Slate grey skies; gloomy light; steady rain. These were the weather conditions during our drive into the forest this morning.
Just outside Lymington we were delayed by a warning of witches’ hats strung out round a bend in the lane, no doubt having been abandoned after Halloween.
A couple of cows cropped the grass at Pilley Street where
Jackie parked the Modus beside the occasional bus-stop at the fully replenished Pilley quarry pit pool while I wandered around the perimeter.
Glistening golden oak leaves lingered on
lichen covered limbs
and mossy trunks;
or, loosened by the stiff breeze, cascaded down the sloping banks
vanishing beneath the surface of the water
swirling with raindrop ripples
ruffling arboreal reflections.
Fallen branches rear from the depths or stretch in tangled skeins across the surface.
On the far side of the lake bedraggled ponies nuzzled what nutriment they could from the soggy terrain.
As my shoes struggled with the mud’s suction I spared a thought for the owner of this trainer that may have succumbed.
It is difficult to believe that on 21st September I walked across the bed of this lake photographing grazing ponies.
The frost patterns on the flanks of this damp donkey rather belied the warmth of the day.
Leaving the pool we visited Mum at Woodpeckers. Jackie took this photograph as my mother demonstrated her improving smile. She has suffered a chest infection requiring two series of antibiotics. She has recovered from this, but still has a cough. She doesn’t see too well, but has all her marbles.
Later, Nick Hayter visited to estimate for decorating the kitchen and sitting room.
This evening we dined on a rack of pork spare ribs served with Jackie’s flavoursome savoury rice topped with an omelette, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank Scheiber Cabernet Franc 2015.
On a bright afternoon of sunshine and showers Jackie and I took a spin in the forest.
Various flocks of birds in different locations skimmed the clouds in the changing skies, taking rests atop the naked trees.
Cattle in a field alongside Bockhampton Road stood in a muddy, waterlogged field. As I watched
one, with the backing of another three, began a gentle crooning rendering of
Reflecting on the fact that there is no speed limit on Harpway Lane and other similar roads, Jackie pointed out that on a speed awareness course she had learned that this was because they had never had an accident. That was a little comforting to hear.
Beyond the hedge it was apparent that a farmer was branching out into a new kind of livestock.
Someone must have been talking about sheep in London Lane, Ripley, for their ears were burning.
This bank at Moyles Court School was just one example of a drift of snowdrops.
Ponies, as usual, occupied the green at South Gorley.
When these two made for my open window I decided to wind it up.
We continued on to Gorley Lynch where donkeys
and ponies kept the shrubberies in check;
and, until they heard the click of my shutter, there were a number of vantage points for observing distant deer.
The stream visible in the last of the deer shots flowed across one drive and reflected its bordering trees.
There is often limited passing space on the forest lanes. On the way up from the ford at Frogham we just sat and waited for this woman and her dog.
Back at home we dined on more of our Hordle Chinese Take Away meal from trays on our laps while we watched the recorded Six Nations rugby match between England and France.
This afternoon Jackie and I transported to Oakhaven Hospice Charity Shop in New Milton several boxes of kitchen equipment rendered surplus to our requirements after the installation of the new kitchen. We then ordered a quotation for recovering our Chesterfield sofa from Jem Fabrics.
A drive to Hatchet Pond was next.
I have noticed that when families are cycling in the area it is always the youngest member who speeds on ahead. So it is with cygnets. Here, under a sky the colours and texture of a soiled lawyer’s wig, one of this year’s offspring led its parents along the surface of the lake.
On shore, it flexed its muscles
and told the gulls where to go.
A coot paddling among the surf,
and several mallards stepping out on the bank made up the avian population.
Angling families tried their luck.
A wandering pony searched for fresh grass,
while a patient donkey, at the head of the queue,
waited for its friend, the kindly vendor, viewed in his wing mirror,
to hand over the last of his own ice cream.
This evening we enjoyed second helpings of Mr Chan’s Chinese Take Away fare. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and Elizabeth and I drank Calvet’s Cahors Malbec 2016.
Autumn tidying in the garden produced enough clippings to warrant a trip to the Efford Recycling Centre. In exchange for two bags of these and £4 we returned with four firm chair cushions for raising the front passenger seat, and a plinth for the owl in the new arbour.
Towards the end of the afternoon we drove through the forest and stopped at Hatchet Pond
where gulls occasionally took off after food,
and donkeys attempted to share visitors’ refreshments.
When I asked the group in a camper van if they minded the photographs, the gentleman, beaming, replied: “I don’t mind. It’s not my donkey”.
Approaching Brockenhurst on our way home, we deviated to that extension of Highland Water that flows under the A337.
Shadows were cast beneath the trees.
A family and a couple lingered, enjoying the last rays of sunshine.
