on the receipt. This connected me to the same system. It looks as if I will be washing up for a few more days.
After this I needed a walk. It is a long time since I undertook one of these in the rain. We have enjoyed such a long dry summer that it is difficult to remember the two years of almost incessant rain that ended this spring. I took my circular route to Hordle cliff beach, along which I crunched with no other company. The few dog walkers there were preferred to stay on the cliff top. One small terrier stood at the top of the steps insisting he be led down. His master complied with the request, but the young lady with him remained aloft.
Often, on these narrow winding lanes, a mirror is fixed to a suitable structure on the opposite side of driveways so that residents emerging are able to see anything coming up the road. One of these in Downton Lane gave me the opportunity to take a selfie. Although the term for these images has not yet reached the dictionaries, they are photographs taken at arm’s length by the subject with a mobile phone. Certain politicians, such as David Cameron, are partial to their photo opportunities. Actually I don’t believe my effort is strictly a selfie, since it is a reflection and taken with a digital camera that doesn’t send or receive messages. Perhaps the lexicographers will eventually elucidate.
A controversy rages in The New Forest over cyclists. One faction encourages them into the area, so they may enjoy their exercise and patronise the tourism facilities; whilst another regards them as a nuisance, often creating dangerous obstacles on the roads, causing long backlogs where they cannot be overtaken. A sign at the corner where Downton Lane meets the coast road states ‘Caution Cyclists’. I think this is to encourage car drivers to be on the lookout. It could also be alerting pedestrians to the fact that a two wheeler could come hurtling round the bend on the footpath. On the other hand it may be suggesting that the cyclists themselves should be careful.
By mid-afternoon the day had brightened. The clematis Carnaby has flowered for the first time, as has a pale blue morning glory, clearly fooled by the dull morning into blooming still at 5.30 p.m.
This evening Jackie varied her smoked haddock and cauliflower cheese meal photographed on 2nd May last year (recipe for cauliflower cheese), by using cod. The green element in the palette was provided by spinach. This was followed by sticky toffee pudding and custard. We both drank Cimarosa Pedro Jimenez 2013.

A Wedding

Quite early on this glorious morning, fit for a wedding, Jackie drove us out to Sandleheath to have a look at a house that turned out to be a non-contender. All along Roger Penny Way, turning off only just before Fordingbridge, a mass cycling event was taking place. This often meant that we drove at the pace of the slowest competitor. There were signs advising them to cycle in single file, but these were often ignored. Marshals occasionally leapt up and down and waved their arms about.

When we finally arrived at our goal we did not have a warm feeling about it. The fact that the front garden was a car park could be dealt with, but The Glen was on a main road with a factory estate behind it.

Then it was back home to prepare for the wedding. We attended the marriage ceremony of Jackie’s nephew, the handsome, personable, and talented John Eales, with the beautiful, kind, and talented Stephanie Warner in the East Close Country House Hotel. It was a delightful occasion.

The weather remained perfect for such an event. Photographs were taken before, during, and after the service by a professional friend. Another played delightful music throughout. Helen had reflected Stephanie’s table decoration theme of old books in the cake she had made in the form of a pile of them. We each had a phial of liquid bearing a ‘Drink Me’ label, which turned out to be vodka laced with a fruit drink.

The meal was quite superb. The young staff team worked non-stop and remained efficient and friendly. A tangy tomato soup was followed by delicious roast chicken with crisp vegetables and a flavoursome sauce. The sweet was a fine fruit flan with strawberry ice cream. Tea or coffee was served according to choice, and everyone had a glass of wine with the meal and champagne for the toasts, all of which were entertaining.

Martin, Stephanie’s father, gave us particularly insightful pen pictures of the new man and wife. Neil, the best man, did the usual job of embarrassing his cousin in a positive way. Somehow, when his laptop failed initially to project his pictures, this added to the general hilarity. John’s reply was most amusing, and he covered everything he was meant to.

I particularly liked the moment as we entered the reception when Bill introduced the bride’s father to the groom’s paternal uncle with the splendidly succinct phrase; ‘Bob – Martin’.

Although occasionally flagging a bit, the young children present bore up very well.

At the end of the meal there was an invasion of the lawn by a very large family of Gloucester Old Spots. These pigs had come in to hoover the liberally spread dropped beech nuts and apple windfalls. I went out to join the myriad of other photographers. Unfortunately I tried to get too close and they all scampered off, snorting. My shots were consequently out of focus. Helen was much more successful.

P.S. Helen has sent me her pictures, the best of which I am now adding.

