fallen trees – Page 4 – derrickjknight

The Dappled Trunk

This morning I could no longer put off changing the lightbulbs bought yesterday. The picture light which I can reach with the aid of our small stepladder was done then. Three more at ceiling height were a different proposition.
A major task ensued, not the least for the photographer who had to get down on the floor whilst I was scaling the ladder. But first things first. The larger ladder, once discovered in the hall of the other side of the house where reside the unreachable electricity meters, had to be obtained, carried across the front of the building, and negotiated into our flat and through the hall corridor.
Then came the scary bit. The spots in the bay and the kitchen are the highest, but the bayonet fitting bulb in the sitting room is actually the most daunting. This is because two hands are required. The first time I replaced this one the old article was very stiff and tended to throw me off balance when it yielded. That was managed from the platform of our smaller ladder. No way was I trying that again.
There is a lot of internal illumination in our flat, and it tends to fail with some regularity. So you see, if, to quote someone I once met, ‘all I ever [did] around here [was] change lightbulbs’, I’d be kept quite busy.
Before a salad lunch based on a Ferndene Farm shop pork pie, I walked through the underpass and along Malwood Farm and the stream. I had intended to cross the sandbagged ford, but this proved to be far too muddy, so I carried on along the watercourse, eventually returning the way I had come.
The recent terrible arboreal toll necessitated searching out new footpaths not blocked by fallen trees.
It has been reported that three main areas of The New Forest have lost 300 memorable trees. If all we see around us have not been included the losses must be considerably greater.
Tradition has it that in England the month of March ‘comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb’. This March has come in like a lamb. The lion’s visit was in February.
This is why I ventured this way today. Apart from the ford mentioned above the terrain is less boggy and the stream not so full as often.
Sunlight finds its way through the deciduous trees and sparkles in the tinkling water, dappling the surfaces around. My feet rustled the dried leaves. A helicopter chugged overhead. The farm dogs barked. A flapping in some bushes was followed by the splendid flash of a male pheasant as it flew off at my approach.

Ponies, as always, have found their way past obstacles.

One particular trunk took me back to the early 1970s. Page 13 of Becky’s Book features a similar dappled effect on a tree and the fence beside it. I was inspired to make this drawing when gazing out of a children’s home window during a child care review. I was of course fully concentrating on the matter in hand, but took the memory home with me.
Later in the afternoon, idling on my laptop, I looked up Bing images for Castle Malwood Lodge. To my amazement, I discovered that 63, the vast majority of the photographs shown, were taken from my WordPress posts. They were of the house and garden; of Minstead and the forest around; of Elizabeth’s house in West End; even shots from the plane on the way back from Sigoules. Google’s tally was rather less, but it did include a photograph of Regent Street lights from fifty years ago, and Becky’s profile picture from her childhood. Jackie drew up a different Google set which also included my mug shot.
Yesterday’s liver and bacon casserole (recipe) provided our dinner this evening. A casserole surely does improve the next day. Even the Bergerac after three days was unblemished.

Confusing Exchange

Here is one I made earlier.

I forgot to post this Upper Drive shot yesterday. Trees in the New Forest don’t just fall down. They grow into all kinds of unusual shapes, such as this one forming a perfect arch through which one can glimpse the A31.

Last night I began reading Nathaniel Hawthorne’s novel ‘The House of the Seven Gables’.

After an early lunch today Jackie drove me to Donna-Marie’s in Poulner where I was given my quarterly haircut. Fortunately the weather is a little warmer at the moment. We then went on to Lidl in Totton for a shop. As is not unusual, although we had only gone there for milk, a trolley was requested. We managed to fill it.

As is well known a coin is required to free the supermarket trolley from its chain of companions. Inserting your £1 into the slot pushes out the locking key and you may take your wheeled contraption into the store. Having made your purchases and loaded your car you push your key into the last trolley in the line, out pops your £1, and the key remains in the other basket on wheels until someone else inserts another £1, and so on ad infinitum. Until, that is, one customer has difficulty understanding what he must do to obtain his trolley, consequently holds up the proceedings, and the person waiting to return his and collect £1, decides to confuse the issue even more, by suggesting that he swaps his trolley for the other gentleman’s £1.