Tried not to trip over tree roots, probably laid bare when the stream has been in spate.
The usual samples of litter had been left behind, none so brazen as this.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s luscious lamb cobbler, new potatoes, carrots, and Brussels sprouts. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Graves.
Our friend Sheila Knight died last week. She had been ill for some time. We will be unable to attend the funeral, but I had been asked to write a tribute. I did so this morning and e-mailed it. It will be entered in a book and read out at the service.
At midday Jackie drove me to Milford on Sea for Peter at Sears Barbers to cut my hair.
Opposite the hairdressers Keith Mitchel was refurbishing the telephone box. He told me that the Parish Council had bought it for £1 from the telephone company and were seeking local views on the purpose to which it should be put.
We then travelled along the coast road. Sun sparkled on the Solent. The Isle of Wight and The Needles were nicely silhouetted against a streaky sky;
a speedboat sped across the surface of the sea,
into which three boys lobbed rocks.
We lunched at Sails café in Barton on Sea.
Travelling north past Ringwood we paused beside Linbrook Lake, and watched reflections in a stream that feeds it.
Browning bracken curled in the woodland;
spiders span their webs therein (can you spot one?).
As we rose to higher land we spied a marina down below,
and a sunbathed landscape with deer.
On a bend entering Ibsley a herd of cattle, mainly Herefords (identified by Bruce in his comments below), sprawled on the leaf-strewn sward. The majority of these creatures sported identical black eyes;
the odd chestnut brown made the exception;
all were tagged with their owner’s details.
Families frolicked in the nearby stream;
rounding the bend past the cattle visitors were greeted by
a van selling a variety of ice creams, some of what this gentleman called “come and buy me colour”.
Cattle at Gorley Lynch made their leisurely way along the road. So, perforce, did we.
High ground at Ogdens swarmed with snorting, snuffling, mast-seeking pigs.
As I aimed to photograph a gentleman jogging past some porkers, a woman opened her car door, crying “don’t get me in your photograph”. Recognising the humour in her voice, I pointed out that she had pushed her way into it. She and her two young girls had stopped to admire the animals which they photographed very well on their tablets. We enjoyed a pleasant conversation during which she expressed satisfaction with her portrait.
Our way at Frogham was blocked by a donkey, fast homing on on which was a dog walker with a number of charges.
This evening we returned for another excellent Indian meal at Bartlett’s restaurant in the Church Hall at Bransgore. We took our own drinks. Jackie’s was Hoegaarden and mine Graves.
P.S. See Paol’s comment below for good further information on Herefords
A rare glimpse of the sun this morning reminded me that I had neglected to offer any photographs of the front garden in yesterday’s post.
These are the flowers fronting the garage doors. I am sure that the Head Gardener would wish to have it pointed out that she swept this area later.
Two general shots display Japanese anemones and a couple of clematises;
and petunias, hydrangea, and erigeron. The tree is a winter flowering cherry.
On the trellis honeysuckle and solanum are prominent,
while petunias in hanging baskets and orange nasturtiums add vibrant colour.
Although patches of blue sky would peek between occasional gaps in the threatening clouds, we didn’t see much more of the sun.
I spent much of the day on form-filling and other administrative tasks. This afternoon Jackie drove me to the soon to be closed down Hordle Post Office to avail myself of a box that would take larger envelopes. We then drove into the forest.
At East Boldre it seemed sensible to stop as a donkey foal wandered in front of the car.
Not worried in the slightest, the mother lived up to the reputation of her kind, and tore at thistles
and brambles in contented oblivion,
whilst her offspring, after a little thought, ventured back into the road,
causing an Openreach van to give the creature a wide berth when it stopped to enjoy a leisurely scratch. Either the adult was extremely negligent or she considered that the youngster had learned that it had the right of way on New Forest roads. This is almost certainly the same mother and child I photographed in April soon after the baby’s birth, when it was sprawled out across the verge.
Further on, beneath a heather covered hillock at Crockers Clump,
on the edge of a Stygian pool,
a long tree had fallen across the sward, coming to rest against one still upright. In compliance with regulations in the interests of ecology this tree will remain where it lies until it rots away.
This evening we dined on succulent chicken Kiev served with new potatoes, crunchy carrots, and toothsome green sprouting broccoli. Jackie drank Hoegaarden annoying 1445, and I drank Parra Alta malbec 2016.
After the usual weeding and tidying in the garden, Jackie drove us out into the forest, where we eventually lunched at Hockey’s Farm in South Gorley.
We travelled via Nomansland where I communed with a disinterested group of ponies cropping the grass beside a recumbent foal.
One of the adults came close to nudging the infant of its chosen patch of sward.
As it snoozed, the little one rested its heavy muzzle on the firm ground.