‘I’m Not An Olympic Cyclist’

Before lunch, which consisted of a vast amount of yesterday’s food with the addition of more cold meats, pies, and cheeses, Jackie drove Don and me to Bank where we sampled the beers and sussed out the food, which looked very tempting, in The Oak Inn. The beamed pub was very full and catered for numerous families. Don and I drank Gale’s Seafarers Ale and Jackie had Staropramen. This naturally led to a rather soporific afternoon until Don returned to Bungay early in the evening.

I had to rather force myself to walk the Shave Wood loop after this, but it was a beautifully clear evening, which was encouraging.

Jackie was talking recently about escapees from Victorian gardens, which is her term for the ubiquitous purple variety of rhododendron. In the past week I have learned that there are far more varieties of this Chinese import in the gardens of The New Forest than I had previously imagined to exist (see those featured in posts of 2nd, 3rd, and 4th of this month). Those loose in the forest all seem to be standard sized and shaped purple. Apparently they have periodically to be culled because they take over and ruin the ecology. Some years ago notices were put up whilst the work was going on, in order to explain to dismayed visitors why this was necessary. Stapleford Woods near Newark had an even greater problem with this invader. It is fascinating how one’s attitude towards nature varies according to one’s perspective. Town dwellers encourage the foxes that countryfolk regard as a menace. Everyone knows that squirrels, deer, and rabbits are sweet little creatures. Until they begin to steal your bird food or devastate your flowers and vegetables. Jackie battles against the first of these and does her best to keep the others away. Suddenly they are not so endearing after all.

Cycling families were out in force this evening. As I walked up the road from Football Green to Shave Wood a couple of young teenagers pedalled past me from behind, chatting away. A short while afterwards, I turned at the squeak of a brake and the slap of a foot upon the tarmac. A middle-aged man, silhouetted against the background of sunlit trees, white hair glowing, looked behind him, as if waiting for someone. I continued on my way. He then called ‘put some effort into it’. I continued without turning round. Soon he came past me, followed in his wake by a little older teenager who, as she struggled to catch up, said ‘I’m so glad I’m not an Olympic cyclist’. It seemed to me that she may have benefitted from a bike that was big enough for her. Further on, the other two stopped and waited for the man and girl to catch up. The last I saw was tail end Charlie wobbling into the sunshine.

Don had, this morning, identified for me the cry of a buzzard which circled over our garden. He had been familiar with this from his Gaeddren years in North Wales. In the forest I looked up as I heard the same sound and watched one of these raptors swoop across the clear sky, settle for a while at the top a tall oak tree, and take off in the opposite direction. I heard others I did not see.

‘I Believe You’ve Got Something Belonging To Me’

The bitterly cold wind has returned, but we do seem to be in one of the few areas of the country without snow. Louisa in Nottingham has five inches of it. Jackie drove us out to Bransgore where she visited the MacPenny Garden Nursery and whence I walked to Sainsbury’s car park in Ringwood.

There were lots of cyclists on the forest road. Some offered or returned a cheery greeting; some even managed a smile; others, usually those with head down, bum in the air, and hands tightly gripping the handlebars, simply pedalled on regardless.

A very efficient, very optimistic, washer person lives on the corner of Braggers Lane, Sopley.

A pair of Kestrels hovered overhead, soared over a field, swooped and scattered a foraging flock of unidentified other birds.

Because it was so cold and because the road was fairly flat, I set a brisk pace, which meant I covered about seven miles in two hours. This turned out to be rather unfortunate. Before we left the flat we checked we each had a phone. As we left I mentioned that I wasn’t carrying my keys, but that didn’t matter because Jackie had hers. ‘I’d better not lose you today, then’, she quipped.

We thought that maybe the journey would take me three hours. I said I would meet her in the Ringwood car park, but Jackie, thinking the journey might be a bit far, suggested I ring her to tell her when I’d like her to collect me, indicating where I’d be. Passing Ringwood Football Club ground I realised I wouldn’t have far to go, so at a signpost signalling one mile to my goal, I phoned her to say I would meet her in the car park as originally intended. I got the messaging service. I left the message. She had not replied by the time I reached Sainsbury’s.

Now, Sainsbury’s car park in Ringwood, on a bleak Sunday morning, dressed in clothing only warm enough for striding out, when you have raised a sweat that turns cold and clammy the minute you stop and stand around for the next hour, is not the most delightful place to be. You can amuse yourself wandering up and down the rows of vehicles searching for a missing Modus, but even this palls after a while. You can sit down in the draught, but it is really better to keep moving. The bus shelter is the best option, but that tends to confuse drivers who are inclined to think you want a ride. And you can’t be seated anyway because you’d have your back to the car park.

