ducks – Page 3 – derrickjknight

Cream Tea Crawl

On 15th September, Ron’s parents will have been married for 70 years. This morning, he brought me their wedding album, from which he has given me the honour of making some prints for a commemorative book he is compiling. So keen was I to show him how I would go about it that I scanned one to begin with.

In the process I managed to delete iPhoto and everything in it, including all the photographs I have worked on over the years. This threw me into something of a panic.

Fortunately Elizabeth managed to help me to open up a new iPhoto file, and learned from Google that it would be possible to recover what I have lost. This would require a phone call to Apple tomorrow, but it gave me peace of mind to enjoy the rest of the day and the facility to post today’s photographs.

In the meantime, Aaron finished his work on paving and gravelling the garden, when he covered the concrete surface at the southern end with shingle.

The exquisite, tiny, little rose, Flower Power, is living up to its name.

This was a perfectly splendid, sunny, day, so when the ladies fancied a cream tea we began with a trip to Gordleton Mill Hotel, where the catering is superb, and where we knew Elizabeth would enjoy the sculpture garden which has already featured in a few of my posts.

Unfortunately they no longer serve cream teas, but were happy to give us coffee on the lawn, within nostrils’ reach of the kitchen extractor emitting appetisingly tempting aromas of Sunday roast dinners, reminiscent of supermarkets wafting the smell of baking bread throughout the stores.

Sun played on the River Avon rippling beneath the white bridge over which it is necessary to walk to reach the hotel.

Ducks were in their element.

I have photographed most of the sculptures on previous occasions, but

this horse made from bicycle parts is new.

Elizabeth was intrigued by it too, especially as she thought nephew Adam would like it.

I have not noticed the dancing hares before (I am indebted to our friend, Barrie Haynes, for pointing out that the hares are boxing, as is, of course, their wont.)

The garden offers many different outlooks. Elizabeth and Jackie adorn this one.

The eucalyptus is beginning to shed its leaves.

Taking a break on a chair, roomy enough for them to share, Jackie and Elizabeth found their feet could not reach the ground.

For those who may not be familiar with the term, a pub crawl is a trip from hostelry to hostelry in search of the perfect pint, or whatever else takes your fancy.

The craving for cream teas remaining unsatisfied, we visited Braxton Gardens tea rooms where Elizabeth and Jackie enjoyed their searched-for treat, consisting of scones, clotted cream, jam, tea, and the attention of wasps who indulged in their own crawl into the unfinished jampots.

After this, we drove via Keyhaven and past the salt marsh and around Hurst Spit to Sturt Pond before returning home.

On the marsh at low tide, turnstones were demonstrating why they are so named.

Silhouetted against the lowering sun, a photographer positioned his subjects

then took the shot.

Before Elizabeth returned home to West End, we enjoyed a Hordle Chinese Take Away meal with which she and I drank Caviller del Diable reserva shiraz 2013. Unfortunately Jackie was out of Hoegaarden.

Gordleton Mill Hotel

Another mouse has left the suffragette group. Having noticed that a flock of sheep had strayed from Lidl, she has become Little Bo Mouse and herded them onto the mantelpiece. Before you ask, we inherited the ghastly orange colour.

Yesterday evening Jackie heard an horrific screeching coming from the far end of the garden. This morning, after overnight rain, I discovered feathers scattered over the back drive, demonstrating that a bird of prey had swooped and stripped a pigeon of its gor tex raincoat.

Being a dull, overcast, day, it was not the best to explore the garden of The Mill at Gordleton, but we were very pleased to have been introduced to this establishment by Giles and Jean, and are encouraged to visit the garden in brighter weather. It is open to the general public under the National Gardens Scheme every Monday. As we were lunching in the hotel restaurant we could, of course, have a wander around.

The restaurant is excellent, offering friendly efficient service and superb food, home, or locally, produced. Jackie and I don’t normally eat a large lunch, so we confined ourselves to a ploughman’s lunch with which I drank Ringwood’s Best. A splendid variety of three course meals and good wines would have been available.

Inside and out, the hotel is an art gallery within the grounds of an idyllic garden that has the River Avon running through. There is, as would be expected, a mill race.

Even the gents loo is tastefully appointed.

A wooden horse stands in the vestibule,

and original paintings, like ‘One Last Game’, adorn the walls.

Shelves are filled with tasteful objects,

and the centrepieces of the dining tables are metal sculptures.

After having been greeted by the rear end of a crouching female sculpture,

the building is approached by crossing a bridge over the River Avon.

During our two very rainy years the banks were flooded, washing down sand which offered three white ducks a route to the water.