Eventually even that became too much and the creature collapsed, prone and sprawling. You very rarely see the older animals lying down, for they all sleep standing up. Not so the youngsters whose joints have not yet stiffened.
As we neared the village of Hale, domesticated horses in a field along Tethering Lane wore the fly masks and ear muffs I have mentioned before. These lucky animals are thus offered protection from pestilential flies. As so often, crows peck around what the horses leave behind.
The small village of Hale has a public green surrounded by thatched houses and a school, some pupils of which were engaged in hearty sports as we arrived. I thought it politic not to photograph the proceedings.
The road through the village also divides the grounds of Hale Park. On one side we see the drive to Hale House;
on the other an avenue of trees extending into the distance. The approach is splendid enough now, but what an impressive coach drive would have been enjoyed in its eighteenth century heyday. There is no public access, so we rely on Wikipedia for the following information:
‘Hale House
Hale House was built by Thomas Archer, Groom Porter to Queen Anne, and Baroque architect, who bought the manor of Halesometime after 1712.[1] He demolished an Elizbethan mansion which had been designed by John Webb for the Penruddock family.[2][3] The house was designed and built by Archer around 1715.[3] It was remodelled around 1792 by the architect Henry Holland.[3] Other alterations were made in the early and late 19th century.[4]
The house has two storeys and seven bay-windows at the front.[5][3] It has cement rendered walls, a portico with pediment and Corinthian columns, and a slate roof.[5] The service wings flank the house but are detached.[5] They also are of two storeys, with cement rendered walls and slate roofs.[5]
It is now a Grade I listed building.[4] The house is in private ownership and is not open to the public.
Hale Park
The grounds were laid out from about 1715 by Thomas Archer.[6] During the 19th century and early 20th century the grounds were simplified and new features were added to the gardens.[6]
The park includes a circular pool surrounded by yew hedging and topiary shapes.[6] There is a Ha ha towards the south.[6] The park contains a number of copses, and lodges including the South Lodge which has a Doric portico.[6] Tree avenues cross the park, including a lime avenue which runs north east to Hatchett Lodge, and extends beyond park.[6] The Mount is possibly from the 17th-century house and is enclosed by hedging.[6]
Further on, outside Woodgreen, as I emerged from the car to home in on another equine mother and child, I noticed that another photographer had the same idea.
Possibly slightly alarmed by the attention the baby sought a top up from a comforting nipple,
after which it tottered away,
twitching its tail and tossing its head this way and that in an attempt to repel flies.
Then, like its pony cousin, it sunk to the ground,
stilled its tail, supported its head, and settled down to sleep.
After our substantial lunches, fish fingers and baked beans sufficed for dinner this evening. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Fleurie.
This morning Jackie drove us with our friends Jessie and Claire out into the forest. Unfortunately this took rather longer than anticipated because even the narrow lanes suffered under the burden of far more traffic than usual. Our environment was the venue for a major cycling event, and there was extensive parking in the vicinities of the hostelries.
No sooner had we escaped the first batch of cyclists than a string of ponies stretched across the road at Mockbeggar,
where cattle took some shelter from the heat beneath shady trees,
and almost every other donkey seemed burdened by pregnancy.
We waited for a quad car to pass in order to turn into Hockey’s Farm at South Gorley,
where I was not the only person with the idea of photographing
recently shorn alpacas;
extremely smelly little pigs;
and geese
sharing a pen with splendid chickens.
The geese enjoyed a bath in the far left-hand corner. They would duck and dive, then, shaking themselves dry, leave the pool and join their companions.
We then partook of traditional cream teas from the shop. While I had busied myself in the farmyard, Jessie had purchased various meat items which resulted in a certain amount of unwanted attention from a visiting dog.
Fortunately the animal’s head was turned by the offer of a very fresh bone.
Our next obstacle on the road came in the form of a foal, escorted by its pony mother, having a scratch on Roger Penny Way.
The route along the A337 into Lyndhurst was so packed with unmoving traffic that we took a diversion via Minstead through Emery Down. As you can see, this did not prove to be a good idea.
Having eventually threaded our way through this blockage we took the road through Bolderwood and immediately encountered a dappled pony with no inclination to move.
I had resolved not to feature the swarms of cyclists, but they and their marshals did impede our entrance onto the A35 and potential freedom of the road.
The next pony and foal did allow us passing space.
We were soon back home, where Jackie fed us all on superb roast lamb, mint sauce, sage and onion stuffing, roast potatoes, cauliflower cheese, carrots and runner beans. We finished up with Claire’s first class mints. Jackie drank an excellent Sainsbury’s Chablis 2015 provided by Jessie, and I finished the merlot. The others had a long journey back to London and left soon after 6 p.m.