I wasn’t too alarmed at first, but three quarters of an hour seems a long time for someone to have no signal, even in the New Forest. I had added a text to my original message, tried ringing every thirty seconds or so, and even rung the number of the phone I knew Jackie was unlikely to be carrying with her. By the time the three hours mark was approaching, I wondered why, even if she hadn’t got my messages. she hadn’t phoned me. Much longer and my fingers would have been too frozen to press any digits. (I almost wrote ‘dial any number’, but we don’t do that any more do we? Any more than we ‘pull the chain’ when we flush the lavatory, unless we are using Michael and Heidi’s outside one).

Helen and Bill live a few minutes drive from where I was. Indeed, whilst I had been gazing longingly at ‘The Inn on the Furlong’, virtually opposite where I was standing, they had probably been inside enjoying a nice warm room and hot coffee.

I decided to call them for help. They were back home by then and Bill was settling down to watch a Leicester v Saracens rugby match. Jackie’s brother-in-law was most generous as he leapt to his feet when asked by Helen to go and get me. She didn’t even tell him the story as I heard her say ‘just go and get him’.

Virtually as I finished the call to Helen, Jackie phoned me. She was rather puzzled when I told her Bill was coming to collect me. She had received none of the messages, but had gone home for her second phone when she realised that her prime one had no juice left. I hadn’t left any messages on this secondary phone, and three hours was not up, so she was unaware that there was any cause for panic. I then tried to stop Bill coming out, but was, of course too late. Helen, by this time, had reached Jackie’s second phone and put her in the picture.

Bill calmly drove to the bus station, invited me to ‘get in quick’ and keep the cold out, and tactfully showed no curiosity about the story. He no doubt thought I would tell him in my own good time. I did. Now we knew all was well we could have a good laugh. And he didn’t even mention he was risking missing his rugby. He was sensibly recording it.

Jackie, in the meantime, had driven up and down all the roads I might have used, imagining that if she did find me she would be cutting short my walk. She even noticed the same washing line I had. As I was warming my hands and insides with Helen’s welcome coffee, Jackie arrived and was heard to utter ‘I believe you’ve got something belonging to me.’ When we got home we put the boosters on all the heating to aid the thawing out process.

Tonight we dined on roast lamb followed by sticky toffee pudding. I drank Terre de Galets Cotes du Rhone 2012, bottle number 138579. Jackie abstained.

The Paris Marathon

Last night I watched a DVD of ‘Burn After Reading’. In this film political thrillers and computer dating get the Cohen brothers’ treatment. That is, they make farce out of them. David Edwards of the Daily Mirror described it as ‘………comedy genius’. That is what Joel and Ethan Cohen are all about. George Clooney, Frances McDormand, John Malkovich, Tilda Swinton, and Brad Pitt must have had great fun playing their parts to perfection.

This morning I walked to Monbos and branched off to Ste Innocence from where I returned to Sigoules. This was a two and a half hour trek in the heat of the day. And I do mean heat. As I marched along, carrying a bottle of Perrier, a woman getting into her car told me it was very dangerous walking in this without a hat. She didn’t quote Noel Coward at me, and I didn’t mention that I was suffering a slight hangover after my second bottle of Adnam’s last night. I had not realised it is 6.7%.

The scratting of crickets in the hedgerows and of cicadas in the trees reminded me of the latter creatures at The Gite From Hell (4th. June). I could feel the heat rising from the tarmac, the tar of which was, in places, melting. It clung to my sandals, just as it had in Stanton Road in 1947, when I returned from play covered in it. I expect my poor mother had to scrap my clothes. Even the sunflowers turned their backs on the midday sun.

I have described the church at Monbos before (8th. June), but that was when I was not illustrating my posts.

At Ste Innocence I met a Dutchman called Emil who has a house there. We swapped stories of such impulse buys.

As I staggered back into Sigoules, I thought of the Italian runner in the lead who was disqualified at the first London Olympics because, as he was wandering all over the place, someone helped him across the line. I wasn’t marching any more. The ice-cold water I had set off with was now almost ready for the cafetiere. I put what was left of it in the fridge and got out another bottle which I consumed pretty quickly. Rivulets ran down my neck for a while. My soaking T-shirt soon dried in the 40 degree sauna that was the back yard. I was in neither the shirt nor the garden at the time. I had been as relieved to enter the cool shelter of the stone-walled No. 6 rue St. Jacques as Jackie would have been. She wouldn’t have left it in the first place.