The garden is scattered with sculptures, such as this blossom tree and gyroscope,

and the metal woman and dragonfly.

The Millings Chandelier, suspended over the river is viewed by humans from another bridge, and by a sculpted swan from the bank.

Close by, a dragon’s head is fixed to a tree,

and a whopping great wasp clings to another.

Through a sculpted secret garden gate,

we are led to glorious seasonal shrubs like this Magnolia Stellata.

This evening, first Becky and Flo, then Mat and Tess arrived to stay over for Easter celebrations. We all dined on Mr Pink’s fish and chips, mushy peas, pickled onions, and wallies followed by Tess’s moist Chocolate Reese’s brownies. We shared a bottle of Valdepenas Senorio de Canova tempranillo 2013. It would be pointless of me to attempt to detail any of the fast-moving hilarious conversation, which would be a bit like trying to keep track of modern cinema advertisements.

Stonehenge Sandwiches

After an early brunch consisting of ‘roast dinner soup’ by the chef, she drove us to Salisbury. I should consider myself fortunate really. Most people who inhabit country houses need to employ a couple to provide these two services. I have a staff of one and I don’t need to pay a salary.

As usual Jackie did her thing (touring charity shops for example) and I did mine. I walked around the Harnham water meadows, eventually crossing the river Avon, turning left and left again down Harnham Road to the cathedral; round the cathedral and, after wandering in the town, back to the carpark.

On entering the water meadows area, where some ambitious landscaping was under way, I exchanged greetings with one man and his dog. Much later, on a road on the far side of the river, we again approached each other from opposite directions. This time we stopped and spoke, and he confirmed I was headed for the cathedral. ‘I thought you was one of the round-the-blockers’, he said. I understood this referred to walkers of shorter distances.

Passing from the elegant grandeur of the cathedral precincts and their surrounds, through to the poorer end of the city, I was struck by the contrasts that are experienced in all such places. (see 10th May 2012)

The river and streams were full and fast flowing. Waterfowl abounded, especially when flocking to a gentleman feeding them. One disappointed duck came flapping, late for the feast, as the elderly man folded up his empty carrier bag.

I was experiencing views of Salisbury cathedral made famous by the paintings of John Constable. On this slate grey sunless day, no way was I going to rival the artist’s masterpieces with my camera. I did my best.

Harnham Road, leading to the cathedral, is a small, interesting, street of terraced houses; thatched on the right, and tiled on the left, as I walked down it. The river runs along the back of those on the left.

The Salisbury visit was a break in our journey to Chris and Frances’ home in Wroughton, Wiltshire, for a private viewing of a photographic exhibition featuring some of my brother’s pictures. So on we went, across Salisbury plain, which is covered in tumuli. On the A303 we passed a stone’s throw from Stonehenge, now fenced off, where it was once possible for Jackie and Helen, as young girls, to clamber up onto one of the fallen sections of the monument and watch the sunset as they ate their sandwiches. Less dramatic, but far more prolific, are the stones at Avebury which we passed as we neared Wroughton.

Frances had been caring for their grandson James. His Dad, Paul, having come to collect him, stayed on to see us for a while. James is a dear little chap who is beginning to look very like his grandpa at that age. Clearly teething, he made no fuss. He weighs up visitors very carefully before committing himself.

Frances then gave us an excellent meal of beef stew and mixed fruit crumble. The crumble was unusual. Frances had made it during the brief window of opportunity created by James’s afternoon sleep. She wasn’t sure exactly what farinaceous mix she had used to create it. Or even whether it was farinaceous. No matter – it was very toothsome.

The three of us joined Chris at the exhibition and admired all the photographs. Chris has specialised in 3D prints which are most effective. There were several pairs of special glasses for viewing these. The photographer was very patient in protecting them from the sticky fingers of a small boy who had been diving into the complimentary bowls of sweets and crisps. A display of street scenes was fascinating, and a particularly interesting shot of Oliver taken at Louisa and Errol’s wedding completed his section.

We returned home directly from Swindon College.

No Dinner

Today having dawned crisp and clear, I circumperambulated Cannon Hill Common, my companions, as in Telegraph Woods yesterday, being magpies and squirrels scuttling about.

In Maycross Avenue a new set of paving was about to replace a front garden. The pavement was disturbed and carried a series of markings the like of which I have often seen in cities. I imagine they are alerting paviours to utility pipes that must be preserved. The exact colour scheme escapes me. Perhaps white or blue for water, and red for electricity. Next time I see the road up I will check. That won’t be long.

Three, silent, unexcited, and rather beautiful dogs waited in Cannon Hill Lane. When their proud owner emerged from the Mini-Market he informed me that they were not huskies, but the larger Alaska Malamuts.

