Clearance of the future rose garden continues apace. Yesterday Jackie uprooted several unproductive fruit bushes, and this morning I removed the last of the box hedges and a photinia that had been well rooted for a few years. This latter plant required the use of a grubber axe. It had to come out because it has the potential to grow into a huge tree. There is one in the jungle garden next door which is so high that we get the benefit of it.
After this, I took my now customary route on foot to Milford on Sea, taking a diversion through a nature reserve on the way back. Having passed through Shorefield, I met Mike, the postman, who confirmed that he was indeed more comfortable in the front garden next door, photographed yesterday. He was also very helpful about the problem I have been having with misdirected mail being delivered to The Old House, Lymington Road. This is yet another difficulty with MyBarclays, who hold my French bank account. They will only accept proof of address from my New Forest Council Tax bill. This gives our address as Lymington Road, rather than Christchurch Road. I am engaged in a frustrating exchange of e-mails with the bank. Until this is resolved, Mike suggested I might explain the problem to the residents of The Old House, which is not on his round, so they may readdress my statements.
The Solent is now calm enough for leisure yachting. 
People were walking babies in buggies, and sometimes frisky dogs on foot. From the cliff top Tony pointed out the Isle of Wight to his wife Anne. We conversed about my photograph and the general state of the cliffs.
I have mentioned before, the superb view The Beach House has of the island and its lighthouse. Today I shot it through their mature conifers.
On the way back out of Milford on Sea there is a footpath on the right. I have speculated about where it might lead, but had not had the confidence to try it before. 
Today, however, 
I noticed Trevor enjoying a cigarette as he basked on a bench in the sunshine. Crossing a footbridge over a stream, I asked him where the path led. He directed me along it, telling me how I could pick up the coast road. As I walked back over the bridge, an attractive woman came into view. This was Jan, who looks after the administration of the Community Centre cafe. She is a blues fan and particularly likes The Blues Band, especially Paul Jones and Tom McGuiness. This discovery enlivened our conversation somewhat.
Crossing a road along the footpath I entered the Nature Reserve through which it ran, leaving it on a slope up to Woodland Way on the left. This led to Delaware Road, and thence the cliff top. 
The path, beside which cyclamen blooms among dandelions, does extend further, and one day I may explore it more.
Tonight we dined at our old haunt, The Family House Chinese restaurant in Totton. We ate our favourite set meal, and both drank T’Sing Tao beer.
Like many Asian restaurants they juggle, very successfully, with serving diners and taking down takeaway orders.
Tag: dog-walkers
Walking The Dogs
It takes quite a lot to make me incandescent with rage, but this morning Penyards estate agents Winchester office managed it, and maintained their efforts throughout the day. On 10th of this month a prospective new tenant was shown our flat. We had, as we were told we must, given two months notice. The following day I was asked if we would be prepared to leave on 31st, to enable the new tenant to move in. We agreed. After a number of phone calls it was agreed that we would move out on 31st and return on 1st April for the end of tenancy clean, the inventory check to take place on 2nd. I was told this had been put in an e-mail to me. This, of course, meant we had to change all our arrangements and would no longer have the whole month of April in which to transport our belongings and leave the place in good order. We would also save one month’s rent.
I never got the alleged e-mail. What we did receive, this morning, was a letter dated 13th, stating that the new date was ‘Subject to Contract and References for new tenancy’. At no time during the telephone conversations which fixed the departure date was any reference made to this proviso.
Immediately upon its receipt, I left a message for the person whose name appeared at the foot of the letter. I was told she was on the telephone and would be asked to ring me straight back. She didn’t. This afternoon I asked to speak to the boss. He was in a meeting. I left a message for him. Later I received a call from the person with whom the new date had been agreed. The boss was now two and a half hours away. She claimed to have told me that it would be subject to the new tenancy contract. I was clear she hadn’t, and for good measure added that she had told me first of all that she had sent an e-mail detailing the new agreement, and that when I said I hadn’t received it she promised to send a copy. I said she hadn’t done either. She took ‘personal responsibility’ for assuring me that I would receive a call by the end of the day. Needless to say, the call never came.
Whilst waiting for the first promised response I took a walk to the village shop, returning via the church path, The Splash, and Furzey Gardens.
Even on an overcast day, I was intrigued by the muted colours of the treescape from Seamans Corner.
Seeing two small terriers dragging a woman on the ends of their leads down through Minstead, I quipped that it was difficult to know who was taking who for a walk. This began a pleasant conversation with a couple who moved to the village ten months ago and were greatly enjoying it. They were dog-sitting for a brother.
