deer – Page 7 – derrickjknight

The Destroyers

Today was possibly even warmer than yesterday, although the sun did not fully penetrate the heavy cloud cover which I described, according to Jackie with more than a touch of hyperbole. I have no idea what she meant.

Wearing a jacket to walk down to the village shop, and return via the footpath leading to Home Farm Cottage and Seamans Lane, was definitely surplus to requirements.

A one child family of black cattle grazed in a field on the way down. Tails were whisking away with irritated regularity. Since the calf was sticking like a limpet to its mother’s backside, I wasn’t sure whether her twitching appendage was for the benefit of the flies crawling all over her, or wafting in an attempt to dislodge her anxious offspring.

Possibly the result of seasonal atmospheric affects, any piles of pony droppings that have been in situ for a while are coated with a grey fur, so that from a distance they look like a child’s cuddly toy.

We are betwixt summer and autumn. Possibly for that reason, the plant destroyers are gradually approaching nearer the house. Rabbits are beginning to tear up the lawn in earnest. There must now be a community to rival that described by Richard Adams in Watership Down. His description of the small animals’ terror of the motor car, as they became transfixed by headlights, must have been very accurate. Our rabbits seem to have no such fear of John’s lawn mower. Perhaps he should work at night with the aid of a miner’s lamp. According to Mo, their damage is cyclical. They fill the lawn with holes they are emptying. The managing agents organise a cull. The lawn is undisturbed for a year or two. The rabbits come again. The rabbits are culled. And so on, no doubt, ad finitum. Before the rabbits, according to John, came the moles, whose hills he had to clear up before he could do anything else.

I have described before how at least one deer is becoming less timid. Today, as I entered Lower Drive, one, possibly the very same, startled, leapt across my path, almost making me jump.

When I volunteered to contribute to the meal this evening Jackie, feigning panic, held up her left hand, arm outstretched, and said: ‘No. It’s all right. I’m too tired for you to cook’. Perusal of my post of the 18th should explain her reaction. Unaided, and therefore unhindered, and pandering to my penchant for alliteration, she produced a succulent chicken Kiev, crisp croquette potatoes, carrots and cauliflower accompanied by a ratatouille that Remy would have been proud of. This was followed by a luscious toffee bomb from Lidl, for which Jackie made some custard because I am going to France for a week tomorrow and ‘will have to make do with creme Anglaise’. I drank a couple of glasses from Sainsbury’s House Red box.

Through The Window

Another day of steady rain

washing windswept windows;

greasing patio paving;

puddling paths;

pearling maple branches;

glazing garden views;

dowsing patient sparrows;

refreshing colourful camellias,

and pink prunus Autumnalis,

ensured a day of Hardy reading and through-the-window photography.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy chicken curry and savoury rice followed by baklavas with which I drank more of the Cabernet Sauvignon.

Marevna

On learning of my penchant for history, our friend Margery lent me ‘The Crusades’ by Thomas Asbridge. I began reading it yesterday evening.

As I took a series of photographs in January 1965, at the ripe old age of 22, I thought: ‘these will be an historical record one day’. Now, nigh on 49 years later, they are. I did not start illustrating these posts until June last year, so when I mentioned on 22nd May that I still had the colour slides I took of the queues for the lying in state of Sir Winston Churchill, I did not add them to the post. I rectified that this morning, by adding five.

After this a deer made its quite slow, elegant, way across the lawn, until, disturbed by our attention, it fled into its bolt hole.

I then walked the two underpasses route, starting at the Malwood Farm end. A summer’s usage by pedestrians and ponies has produced such reasonably clear footpaths as to make my earlier errant efforts at this trip during the waterlogged spring seem somewhat meandering. The farm’s gravel heap is higher, harmonising even better with the pipes upon, and logs beside, it. I reached the Rufus Stone car park in very quick time, just as Bob and Lyndon were preparing to move on. These two friendly men were volunteers for the Forestry Commission, engaged in litter picking. I wondered if the family decanting from a car behind them might render some of their work in vain. I spoke with them for a while, and told them I had seen their equivalent in Morden Hall Park last year. They knew of the National Trust’s similar system.