I was just in time to see caterers providing ducks with the last crumbs of their breakfast.

Four years after his death, Mr. Marshall’s memorial bench bore its usual vase of fresh flowers, roses this time, augmented by a container of cyclamen which should survive the winter.

As I returned down Cannon Hill Lane, a young boy, cycling up and down the pavement, had me wondering whether it was half-term. I don’t think so.

Back in Links Avenue I struggled to get my head into crossword clueing mode. Jackie has told me that, under the Minstead regime, as she, who will be retired, will be in charge of the kitchen, I will get no dinner until I have written a clue. Maybe I should take a leaf out of my friends Maggie and Mike Kindred’s book and work steadily through the morning, but as I start my day with a ramble I can’t see that happening.

This evening I did have some dinner, on three counts; the first is that I cooked the sausage and gammon casserole I took from the fridge this morning; the second is that I made very good headway with the clues; and the third is that the new regime hasn’t started yet. With our meal Jackie drank Hoegaarden, whilst I enjoyed Muriel, which, I hasten to add, is a superb 2007 reserve rioja purchased in the co-op, and well recommended.

Wayfarers Walk

As we are staying a couple of extra days in The Firs; the sky was leaking badly; and I had been inspired by my walk with Paul (see 4th. September), I decided to take one of the walks in the AA 1,001 walks in UK. which I had bought at Mottisfont on 7th. September. Since I was going to get wet anyway, I thought the Alresford ‘Watercress Walk’ which partly follows the river Arle and runs alongside the famous watercress beds, looked the best possibility. A pair of decent walking shoes now seeming a good investment, Jackie drove me to Hedge End where I bought a pair in Cotswolds. Not having bought a new pair of shoes for quite a long time, I was amazed to find I now take a 12. Having been wearing 10 1/2 for most of my life, I had on the most recent occasion, purchased an 11, but that, I’d imagined was only because the shop didn’t stock 10 1/2. Apparently one’s feet lengthen and spread as one gets older. My chauffeuse then took me to Alresford, setting herself up with a newspaper and puzzles for the wait for my return. It was by now, fairly chucking it down. In the car she had asked me if my comparatively new raincoat had a hood. I didn’t know. I soon learned that I was not a hoodie.

So far, so good. Having walked through the town with Jackie, I left her seeking shelter whilst I trotted off down the hill in North Road. Almost immediately I managed to take a wrong turn and walk along what I thought was the correct bank of the Arle. A famous cottage I was meant to pass remained elusive, and I realised that the footpath seemed to have river either side of it. Perhaps I was on the wrong side. I backtracked and tried again. When Fulling Mill Cottage, straddling the river, came into view, I realised that I was now on the right track. Keeping no-one but the ducks company I continued on and around the river bank. One unusual phenomenon made me pleased I had taken the waterproof option with the shoes, and had chosen to wear my gardening trousers. At certain points the footpath ran under the river. It wasn’t actually meant to be that way. It was simply the swollen river asserting itself. Jessica had vainly spent thirty years trying to get me into green wellies. Maybe I should have bought some. Or perhaps, given the spreading of the feet, flippers might have come in handy.

As there seemed to be several parallel streams to this river, and I wasn’t quite sure when a bridge was a bridge, I constantly studied the map provided with the book. The purchase includes a plastic envelope to hang round your neck into which the relevant detachable page can be inserted. I had thought it was waterproof, however, nothing was going to keep the torrent out. Never mind, the sheet soon dried out on a radiator on my return.

I really must either learn to read these maps, or buy a pedestrian satnav like Paul’s. My next problem was finding Wayfarers Walk. I had to take a right turn. Surely it couldn’t be that thin track with a green bit of farm machinery forming a barrier across it? It doesn’t have a road sign. Neither does the much wider road I was now travelling along. Deciding it couldn’t, I continued straight ahead looking for the correct turning. I didn’t find one until I came to a T-junction with Winchester Road. The road I had walked up turned out to be Drove Road. I crossed the main thoroughfare, dripped my way into DB Curtains, and disappointed the staff by asking for directions rather than fabrics. The gentleman there most helpfully guided me back the way I had come, accurately describing the barrier, which I needed to walk around to enter Wayfarers Way. The barrier was to deter motor vehicles from attempting to use the footpath, which was a rough one, effectively a layer of flint. The mountain bike ridden by a helmeted cyclist with a mud-spattered face who approached me some way into the green tunnel, was one of the few which could have managed this terrain.