What I now realise is a family of donkeys were relaxing by the roadside on the way up from The Splash.
This afternoon we made up five large storage boxes and filled two of them. Neither of us felt much like doing it after the agent’s performance.
Fish and chips, mushy peas, gherkins, and pickled onions were what we had for dinner. I drank a little more of the rioja.
‘There’s No Need For That To Be In The Road’
Being a firm adherent of the adage attached to Robert the Bruce: ‘If at first you don’t succeed, try, try, try again’, I set off this morning in search of Dave’s lakes which I had failed to find yesterday. For those who don’t know the story, King Robert I of Scotland, their fourteenth century monarch who fought against England, wasn’t doing very well. He was doing so badly in fact that he sought refuge in a cave. Whilst sitting there, pondering his next move, he watched a spider struggling to attach the thread of its web to the wall. Back and forth, up and down, went the arachnid in its attempt to secure its fly trap. Eventually the apparently hopeless task was achieved. Inspired by this, King Robert continued his guerrilla warfare until, at Bannockburn in 1314, a resounding victory secured independent sovereignty for his nation. What is good for a spider and a king is good enough for me. This time I took a map and continued on the path the other side of Forest Road past Andrew’s Mare car park. There I was given encouragement by the number of dog walkers coming to and going from their vehicles. They must be travelling somewhere for pet frolics. I fell in with a couple who confirmed that I was headed in the right direction. The woman, identifying her dogs for my benefit, described them rather uncomplimentarily as ‘idiot Saluki crosses’. 
Apparently all the exercise they take is chasing each other after sticks thrown into the large lake. 
After watching the canine cavorting for I while, and feeling somewhat satisfied to have got this far without mishap, I studied my Ordnance Survey map very hard, and decided I would attempt to descend to Acres Down before returning via Newtown. 
I selected my path and strode across the heath. 
Had I paid a little more attention to the contour lines I would have realised that the one I had chosen descended steeply to a ford and rose equally as steeply on the other side. Ascending the flinty gravel surface put me in mind of the very scary unstable scree that had made me cop out of the final push up Cumbria’s Scap Fell many years ago. Anyone who has a similar phobia of heights will know that it becomes much worse when children are involved. On this occasion, Louisa, then very young, had slipped on the loose stones. That was enough to paralyse me. Louisa, with her far more intrepid mother, reached the top. I didn’t. This was, however, a much gentler slope and not so far above sea level. A stream was forded just after a stone memorial Dave had told me I would pass yesterday.
But, as we know, I was nowhere near it then. Finding Murray’s memorial filled me with confidence and a certain smug satisfaction. Admiral Murray was killed whilst hunting on Backley Plain on 17th September 1901. If you ask me, Sir Walter Tyrrell has a lot to answer for. It was he who, allegedly accidentally, shot William Rufus not far away, thus setting an unfortunate precedent. The story is told in photographs of the Rufus Stone posted on 19th November last year. That memorial is about three or four miles away on the other side of the A31. Seeking further information about Admiral Murray and his manner of passing all I could find was a notice in the New Zealand Herald of 23rd November 1901 stating that he had been killed in the New Forest and had had a distinguished naval career. This may or may not suggest he was a New Zealander. Our antipodean friends seem to be a little short of pressworthy material, judging by The National, whose quiz Jackie and her workmates were encouraged to attempt each week by her native colleague Brent. She still regularly attempts this puzzle. 
At the top of the slope is that rare thing, a signpost, leading to Murray’s Passage. Not much good to anyone approaching it, as I did, from the lakes. Skirting Stonard Wood, as the map told me, I could go for broke and turn right down to Acres Down just to prove I could do it, or I could quit whilst I was ahead and aim for Newtown. I chose the latter. Once I correctly turned left the footpaths seemed to have been deliberately arranged in a series of celtic knots just to confuse me. 
Had I always taken the right fork I would have arrived at my intended point on the Forest Road, the crossroads leading to Acres Down and Newtown. I did sometimes. But not always. When I noticed a cairn I had passed yesterday I didn’t know whether to be pleased or not. 