Outside Shovel Cottage in Minstead four apples placed on the verge of the road seemed to be harbingers of the season when local residents put out food for the struggling ponies.

At mid-day we set off, Jackie driving, to Athelhampton Hall in Dorset to visit the privately owned house and gardens. It was a dull day and late in the year, but we saw enough of the splendidly designed gardens to know that they will look stunning in spring and summer, when we vowed to return. First built in 1485, the house has undergone various embellishments over the centuries, yet remains beautifully integrated.

The garden has been so well designed that wherever you are positioned, as in an open plan house, you are led to another living area. There almost seem to be more rooms in the garden than in the grand house, each one offering an invitation to another. There are more walls than in an open plan house, though. Fountains abound. Through one you can usually see another. Dahlias, Rudbeckia, sunflowers, Hydrangea were blooming. Some roses were still at their best, usually with their companions’ petals carpeting the earth beneath them. Sweet chestnut shells are developing to protect the nuts they nurture.

A thirty year old eucalyptus, in gentle pastel colours, sheds its bark and its leaves onto the brick paths around its base, two long roots stretching out like symmetrical tentacles. There are a number of pleached lime colonnades.

The delightful boy with his dog was just one of the many sculptures enjoying the flowers.

A bridge in the grounds crosses the River Piddle. (That just had to be done, didn’t it?)

At the entrance to the house I was intrigued by the dates of some of the graffiti. Once inside, we were permitted to take photographs; could roam freely without having to follow a prescribed route; and could, it seemed, sit anywhere.

There were bathrooms of different periods, one containing a magnificent polished copper bath. It had me wondering about the term ‘copper’ for a tub for washing clothes. The state bedroom had what must have been a rather early en suite.

Staircases were from very different periods, and always intriguing. One, an Elizabethan ammonite, led to the gallery where I discovered Marevna. Marevna was a Russian painter who lived in the house from 1948 -1957. She worked with all the great earlier twentieth century painters, her style embracing various forms, such as cubism and pointillism, to name just two I recognised. Obviously a favourite model, her daughter Marika, was her child with Mexican artist Diego Rivera who, incidentally, numbered the brilliant Frida Kahlo among his many lovers. At the top of the spiral staircase lies the entrance to the gallery, through the door of which can be seen part of her ‘Homage to Friends from Montparnasse’ of 1961. Her painting of The Great Court hangs on a wall adjacent to one framing a window through which can be seen the real thing.

When, like father bear, I tested a very comfortable chair, and Jackie decided to photograph me in situ, she found herself at the head of a queue of would-be David Baileys.

After an uneventful drive back Jackie produced a meal of lamb and mint sausages, potato croquettes, onions, mushrooms, cauliflower, cabbage and peas. It only needs a second’s power cut, to which we are prone, for the electric cooker to be thrown out. By this, I mean, its operation is upset. Mind you, it sometimes is at serious risk of being ejected through the kitchen window. The instruction manual has to be consulted, and much fiddling undergone if the food is ever to burn. We had one a couple of days ago. However, it was sorted, otherwise we wouldn’t have had our sausages. Mine went down well with the rest of yesterday’s Sicilian wine, and Jackie’s with her Belgian beer.

The Siren Deer

I’d really rather not mention this morning’s walk, but my innate honesty determines that I must. Actually, although that wasn’t quite the intention, it extended well into the afternoon of this scorchingly hot day.

My plan was to walk the two underpasses loop via the Sir Walter Tyrrell Inn. Somehow it went horribly wrong. I blame the siren deer.

I reached Sir Walter in good time with no mishap. As I passed The Rufus Stone I saw a small family trailing after Dad who was clearly aiming for a picnic spot. It was almost two hours later before I met anyone else not in a car. This was a young couple, the man in shorts, and the woman in a bikini, settling down on a blanket with their little toddler in the shade provided by the forest near Suters Cottage. They were local people, and so knew their way there.