When running a marathon it is essential to drink water at regular intervals. If you wait until you are thirsty it is too late. This refreshment is taken in brief sips on the run. You become accustomed to this by carrying water in training. On one of our shared holidays with Sam and Louisa and our late wives Ann and Jessica, Don decided to help me out. Meeting me at regular intervals on a two hour run, he provided the drink stations. Driving to agreed points on the route, he brought me wonderfully cool, fresh, water. We called this service ‘Le wagon d’eau’. Don, where were you today?

That is why, in properly organised races, there are regular drink stations. In the Paris marathon, some time in the ’80s, there were refreshment stands like no others. The first was the only one at which I saw any water. From it were distributed large plastic containers of Evian. Those, like me, who managed to grasp one drank slowly and passed it on. Big mistake. Other tables contained nuts, bananas, and chocolate, none of which I could bear to think about. Only at the last oasis did I see anything resembling liquid. Huge containers of yoghurt. I grabbed one and guzzled the lot. Second big mistake.

I was quite used to congestion at the start of capital marathons. In the London one it would take me ten minutes walking to reach the start line and a futher ten to take up anything like my normal pace. Paris, however, just had to provide a blockage at the finish. Ten minutes in a situation that reminded me of The Drain (6th. July).

Marshalling during the race was equally chaotic. There are cobblestones around The Tower in one small stretch of the London event. These always need careful negotiation by the runners, who are left in peace to get on with it. Not so in Paris, which had far more cobbled areas. Any spectators wishing to do so seemed welcome to try their luck pacing alongside the contestants. Cyclists were granted similar freedom.

A French friend, Arnoux, claiming to be there to meet a famous English runner; which, I hasten to add, I am not; smoothed my final passage through the drain. As I was taking a welcome bath in our friends’ home, up came the yoghurt. It supplemented the bath water. I then had to explain why my ablutions had taken such a long time. It was with considerable relief that, on the ferry home, I learned that even the elite runners had suffered similar embarrassment. I never ran Paris again.

This evening I exchanged the back garden sauna for the one outside Le Bar for a deliciously tasty fruits de mer pizza with a plentiful side salad. This was complemented by one glass of rose and a bottle of fizzy water. After last night I thought I’d be careful. An excellent creme brulee followed.

The problem with dining alfresco is that it tends to attract the local fauna. Flies can be dismissed with a wave of the hand, or Australian salute as they tell me in Perth; ants need a well-aimed flick; the cat needed a little more persuasion to desist from climbing up my bare leg in search of my fruits de mer.

A Conundrum

Today was warmer and drier, but very cloudy as we set off in the car to The Firs. So prolific were the daisies on the verges of the A31 that I mistook swathes of them on the embankments bordering the Bentley by-pass for chalk outcrops. On one stretch of narrower country roads there was a cycle race taking place in the opposite direction to ours. The periodic clusters of cyclists combined with the frustration of drivers forced to follow them in slow convoys caused some of the cars to cross the double white lines in order to overtake the aspirants of the yellow jersey; in turn requiring Jackie to hit the brakes. This was on and near the road between West Meon and its crossroads near the bikers’ cafe. All along this stretch are permanent signs saying THINK BIKE. These were not the bikes we were meant to think about, but, serendipity or not, the route taken for the tour we were witnessing was appropriately labelled. Later on, for the last mile or two of our journey we experienced a similar need to approach our goal at a considerably reduced pace as we were stuck behind a horse drawn carriage, the second we had seen. As there was a fete in West End village we assumed this smartly decorated transport of a bygone age was destined for Elizabeth’s village centre. Other vehicles of a not quite so early age were two seater open topped sports cars bearing very old number plates. They always come out when the sun is shining, and at least it was making an effort today.

Now I have a conundrum. The narrower country roads sometimes present the appearance of straight-sided tunnels. Trees and shrubs at the roadsides seem to be vertical examples of the topiarist’s art, until at a certain height branches are free to stretch across the road, often interlacing in the middle. My question is, what brings about the straight edges? I have seen only two possible explanations at quite different places and times. The first was a hedge-cutting vehicle in operation with a very high set of blades; the second a high-sided van possibly obliviously knocking off lower branches in its path. Is it either of these; a combination of the two; or something entirely different? Presumably it cannot be hot ashes from steam engines.