Today, I was that helpful stranger. It seemed quite straightforward to me. But not to the struggling newcomer. He grasped my trolley, clearly wondering what was in the transaction for my benefit. Perhaps this was because he was more than reluctant to hand over his coin. There he was, one fist wrapped around the trolley handle, and the fingers and thumb of his other hand gripping £1 as if he had a wrench attached to his arm.

His companion, who had readily agreed to the exchange, tactfully informed me that he would not be happy until I tried to put the £1 he had given me into the slot occupied by my original coin. Of course it wouldn’t budge. I think it then became clear to him that what we were actually doing was swapping coins and when he had finished shopping, he would be able to receive his part of the bargain and collect my £1. Whether or not this was so, he released the coin he had been hanging on to, and allowed me to dash off with it before he changed his mind.

Just writing this out is doing my head in. Goodness knows what the encounter did to his. Or the reading to yours.

On our return down Upper Drive we witnessed the unusual sight of three donkeys foraging where I had wandered yesterday. Even ponies and deer are rare visitors to this small section of forest, so it was quite a surprise to see donkeys there.

Early this evening I took a clamber around the outside perimeter of the grounds. I have written before that the garden is surrounded by its own trees and shrubbery merged into the forest and bounded by a strong wire fence. The house having been built high up on the site of an Iron Age hill fort, the land beyond the fence drops sharply. I followed a path trodden by surer footed creatures than me, who did not have to travel hand over hand clinging to the fence on the left or leaning on a tree to the right taking a clockwise direction. Only once did I slither, slide, and career down the bank coming to an abrupt halt as my outstretched palms eagerly slapped into a welcome forest giant.

Reaching a point from which I could progress no further, I discovered where the deer gain ingress and egress. Overgrown rhododendrons and fallen trees have brought the boundary wire down to a level which perhaps I could, in my distant days as a second row forward, have leapt. When we next enjoy a clear morning light, I will make a photo shoot. Finishing by circumperambulating the lawns I watched the sun sink behind the building. The first daffodils are coming into bloom.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious chicken jalfrezi (recipe), with spicy wild rice (turmeric, green cardamoms, cloves, cinnamon and garam masala added to the boiled version). I drank Wolf Blass cabernet sauvignon 2013 and the chef didn’t.

Through The Underpass

This morning I decided to walk through the Malwood Farm underpass and see how far I got before I gave up on what I expected to be a rather soggy terrain. It probably would have been a better idea to have stayed on the roads, or at least worn Wellingtons instead of walking shoes.
Even before I’d left our garden, I could see that more trees had come down, and the steep downhill track leading to the underpass confirmed this, so I was not surprised to see the extent of the damage wrought by the winds, once I ventured into the forest itself.

The large shrub that has fallen in the garden lies across the stump of the recently deceased cherry tree. I think it is a buddleia.

This is just one of the recent falls on the short stretch to the underpass.

The sight of Malwood Farm in sunlight at the end of the tunnel was welcoming, and the promised return of the wet, windy, weather did not materialise until this afternoon.

The terrain, however, was rather less inviting. It was indeed soggy. Pools lay, and new streams flowed, everywhere. Mud patches inhaled deeply in an attempt to snatch my shoes.

It would have been unprofitable to have tried to pick out one of last year’s safe paths. The way would be blocked by either a quagmire or newly fallen trees, or both. As is usual in these circumstances, I followed pony trails.

Fallen trees across path — Enter a caption

The animals are at least a little likely to attempt to avoid the suction underfoot, although I would not have been surprised to find one or two stranded in the mud.

I had thought to take a rain check on the sandbagged ford before deciding on whether to cross it or not. Forget that. I didn’t even venture across the mud bath leading to the sandbags. It seemed politic to stay on our side of the winding stream I call Malwood. I walked along it for a while, then retraced my steps and returned home.

Walking back through the forest to the side of the farm fences, I noticed much beautifully shaped pastel coloured lichen clinging to fallen twigs featherbedded by a mulch of deep dark brown autumn leaves.

My share of the five-egg mushroom omelette with toast that was for lunch, went down very well.

This afternoon I finished reading Voltaire’s story ‘Le Taureau Blanc’. Here the philosopher, in advocating the search for human wisdom and happiness, is having an ironic pop at the fantasy of the Old Testament. At least, that is the sense I make of this fabulous tale.