Everything went swimmingly until I reached the now rather dried up stream, and was able to cross it at a hitherto impassible point. Had I stayed on the other side I would probably not have followed the Brook tributary and been distracted by the sirens. They played hide and seek with me in the trees.

I managed ultimately to catch them with my lens. If you zoom the picture by clicking on it, and look very, very, carefully, you, too will glimpse some of them, in this cervine version of Where’s Wally? (or Waldo if you are in USA). I believe the ancient sailors who were tempted by the sirens’ calls became somewhat disorientated by toxic influences. I shared their fate, because once the deer finally disappeared I had no idea in which direction I should proceed.

It was the unusual sound of the animals trooping through the trees that had alerted me to their presence, and, as so often on clear, warm days, the A31 noise was very loud. I headed for it. I was confronted by a stout wooden fence, lots of undergrowth, and a ditch, providing a pretty insurmountable barrier to this major road. Not recognising the point at which I reached it, I had a choice of turning right or left and following the fence as closely as I could. I always go left and it is always the wrong option. Well, I couldn’t break my rule, could I? Sod’s law would be bound to kick in.

Today was no exception. Sparing a thought for the walkers I had directed to the Sir Walter Tyrrell on the 11th, I tramped on. Eventually, above the bracken, I spied a road sign that informed me I was going in the wrong direction. I didn’t really want to go to either London, Southampton, or Winchester. So what next? Well, if I continued I would come to the Cadnam roundabout which was just a little bit out of my way. If I turned around I’d be retracing my steps, and would eventually reach the underpass. But that wasn’t very adventurous was it?

I continued heading for the M27, London, and all points East.

The next A31 motorists’ guidance was to non-motorway traffic. I must, I thought, be near the roundabout. I was. Soon the traffic sign confirmed it. The motorway barriers were to my right. When I was faced with a fence in front of me, I realised I was looking at Roger Penny Way which would take me to the

roundabout. There was no gate, and no cattle grid. There was nothing else for it. I was going to have to climb. At least I could be confident I would have no audience for the ungainly performance of scaling the stout timber construction. I thought it rather unsportspersonlike of the biting insect that took the opportunity to sink its fangs into my right knee as I straddled the top bar of the fence. In fact I made a better job of the assault than I had of leaping the gymnasium horse in my schooldays. That was a sight to behold. I never did get over it without a certain amount of crawling.

Cadnam roundabout should strictly be given in the plural, because there are in fact two, each of which has to be negotiated before reaching the comparative safety of the rather dangerous A337. The exercise is not to be recommended at any time, let alone the height of summer. I did it. Only two drivers called me rude names and one little boy was rather impressed.

Not far along the A337 I noticed a gate on my left that appeared to be padlocked but wasn’t. I went through it and walked into the forest keeping the road on my left. There wasn’t any real footpath and I had to cross a number of dried-up streams, but suddenly…….. Eureka!…….. I came to the gravel road I had discovered on the 10th.

I had a result at last. I now knew a safe route from the home side to Cadnam roundabout.

It was a straight line from this wide track, through a narrow, partially obscured, partly soggy, footpath to the gate into the forest that flanked Running Hill. It was on this stretch that I met the couple mentioned above. From the gate I improved on my uphill diagonal so much that I emerged onto the Hill just a few yards from our Lower Drive. Dave’s path had been totally obscured by bracken that I walked through to my goal.

The rest of the afternoon was for drinking water and recuperation. Jackie produced her marvellous chilli con carne (recipe) and wild rice, with which we shared a bottle of Setley Ridge New Forest rose she had given me for my birthday. I finished with rhubarb crumble and custard, from which Jackie abstained.

They Do Pick Their Moments

Unerringly, this morning, I picked my way from the farm underpass to the Sir Walter Tyrrell and back, using a different route each time. Almost.

I was on a mission to measure the oak I had found recently. Berry had replied to my e-mail by asking me how many hugs it was. A hug is apparently a metre, give or take a bit of wingspan. So off I went and, in full view of anyone who happened to pass, ignoring the bramble growing up the trunk, tenderly grasped the bark. Untangling myself each time, I did this three and a bit times before reaching the point at which I had begun. Unfortunately this means I have not found my first ancient tree. An oak, to qualify, must be 4.5 metres in girth, and my arms are not long enough for three and a bit hugs to stretch to that. My one consolation is that there were no witnesses to my act of dendrolatry.