This could either mean everything had gone horribly wrong or I was on the right track. As confirmed by a pair of familiar rowan trees a bit further along, it was a bit of both. I did emerge more or less on Forest Road, but not at my targeted crossroads. I arrived at the Forestry Commission gate at the path to the lakes that I had gone through too early yesterday, about fifty or sixty yards from the A31. Well, I wasn’t going back along the road to the Newtown crossroads, so I retraced my steps alongside the major road, continuing rather precariously after the footpath petered out by Little Chef. This earned me a ship’s foghorn blast from a huge lorry. I think that was rather unnecessary. After all, the traffic was nowhere near as fast as usual, when the slipstream blows you off your feet, and I was wading through brambles at the time. The speed restriction was because of an accident that had slowed things up. An ambulance crew in a lay-by were checking out two unhurt young Asians gazing wistfully at the bashed-in offside front wing of their sprauncy red car. Don’t ask me what make it was. Be satisfied that I even noticed the colour. One medic emerged from some bushes carrying what must once have been a bright new, red, bumper. ‘There’s no need for that to be in the road’, he said to me. Unbeknown to me Helen and Bill had passed me on the A31 on their way to Castle Malwood Lodge. They drew level with me as I walked down Upper Drive. This time they offered me a lift. I declined, reasoning that I could probably make it across our lawn. As we all walked into our flat together Jackie informed me that she had just sent me a text asking if I wanted a lift. She knew that, after yesterday, there was no way I would ask for one, yet it was getting a little late. Had that come earlier I could have done with it. My left calf is complaining somewhat of overwork. My one-time-sister-and-brother-in-law stayed for a pleasant conversation about Lincoln and its environs, where they had been on holiday and once lived, and which I know quite well. This evening Jackie and I dined on her marvellous mixed meat stew with no apparent trace of sausage, followed by gooseberry and rhubarb crumble and custard.
We Get Lots Of Stick
En route to Morden by car from The Firs this morning Jackie and I were presented with incontrovertible evidence which solved the conundrum I posted on 23rd. June.
What little Flo once called ‘tree tunnels’ are definitely caused by large vans.
A motorcyclist who was driving rather precariously got me talking about my Uncle Bill who was a great favourite of Chris and me during the years he was engaged to Auntie Vic. Bill Burdett was an immensely kind and generous man who lost his legs in a motor cycle accident, when, the story goes, rather than hit a pedestrian he swerved and went under a lorry. Bill had been a keen cricketer, but could never play again. In our teens, he obtained membership of Surrey County Cricket Club for my brother and me. With or without him, we spent many happy hours at The Oval. It was Bill who, when I was fifteen, taught me to solve The Times crossword, and to whom I dedicated my half of ‘Chambers Cryptic Crosswords and how to solve them’, which I co-wrote with Michael Kindred. By this time he and Vic were married and had their four children, our cousins Barry, Susan, Neil, and Fenella. It was their garden in Victory Avenue in Morden which, in the 1950s, was the first one not my own with which I helped out. When we were very small Bill entertained us with ‘Silver’ or ‘Copper’ Fairies’. This was a marvellous game in which invisible fairies hid silver or copper coins in various parts of the room and we excitedly searched them out. We never saw any fairies but we found lots of silver sixpences. These were the equivalent of two and a half pence in modern money, but you could do a lot more with them. The coppers were pennies and halfpennies which have no equivalent today. They were just as welcome.
Clouds were louring over Morden Park, where I took a brief stroll before a brisk walk to Church Lane surgery to meet Jackie before returning to The Firs. My lady has been signed off work for another week because of a chest infection.
The path alongside the railway has now been barred off. The barrier which has, for the eighteen months we have been in Morden, been left open, thus allowing the parking of cars, is now chained up and padlocked. The flytipping warning which it has carried for a month or two has been ineffective. The consequence is that currently no-one has vehicular access.
There was nothing beyond this obstacle but a tipped heap. The small white van parked alongside the gate ensured that a cyclist was forced to dismount in order to manoeuvre her steed through the gap.
In the park two dog-walkers with ten charges between them were earning their money. I spoke to the man, most of whose dogs were harmlessly off the lead. He questioned my motives for wishing to photograph the group because, he said; ‘we get a lot of stick’. I don’t think he was speaking of throwing sticks for the animals to fetch. When I explained my purpose he said I could photograph the dogs, but not him. I said that would miss the point, and put my camera away. By this time the woman, tangled up with five leads, had moved on, so I added that the moment had gone. This was all friendly enough, and he finished by saying: ‘another time, maybe’. 
Further on, another man was training a sheepdog. Why, in Morden, I wondered.
After a two hour congested drive we arrived at Eastern Nights where we had the usual excellent meal, Bangla, and Kingfisher. Elizabeth was heating up yesterday’s boeuf bourgignon for herself when we returned to her home.