This evening we dined on succulent sausage casserole with creamy mashed potato, crisp runner beans and cauliflower, followed by creme caramel. I drank more of the Bergerac.

Jackie’s sausage casserole has an interesting provenance. What she has done is perfect my adaptation from Delia Smith. This is the tops.

For four to six servings:

Take 12 sausages; lots of shallots; plenty of button mushrooms; a packet of Sainsbury’s cooking bacon, chopped into bite sized pieces; 3 big cloves of garlic; 5-6 bay leaves; 1 heaped teaspoonful of dried thyme; 3/4 pint of pork stock (if pork sausages – today’s were Milton Gate pork and apple from Lidl which provide a touch of sweetness); enough red wine to cover the contents of the dish.

Red peppers provide a bit of colour, but are not essential. Similarly thickening with the help of gravy granules or cornflower may be required.

Method:

Fry the sausages until browned on all sides and set aside. In the casserole dish then fry the bacon and shallots with the crushed garlic. Add the stock and wine; bring to the boil, turn down the heat, add the bay leaves and thyme, pop the sausages back in and simmer for 3/4 hour. (The simmering refers to the cooking heat. It doesn’t mean you have to adopt a suppressed emotional stance).

Then add the mushrooms and simmer for further 20-30 minutes.

Jackie cooks this dish without a lid until the sauce looks rich enough, if necessary adding one of the thickening agents.

The final touch of the peppers may be added in the last few minutes.

Getting There

Another glorious morning followed a stormy night. We had a powercut and left early for the airport for my trip to Sigoules. At least we would be able to get a coffee there. This was just as well, for arnoreal obstacles made it difficult to leave Minstead. A nuber of smaller branches littered the lanes. As we passed Hazel Hill car park we were greeted by the sight of a van backing towards us, followed by by two cars facing forwards. A large tree blocked the road ahead. Jackie turned the car and tried the Bull Lane route. This road is steep, narrow, and winding. Near the bottom of the hill another tree stretched out its limbs as if to grasp us in its clutches. There was no room for a three of even multiple point turn. My chauffeuse had to reverse up the slope and round the bends. Apart from anything else this was a painful process requiring her neck to be screwed backwards whilst gripping the steering wheel. There was a fearful smell of burning coming from somewhere in or on the vehicle. Jackie wound the windows down and sat and waited for a bit. It cleared.

I had been unable to check in on line last night. At the airport I was directed to the self service check in machines. Naturally I had to ask the attendant to do it for me. The macine could not read my passport. I was told I had entered my name incorrectly when making the reservation. Then I had to attend the check in desk. The person told me there was no-one of my name booked in. ‘Who made this reservation?’, I was asked in a disparaging tone. ‘I did’, I replied. Several times I pointed to my name, Derrick John Knight, on the print-out of my confirmation document. The woman, puzzled, made several adjustments to her computer and eventually hande me my boarding pass. She tore my print-out in half and threw it in the bin. So far I had kept my cool. It was when she told me that I should be more careful when making my booking on line that I became a wee bit shirty. I insisted that she took my form out of the waste receptacle, as it contained the details of my return flight, and said I didn’t take it kindly to be told to be more careful. She said I should have entered Knight first. I was listed as Johnknight Derrick. Clutching my boarding pass, I repaired to the bar where Jackie was waiting with coffee. It was our first of the morning because we are all electric at home.

The passage through security was uneventful. The Departure Lounge was packed. Announcements were being made at regular intervals; children frolicked at high decibels; babies screamed; a disabled young man grunted incoherently; newspapers rustled; voices cried into mobile phones; young ladies applied make-up; a woman walked along rows of captive passengers proferring duty free brochures; WH Smith and food outlets profited from an unexpected increase in custom. With all these distractions I was rather relieved that Nietzsche proved to be rather easier to read than I had anticipated.

I partook of a Mitchell’s big breakfast which was rather good. I was interrupted from enjoying this by a call from the compulsory property insurers reminding me of my obligation. I had renewed this, with payment, on the phone last week. On checking her computer the caller confirmed what I said and apologised.

I arrived at Bergerac an hour and a half late. Getting there had presented certain difficulties. Saufiene accompanied John to come and collect me, and travelled back with us to show me the work done on the house. He treated us all to champagne. There are so many surprises in No 6 that I am still noticing them late at night. I will make a thorough report tomorrow.