Now I had to find Fobdown Farm. At the far end of Wayfarers Walk was positioned another barrier. Passing this I had to continue along other tracks. No signs. Just tracks. From the not very detailed map, I had to pick the right one. I did. As I rounded the farm, my next human being approached me from behind. He was a truck driver looking for another farm. His satnav wasn’t proving very useful. Neither was I. I flourished my map necklace and said I was ‘struggling myself with this’. We shared a laugh, and I left him to a farmhand. Turning right beside the farm buildings I wrestled with the problem of when is a track ‘established’ or not. I mustn’t have understood the terminology, for this was my next wrong move. I should have been on a gentle descent past the watercress beds into Old Alresford. After a while it became clear that this wasn’t the case. Especially when it developed into a less than gentle upward track. Doing my best to ignore a farm machinery barrier which looked rather familiar, I soldiered on. Eventually I realised I was lost. All these tracks looked the same. They were all made of flint. There were even the same bits of broken branch lying in similar positions.

Ah……… No….. It couldn’t be. Could it?

Knowing by now that I would not make our rendezvous in time, or perhaps, ever, I decided to phone Jackie. By this time the rain had stopped and I saw two women approaching me along the path. I abruptly finished the conversation with Jackie so I could ask for help. As they approached, I greeted them with: ‘You know where you are going. Do you know where I am going?’. One didn’t get the joke and said she didn’t know. Her companion replied: ‘Yes. You are going to Alresford for a nice cup of tea and a scone. That’s where we’ve just been’.

What relief. Perhaps I was retracing my steps. I was warned that I would be in trouble if I didn’t have waterproof shoes. The river was overflowing. I pointed to my shoes and trousers and said I had already been that way. We said our farewells and I continued along increasingly familiar ground. Then I came across the second (actually the first) barrier. I had indeed again walked down Wayfarers Way. Although I knew them from having passed them in the car on the way down from Morden, I never did find the watercress beds, despite having added a good third onto my journey.

I was soon back in Alresford where Jackie was patiently waiting in the car park. We made our way to the Flower Pots Inn at Cheriton, hoping for a recommended lunch, only to find that the kitchen was closed because they shut at 2.30. This was just after 1.45. The beer in this micro brewery was excellent. George, a rather aged old hound, scratched his way into the small bar; we tried to ignore the customers tucking into tasty-looking platefuls in the next room; drank up quickly; and drove to the Farmer’s Home in Durley where we were served excellent grills, Ringwood beer, and diet coke.

This evening Danni made a visit and served up a spicy pork casserole which we all enjoyed. Roc des Chevaliers was also consumed.

A Pikey

Taking my normal route to Cannon Hill Common; with the exception of entering it through Joseph Hood recreation ground alongside; I paused in Maycross Avenue to chat to Keyline paviers. Proud of their work, the man in charge told me how, with a membrane and a layer of concrete, they eradicated the weeds which I had seen a homeowner in another garden killing off, during a period of several days, earlier in the year. This carport is there for good.

In the recreation ground, the grass was experiencing what is probably the final cut of the season.

As usual, alongside the lake, the vase attached to Allan William Marshall’s memorial bench was full of fresh flowers; ducks were being fed; and fishing was in progress.

Another grand oak had lost a limb, segments of which now encircle the tree, ensuring that there will be no need to manufacture benches in that part of the common for a long time to come. Squirrels were racing up trees getting in supplies for the winter.

Walking back along the lake I chatted with Jordan and his friends. Having the occasional difficulty with his line, there was great excitement when this boy was thought to have caught another fish. His first catch, swimming around, as if in a goldfish bowl, in a large orange bucket, was being gleefully inspected by his two friends. There was some banter about who might be scared to touch the slippery scales. The young lady, whose shiny patent leather handbag lay alongside other containers on the bank, was convinced the catch was ‘a pikey’. The young angler was not so sure. Having explained what I was doing, I had no need to worry about whether they knew what a website was. Jordan’s male friend pulled out his Blackberry so I could enter the address in it. I was somewhat relieved it was the same as my own mobile device, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have been able to do so. His companion told him he just had to e-mail it to Jordan and he would have it too. Looking back over the years spanning today and my junior exploits described in my post of 30th. May, expanded in Chris’s comment on that of the next day, the advance in children’s equipment and communication skills was mind-boggling.

Hi, folks.

Hoping to avoid the rush hour traffic Jackie and I set off for The Firs earlier than usual, to be met by a snarl-up at the far end of Hillcross Avenue. This had been caused by another taxi breaking down (see 26th. September). This time, actually on the roundabout. We got through this quite quickly, but the journey still took almost two hours.