On my outward journey I was less confident than I expected to be on the way back, because I have not made the trip in that direction before, and even fallen trees and streams, which I am beginning to try to use as markers, look rather different the other way round. Actually, enough of one or two of the dead trees remain upright to serve as rather good milestones.

The day was changeable, the occasional sun brightening the view. The recent rain, however, has made everything soggy again. I set off on clay, which meant it was still hard underfoot, pitted with small round cups of water pressed into the surface by the feet of ponies. I could step on the rims. Where there was no clay, I was soon sinking halfway up my shins in shoe-snatching mud. Sometimes I could skirt round these patches, but that wasn’t always possible.

Every now and then I fancied I heard a chuckling in the woods. If I peered through the trees I would see shadowy light brown figures dart across the way, and on one occasion a still, erect, creature that gazed in my direction, then, with all the stateliness of the high-stepping horses of the guardsmen of two days ago, strode off with its entourage in tow. My mockers were an enormous mottled white stag and three dingy little does. Maybe they weren’t making fun of me. Maybe they were just rustling the leaves.

Taking a diversion around a fallen tree, an unmoving flash of colour caught my eye, and I went to investigate what turned out to be possible remnants of an orgy. Several sets of discarded clothing were arrayed on another prone trunk. Perhaps some optimists had hung them out to dry, and couldn’t get back through the surrounding quagmire tio retrieve them.

Now I have to explain the one word second sentence of this post, that flouts all the rules of grammar. I did not mean to indicate that I didn’t quite manage the walk. Far from it. It was extended a wee bit. This is because what I do mean is my return trip wasn’t exactly totally devoid of error.

Saufiene picked a rather less than convenient moment to telephone me from France. I have to answer my mobile within three rings. This was rather difficult when it was in my jacket pocket and I had one foot in the water and the other half way up the bank of the stream I was intent on crossing. I did manage to answer the call and fortunately the Frenchman didn’t ask me where I was. I mention this here because I would like to blame him for what happened next. Yes, he did distract me, but it wasn’t his fault that once across the stream I forgot I had forded it and followed it dutifully, according to my newly discovered rule of thumb. In the wrong direction. It wasn’t until I glimpsed through the trees the cottages on the outskirts of the village of Brook that I realised my slight mistake. So back I went along the brook, seeking the ford by Castle Malwood Farm. The truth is, I cannot pretend Sofiene put me off. I’d have gone the wrong way anyway.

Now it is all very well following a stream until you come to a fork in it that you don’t recall having seen before. It is especially inadvisable to take the wrong fork, which is of course what I did. I never did find the ford, but I found the roar of the A31 an increasingly friendly sound. I was soon walking under it and up the steep climb to home. Elizabeth chose to present me with the second inconveniently timed call of the morning as I was ascending the almost perpendicular stretch of this.

Lyndhurst’s Passage to India provided our evening meal with which Jackie and I both drank Kingfisher. We had to drive out there and sit down in the restaurant of course.

You Deserve All You Get

Today was warm enough for us to lunch outside, using a small table and folding chairs on the stone path leading up to the kitchen door. Jackie’s small garden outside there is taking shape. This afternoon we drove to Aldi at Romsey for potting compost, a Polish Spirit clematis and a few other items.

Last night, as Jackie drove me back from Southampton there were, unusually more deer than any other animals on the road. We realised the truth of Sisyphus‘s (see post of 19th March) observation that these timid creatures have been more desperate for food than usual this winter, and would soon be less venturesome in the garden of Castle Malwood Lodge, when we noticed leaves and even flowers on one stem of these plants that have been regularly stripped to the bone since last November.

As I walked down to the village shop and back cattle and ponies shared cropping rights on the verges of Minstead’s lanes. Maybe because their roots have been waterlogged for so long, there seem to have been a great deal of fallen trees in the forest. It only appears to be those that encroach upon the road that are logged up and removed. A vast trunk by the roadside in the village has clearly been there for some time, and is regularly used as a community noticeboard.