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This morning Aaron began weeding the Brick Path.
Bees were feasting on the tiny blooms of tellimas which grow quite profusely.
Noticing Becky wandering around the garden gathering up Scooby’s poo bag contributions, Aaron quipped that she had missed Easter, so there was no Egg Hunt today.
This afternoon Jackie drove Becky and me to Elizabeth’s home at West End, where we enjoyed a roast lamb meal cooked by Adam, in honour of Danni, Thea, and Andy’s 10k run in aid of Cancer Research.
These are before and after photographs e-mailed to me by Danni.
As soon as I opened the front door it was apparent that such an event had taken place. a medal on the stairs and discarded trainers provided the evidence.
My great nephew Jasper earnestly concentrated on his father’s train set
details of which he explained to Becky and to Danni.
The constituents of Adam’s excellent meal, namely roast lamb, potatoes, parsnips and carrots; cauliflower cheese and red cabbage were laid out on the kitchen table from which we helped ourselves and repaired to the dining room. Of the drinks on offer, I chose red wine.
During the meal, Mum was prompted to relate a story of a particular Easter when I had gone to bed after eating too much chocolate and emerged later with the liquidised version all over me.
Afterwards, an Easter Egg Hunt was laid on for Elizabeth’s grandson. He was a little frustrated at first when he could not find any of the treasure,
but soon got into the swing of things.
The highlight of his afternoon was the final large package containing a train that had to be embarked upon immediately.
At this time of the year, it is best to avoid Lyndhurst on this journey, because you are likely to be held up by traffic jams. That is what we did. The donkeys at Beaulieu were determined to demonstrate that they were perfectly capable of providing a similar delay.
While the others grazed a bit, I needed no further sustenance this evening.
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Recently, Barry and Owen Chislett-Bruce, of New Forest Chimney Sweeping & Repairs, cleaned out our chimney and removed the wood-burning stove in order for us to enjoy an open fire next time we run out of oil. Barry recommended Richard at Gordleton Barn to supply the iron basket to hold logs in the grate.
Today we visited
Unfortunately Richard did not have one small enough for us, but we enjoyed browsing in the barn, which contained
mostly wooden artefacts
and one large wood burning stove standing beside a pair of brass scales.
Lampshades were conveniently placed throughout
this interior reeking history.
Fascinating doors, like this one that would no doubt interest Robin Cochran who makes excellent contributions to Norm Frampton’s project, are propped up around the place.
Quirky objects like this mask, possibly an off-colour Green Man,
and a sculpted face perhaps inspired by Salvador Dali, are found in unexpected corners.
Outside in the yard stand various items that may be considered enhanced by a patina of rust.
As it was a fine, warm, day, we continued on a drive through the forest.
Such was the overnight rain that it has added to the ponies’ drinking supply, being particularly helpful in lying in roadside gullies so that, like a human drinking wine with a meal, they can slurp up the water which then drips from their mouths and trails back into the ditches to provide another sup.
The drinker above stopped to observe the photographer for a moment,
while another watched from the other side of the road.
Moving on, we discovered
This church was built in the early 11th century, but there is some speculation that it is much older because three Sarsen stones have been discovered in the foundations. Neither, situated as it is on the top of a hill, is it very near Boldre. The parking referred to is nearer than the parishioners’ one further along the road.
The building itself, entered through a kissing gate,
is surrounded by an extensive graveyard,
most of the older stones of which are so weathered as to be barely legible.
An exception is this memorial to an 18th century vicar and his wife, who, like everyone else, needed to be pardoned for their repented transgressions.
Jackie was particularly intrigued by the name Jules Joseph Hyacinth Duplessis and the less exotic, to modern ears, of his wife Louise Fanny. They warranted a marble column which bears a legible inscription. The other two sides name their one year old daughter; and a woman whom we assumed to be Jules’s first wife.
Most graves were marked with stones, but Mary was graced with a stone casket.
Some of the windows were particularly interesting. Through one could be seen the light pattern on an inside wall from a smaller light.
On enlarging the photograph, it should be simple enough for those comfortable with mirror writing to decipher the inscription on this beautifully etched glass. The second picture shows an older window on the other side of the church. I longed to enter the place of worship to gaze at this work of art from inside. Unfortunately, like so many of our churches today, it was firmly locked, denying entrance to nice people like us as well as nefarious thieves and vandals.
A wild garden has been planted around one area. We could see snowdrops just beginning to break the soil, and vowed to return to see this a little later.
No trip through the forest would be complete without at least one animal blocking the road. This duty was taken on by a drowsy donkey at East Boldre.
This evening we dined on smoked haddock, fishcakes, sautéed potatoes, leeks, and peppers, and Jackie’s trademark piquant cauliflower cheese. She drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Bordeaux.