Jackie, Elizabeth, Danni and I ate at the Eastern Nights. Eventually. Jackie drank Bangla, I had Cobra, and the other two shared a bottle of Cote du Rone. Eventually. The food was as wonderful as ever. Eventually. As we waited for an hour and a half for our meals we became aware that the two staff out front, both working their socks off, both very pleasant, yet rushed off their feet, were prioritising the takeaway service. The phone was going all the time, and one or the other of them was rushing to answer it and take the order. People who came into the restaurant for takeaway meals long after us, were being presented with their food long before us. I had decided I would speak to them about this the next time we went in on a quiet night, but after this length of time I had had enough. I went up to the bar and leant on it waiting for one of the men to come. At that moment, out from the kitchen came our hot-plates. As our waiter left those on the table and approached me, I had a quick rethink. I asked him for another pint of Cobra. It still seemed best to speak quietly about the problems at another time. The others all agreed.

Piper

As I watched a group of brave people setting up St. James’ Church fete in Martin Way, en route to Cannon Hill Common, I reflected on the fact that most such events have been washed out this year. Jackie read this morning that the Godiva festival in Coventry, an event which takes a year in the planning, has had to be cancelled because of the torrential rain which has been flooding the Midlands for months. London has not suffered as much as the rest of the country, and today was bright, although very windy and cloudy. I wished this parochial effort well.

Along the lake in the common people were fishing. These included a man with two children and a group of boys. The man had a fishing licence but was not a club member and knew nothing of the lease to the Wandle Piscators (see post of 31st. May). The boys were more interested in making fun of one of their group who, in attempting to retrieve something from the water, already with one saturated trouser-leg, was in danger of falling in, than in conversing with me.

Mallards and coots were basking in the occasional shafts of sunlight. Another duck was shepherding her chicks. A cormorant on the far side of the lake was poised for the kill (of fish, not chicks). Three magpies I disturbed on the path fled to the safety of a solitary tree.

Having emerged from the Joseph Hood recreation ground, alongside the common, a woman was training her Labrador puppy to cross the road. This prompted me to tell her the story of Piper. Piper was the dog who helped Michael upstage me in the launderette television scene (see post of 22nd. June). Some thirty odd years ago, when my son was still a teenager, we lived in Soho where Michael did a paper round. One morning he came back with a mongrel dog of uncertain age. Naturally he wished to keep him. Now, we lived in a tiny first floor flat in the middle of Chinatown. It seemed to me that it was unreasonable to keep a dog there. I was, however, outnumbered by two to one. Here was I, doing my best to have a quiet, uninterrupted, bath and I had both Jessica and Michael in tears pleading with me for my agreement. Feeling a heel (not one of those in the bath), I stuck to my guns for a while, but eventually reached the following compromise. Michael was instructed to take the dog back where he found him and put a note on his collar, and if an owner couldn’t be traced we would keep him. Silly me, I didn’t tell the boy what the note should say. The note, which Jessica kept for the rest of her life, read: ‘If you know this dog, please return him to his owner.’ This was followed by our telephone number. Michael much later confessed that he had not left Piper at all, but simply brought him back home saying he wouldn’t stop following him. The dog was well cared for and had clearly been loved. I often wondered whether something had happened to his original owner, and, if not, what the loss meant to him or her.

Where did he get his name from? Well, he had been found on a paper round, so what better than the Cockney version of paper? Piper he was.

Why did the woman training her dog in the art of crossing the road remind me of all this? Piper was a wanderer, well used to negotiating West End traffic. He always used zebra crossings. Off he would go walkabout, on his solitary expeditions, safely trotting across the striped paths at which all the cars had to stop. One day we had a telephone call (yes, a telephone on a landline, as was usual in those days) from the police. He had turned up in Hyde Park. Would we come and collect him? We explained that he knew his own way home and could safely negotiate the traffic.

My listener was treated to a truncated version of this story and found it very endearing. Not so endearing, which saddened her, was Piper’s demise. After we moved to Gracedale Road in Furzedown Piper continued his wanderings, although at this time only when he could escape. He was by now very old, deaf and blind. One night we received a call from someone who told us that he had been run over on a zebra crossing. Michael and I collected the body and buried him in the garden. A sad end, indeed, but Piper had enjoyed a long and heathly life and perhaps would have chosen this way to go.

In the afternoon we drove to Mat and Tess’s home in Upper Dicker in East Sussex. Alongside the A23 the limbs of a shattered oak sprawled in homage to the severe winds that have been blowing for weeks now. Cricket matches were in progress.

For some reason best known to Jackie we went straight to their village shop. I was puzzled by this because I thought it was Tess’s day off. What happened next is too important to share a post. It will therefore receive its own tomorrow. A clue is that I have not rounded this one off with details of our evening meal.

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.