We haven’t had a ‘Derrick through the ages’ picture for a while. Number 15 in the series was probably taken by Jessica in about 1995 in the garden of Lindum House. I don’t remember whose teeth marks are imprinted on my bottom lip.

This evening Jackie drove us to The Woolpack at Sopley, a delightful pub where we spent a very enjoyable evening with Helen, Bill, Shelley, and Ron. The food and wine were excellent. They even served fish and chips in newspaper in the traditional manner. As is probably common in groups of a certain age, one topic of conversation was stiff necks. This prompted my story of my first encounter with Jasper Nissim, the male half of Newark’s osteopathy partnership. Having been subjected, all my life, to pain in my left shoulder and a stiff neck emanating from a fifty two year old rugby injury, I was persuaded by other members of my family to put myself in the hands of this Newark Rugby Club fly half. The fly half position is the one occupied for so long in the England team by Johnny Wilkinson, the playmaker of the game. One task of the second row forward, one of the two big heavy men who formed the engine room of the pack, was to disrupt the life of the fly half.

The position a second row forward does not want to get himself into is lying on a clinical couch with his head in the hands of a fly half. Nevertheless, there I was, prone on the bed, Jasper gently tweaking my resistant head from side to side with gradual increase of movement. ‘Second row forward, weren’t you?’ ejaculated Jasper. ‘Yes said I’. ‘Well’, he replied, giving my neck a vicious twist, ‘you deserve all you get’.

A Sad Duty

On another cold day I put off my walk until after lunch. A day or two ago we had been talking on the subject of soups. Jackie had mentioned that her favourite was watercress. She made one today and it was very tasty.

As I left the flat, the first flurry of snow greeted me. It didn’t amount to much. I walked under the A31 again, this time by the Malwood Farm underpass.My intention was to then walk across the forest to the Stoney Cross underpass. I knew there was no footpath in the direction in which I wanted to go. Today I found out why. Eventually it was clear I was wire fenced in on all sides except the narrow space by a cattle grid that I had slithered through. So, back I tracked, coming out on to the other side of the A31. I walked along there for a while, until a crash barrier petered out, and I decided that to fight my way through the undergrowth was preferable to withstanding the drag of passing lorries. It turned out not to be. Clambering over fallen trees and battling through holly and rhododendron bushes, I persevered until a branch poked me in the eye. I then battled back to the roadside, to walk the comparatively short distance to the Rufus Stone road, and from there across the heath to yesterday’s cycle track, under the second underpass, and back home via Furzey Gardens.

I have mentioned before that people in the forest are expected to inform various authorites of sightings of sick or injured animals. Jackie read recently that an average of two ponies are killed on the roads in this large national park each week; usually by hit and run drivers at night. It is actually an offence not to report collisions with the livestock. On that final stretch of the A31 roadside lay a dead deer with a car number plate not far off. I normally carry the card with the emergency numbers on it, but I didn’t have it today. I rang Jackie and asked her to text me the phone number I required. She did so. It is the Forestry Commision who wish to be informed about dead deer. They were grateful for the call I made. I was informed that this was a ‘hot spot’ for deer emerging at that point. Even in death, this beautiful creature looked so elegant that I trust my readers will understand my publishing the photograph.

I followed muddy pony tracks over the heath. The rest of the walk was uneventful, possibly because I was thinking of the poor doe.

Jackie produced a leftovers fusion meal for dinner tonight; lamb jalfrezi, chicken in chilli and black bean sauce; with the addition of fresh samosa, spring rolls, and savoury rice. Delicious.

We watched a repeated episode of ‘New Tricks’.

Adam And Eve

Florence set off first this morning. She joined Berry, who drove her up to the field alongside the road to Fleetwater where her ponies are kept. Flo helped prepare the two animals for their trip, and I joined them in time for the off. I had to step it out to get there on time. Poppy, the only one of the ponies accustomed to being ridden, was Flo’s steed, whilst Berry walked Libby. Libby has yet to be ‘backed’, or ridden for the first time. I walked and chatted with Berry.