Having more or less arrived at our destination we visited Haskins Garden centre for a plentiful and varied salad in their excellent restaurant. This of course is fatal. Jackie has about as much chance of leaving a garden centre empty-handed as I have a bookshop. Although the car was already full of plants that she had gathered over the last fortnight, we just had to buy what she euphemistically called ‘a few’ more.

When we arrived at Elizabeth’s we were delighted to see the rose we had rescued and trained up an arch in the middle of the concrete ring that is all that remains of Mrs. Barbe-Baker’s summerhouse (post of 26th. May) was in full bloom. It had been blown down a second time two weeks ago when I was in France, and Jackie and Elizabeth had staked it up even more firmly.

Whilst digging in a new bed I was being stalked by a robin. They are of course territorial creatures who will fight fiercely for their plot. This one wouldn’t even wait for me to finish before staking its claim.

Our evening meal was taken at Eastern Nights in Thornhill. This, we have decided, is the best of the many curry houses in the area. Tonight there was the bonus of a very entertaining conversation taking place in the next cubicle. The comment which both had us in stitches and was printable was: ‘I’ve been coming her thirty years and it hasn’t improved.’ Jackie opined that it might therefore be time for the speaker to give the place a miss.

Cyclists, Geese, Ducks, And Tourists

This morning I walked to Becky’s home, meeting Jackie who had driven there. The route took me via the Mitcham cricket green and across the common. Walking along Cricket Green on one side of the eponymous conservation area, with the flamboyant clubhouse alongside Mary Tate’s almshouses across the road, one is reminded of how beautiful Mitcham was in days gone by.

Along one stretch of Morden Hall Road half the pavement has been designated for cyclists. I have never seen a cyclist using it. London has many such stretches of pavement reducing the width of pedestrian footpaths. The only one I have ever seen used is actually the first one I experienced. That is on a stretch of road between Balderton and Newark in Nottinghamshire. Cyclists may have availed themselves of this, but the ratepayers were less than happy about the expense. Bicycles ridden on the undesignated pavement can, however, be a menace on the busier inner London roads. They often speed along, weaving in and out among pedestrians, and steaming around corners with frightening disregard for their or other people’s safety. I was once clipped on the arm by one on the pavement in The Strand. As this was in my running days I set off after him and caught him up at traffic lights. He was rather surprised. Perhaps not only because I didn’t hit him. I just had a quiet word.

The roads, of course are unsafe for cyclists, choked as they are with drivers of varying ability. I don’t really know what the answer is, but surely it can’t be Boris’s Bikes which add more riders to already densely occupied streets. Interestingly, the only pavement- encroaching cyclist I’ve ever seen challenged by a policeman was a man mounting the kerb to replace a Boris Bike in a rack alongside Westminster Cathedral.

Having rounded the cricket green and on approaching the A236 roundabout on the wide pavement I was overtaken by a cyclist who wobbled past me on the inside and teetered across my path into and across this major road weaving his way through the cars approaching the junction before continuing his journey along the opposite footpath. I swear I had my earlier thoughts before this happened.

Much of my continuing journey involved crossing Mitcham Common. Only ever having driven and, I admit it, albeit 45 years ago, cycled along the major roads through the common, I had not realised what a pleasant amenity this is. The path I took between Commonside West and Windmill Road has at some time in the not too distant past been planted with an avenue of oaks. A lake in the middle of the common was home to large number of Canada Geese including a mother shepherding her troop of goslings and hissing at me. These large birds which are now rife in our public parks and canalsides were introduced into this country as long ago as the end of the 17th. century. It was about the middle of the 19th. century that fortunes were made in Peruvian guano, that is sea-bird droppings, which was highly valued as a fertiliser. Maybe there is an opportunity for an entrepeneurial individual prepared to collect the masses of Canada Geese excretia, just as Mr. Figg, one of my childhood neighbours, collected horse droppings left by the rag-and-bone man’s steed to spread on his garden.

My path across the common was twice crossed by a skein of what I took to be tourists under the direction of a guide. They would occasionally stop for a lecture or explanation. As I watched them file after their leader I was reminded of the duck that had once taken over the pond in our garden at Lindum House. She came in off the road and trotted down the drive followed by a string of her babies; inspected all the walls and fences bordering the garden, the ducklings following in single file; and when satisfied finally settled her family on the small pond which I had dug myself. Perhaps the goslings also influenced this memory.

I met a postman when nearing Becky’s flat, and we had a laugh about the chaotic street layout and house numbering in the area, Westmorland Way being the most confusing.

After a day with Becky Jackie fed us all on an excellent chicken casserole after which she and I returned to Morden, both by car.