Berry clearly knows the personalities of her ponies. Libby is described as ‘naughty’. She certainly didn’t like having a bit in her mouth, and did her best to dislodge her trappings. Before we set off Berry concentrated hard on ensuring that Flo was comfortable as she was responsible for her safety. In order to free her to adjust Flo’s stirrups and girth Berry asked me to hold Libby’s lead, a rope attached to the head collar. She also handed me a whip. I was a little perturbed when she said ‘try not to let her bite you’. I wondered quite how one did that, as this large hairy heavy hunk of horseflesh stomped round and round in circles tugging at the lead rope and bouncing her buttocks against me. Later on, Berry told me this pony didn’t kick, but I didn’t know that then. Nevertheless I did use my shoulder to push her back, and decided I’d better stand firm, otherwise she and I would probably get quite dizzy, and I didn’t want her falling on me. When she diverted her attention from biting her bit, to focus on clamping her choppers on me and the lead rope, I poked her neck and nose with the soft end of the whip. This seemed to do the trick, until she suddenly became very agitated, and tore great strips out of the turf with her forehooves, tossing her head up and down as I clung to the rope. Two terriers emerging from a car which had just driven up provided an explanation for this. One, until called off by its owner, was daft enough to come snapping at the pony’s fetlocks.

It seemed to take quite a long time to make the necessary adjustments to Poppy’s paraphernalia. I doubt that it was really. Soon we were off, passing the Acres Down shop and taking a long loop through the forest, arriving back at the field after a couple of hours. Throughout the journey Flo led on Poppy, occasionally pausing to let us catch up. Libby became agitated when Poppy was out of sight.

Having worked for forty years as a cartographer for the Forestry Commission, and still engaged in mapping veteran trees, Berry is a mine of information about her environment. We met a forest Keeper well known to Berry. We had a long, very friendly, talk. He is responsible for something like 7,000 acres, including inclosures. Berry pointed out Puck Pits inclosure as we passed it, and explained that these were areas of the forest historically legally fenced off so as to be exempt from grazing. In recent years the fences are gradually being removed. Sometimes, when replanting has occured, fences are retained until the saplings are strong enough to be safe from the attention of deer. On the road soon after this we were treated to what is the very rare sighting of a young cream coloured buck. As we approached him he trotted off into the forest and for some time continued to be visible through the trees.

The veteran trees which Berry is mapping are often three to five hundred years old. Two of these which she pointed out near the ford have borne local names for many many years. They are Adam and Eve.

This evening I finished the Carta Roja with our meal of steak, chips and beans.

Wombling Free

Grey clouds were back today, releasing only slight drizzle. As I walked down Running Hill at midday I was confronted, at a safe distance, by a deer planted in the middle of the road. When she decided I was close enough, she trotted off into the forest. Three others filed after her. This set off baying of hounds in the garden of Hungerford Cottage.

I took the first ford route, walking up through the bridleway to the Emery Down road and back via the Study Centre ford. Having been inspired by the man I met at the bottle bank on 30th December, I took my first steps towards clearing the forest of litter on this trip. I doubt I will be around long enough to finish the task.

I couldn’t conduct this exercise in environmental service without thinking of The Wombles. Like me, these pointed nosed furry creatures frequented Wimbledon Common in the 1960s and ’70s. I would walk up there from my homes in Wimbledon and Raynes Park. The Wombles lived in burrows on the common, and spent their time collecting and creatively recycling rubbish left around their environs. They were the brainchildren of Elisabeth Burrows whose set of books featuring them began in 1968. Their popularity spread through the introduction of the television series which soon followed, and eventually the 1977 film adaptation, ‘Wombling Free’. Mike Batt’s band ‘The Wombles’, climbed on the bandwagon, and enjoyed a number of hit records. In case anyone is wondering, visitors to 4 Castle Malwood Lodge will not be expected to admire inventive uses of drink cans and fag packets. My collection is going straight into black bags.

Following Bill’s recommendation, we ate this evening at Masala restaurant in Ringwood. This tiny, unprepossessing, windowless box tucked into the corner of a precinct near the car park, provided excellent meals with most friendly service. I counted 19 covers which makes it even smaller than Edgware Road’s Akash. It was a good recommendation. They do not serve alcohol there, although you are welcome to bring your own. We didn’t do so. Jackie drank Diet Coke, Flo J2O, and I sparkling water. Perhaps because it was ‘banquet night’ the establishment was full. Other diners had brought their own alcohol and were consequently rather noisy. Kalu played quietly on the table until the food arrived, when he snuggled up with Flo and went to sleep. This meant our granddaughter had to eat one-handed, but she managed it well enough.

I presume the lack of alcohol is a matter of religious belief. We are quite happy for that to be the case. I don’t remember the name of the very good restaurant for which we used to drive to Southwell from Newark in the early 1990s. It was worth the journey, even though Newark had its own Indian eating place. Here there was a very different approach to intoxicating drink. After the uncle took over.

When Jessica and I first travelled to the restaurant in question, they served the usual range of drinks. It was a shock to all when the comparatively young proprietor was knocked down by a car and killed. His two young sons were determined to continue their father’s business. One evening soon afterwards we visited for a meal. The restaurant, much larger than today’s Masala, was, apart from us, empty. A middle aged man we had not seen before introduced himself as he came to serve us. He was the brother of the dead man and had come to take over the management of the business to support his nephews. We soon had reason to wonder what they thought about this. He tried to persuade us not to take lager. The restaurant did stock it, but it was against his religion to drink it. It would do us no good. It was wrong to imbibe. We should have orange juice with our curry. He did actually provide the lager but continued to try to make us feel guilty about it. We ate and drank up, disappeared, and never went back.

No Respite

Last night Flo went out in the dark to attempt to photograph deer on the lawn. They barked at her.

On another wet and windy morning I popped into the shop on my way to Football Green, took the back road up to Bull Lane, right into Seamans Lane, and back home via upper drive. Anne, a customer in the shop, on learning that there was an increase in the price of what she was buying, said: ‘Everything goes up. Nothing comes down’. ‘Except the rain’, was the reply I couldn’t resist. Strangely enough this didn’t get a laugh. She wondered when it would ever stop. It is Anne whose village garden is waterlogged.

Along Lyndhurst Road long wiggly lichen-clad oak limbs bounced up and down in the blustery wind. Given that they host such slow-growing organisms these branches must be resilient enough to have withstood such blasts in the past. Many of these branches, fallen with the parasites still clinging to them, litter the forest.

In a field along the back road a dripping jacketed horse pressed against bare deciduous trees. There was no chance they would keep the rain off, but they may have provided a windbreak.

The fastening securing the tarpaulin covering stacks of hay in a soggy farmyard was severely tested. It was the sound of its flapping that drew me to peer over the tubular metal gate to see the cattle chewing away under shelter. Raindrops hit the tops of the bars of the gate, slid round the tubes, reformed on the undersides, dropped to the next bar, and eventually reached to the ground. A bit like A. A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh bouncing, limb to limb, down his tree in E. H. Shepard’s delightful drawing.

In Seamans Lane Martin, driving for a change, stopped to ask me if I was OK walking. He fully understood my desire to continued being drenched.

Kalu on edge of table 12.12 Kalu (see 28th) is maturing nicely. This afternoon, on encountering the edge of a table, he would back away. Like Robert The Bruce’s spider he wouldn’t give up. Time and again he walked forward, reached the precipice, backed away, and repeated the process, until Flo put him on the floor, to explore in safety. He now does this adventurously and without complaint.

This evening we revisited last night’s meal. It was still delicious. I drank Campo Viejo rioja 2010, followed by a glass of Fortnum and Mason’s late bottled vintage port 2007, sent to us by Wolf and Luci. Jackie’s choice of accompaniment was Peroni.

Afterwards, watching ‘Jurassic Park’, Flo thought it prudent to turn Kalu off.