John accompanied me to Le Code Bar for an aperitif and to meet David again. We soon returned to a marvellous meal cooked by Mo. This consisted of her succulent chicken dish with potatoes and aubergines. We shared a bottle of Chateau de Monturon Sain-Emileon Grand cru 2011.

My friend Jessie coined today’s title many years ago. Thanks, Jessie.

Righting The Beetle

Impersonating a man with a great deal of local knowledge as I walked through Minstead this morning to pick up my route through the two underpasses turning at the Sir Walter Tyrrell pub, there was only one visitor I was unable to direct. One of two, that is. Just a 50% success rate. Not very impressive really.

The bracken on the other side of the A31 has almost obscured some of the tracks I took last time I trod a diagonal to Rufus Stone (see post of 19th November last year). However, my friends will be relieved to learn that I was unerring in my direction. Maybe they won’t. Had I erred they may have had a laugh.

Some of the fallen trees have degraded enough to be flaking and blending well with last year’s autumn leaves.

The forest was very quiet today. Just two sounds interrupted my silence. The first was a sudden neighing. This is very unusual. Ponies don’t usually waste that much energy. I turned to see four of them making their way to the Rufus Stone car park, where they no doubt hoped to perform some scam on eager tourists. I could have told them that the visitors hadn’t arrived yet. A little later, a scuttling in the crispness underfoot, had me turning to spy a scut scooting through the undergrowth. It was the tail of either a small deer or a very large rabbit.

Fallen forest giants blocked the pathways and lent their own prehistoric ambience to the wooded landscape.

A primeval swamp creature metamorphosed into a moss-covered stump and its roots.

I’m sure there is a name for the step-thingies that climbers inset into sheer rock faces so that they may scale them. Bracket fungi on a dead tree looked to me to be the prehistoric climber’s version of these.

It is sometimes amazing what one finds in the forest. Today’s gem was a pair of inappropriate footwear. I speculated about who may have left them. Had it been an eighteenth century beau? Had it been Sybil Leek, whose story was told on 22nd of this month? If so, where was her pointed hat? Or was it one of the young women who had participated in the orgy mentioned on 22nd May? And why were they placed so neatly?

Soon after finding these, I heard siren song, and was tempted by glimpses of diaphanous material wafting across a comparatively open space, to investigate. This led me into very boggy terrain in which I expected to be stranded. Never having been daft enough to venture into a quagmire before moving to Minstead, I had not seen this white fabric before, and looked it up on Google when I got home. It was, of course, bog cotton.

Back on dry ground, I found a pair of sloughed wings.

As I clambered up the gravel path from the Malwood Farm underpass, I encountered a small stag beetle struggling across the stones. This took me back to the long hot summers of my childhood in the dry and dusty suburbs of Raynes Park and Wimbledon. There may, of course, have only been one such summer, but, as we know, anything that happens once in a child’s life is magnified in later life into a regular occurrence.

However often it was, a regular sight was a, usually much larger, (but then it would be to a child, wouldn’t it?) beetle lying on its back, its legs twitching away. Chris and I, like all other boys, kind and generous to all living creatures, always put these insects out of their misery and back onto their feet. This required a certain amount of nerve, and a lever. After all, we were not going to put our fingers near those grasping claws. If we were eating an ice lolly at the time there was no problem. We just had to watch the squirming animal while we finished our refreshment, and we then had a ready-made implement or two. If not, we had to search out a twig. These were not in plentiful supply in our streets. Or a used match. There were loads of them, but they were a bit short, which meant fingers near the grabbers. It was okay if we shifted the beetle through 180 degrees first time. It would then stagger to its feet and make off sharpish. If, however, we applied to much force, the poor creature went through 360 degrees and the procedure had to be repeated. Probably we should have carried forceps around with us. I do hope the beetles were eternally grateful.

Tonight we dined on a superb mixed grill casserole with twice cooked swede and potato mash and virgin cauliflower. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I began Terres de Galets bottle number 010165.

A New Audience

A bright, warming, sun lit the horse chestnut candelabra in the garden this morning as I set off to walk the two A31 underpasses route this morning. A cool caressing breeze offered welcome refreshment. As the day went on it remained bright, but didn’t really warm up unless you were directly in the sun.

Fresh growth of all kinds is piercing the forest floor. Near the edges of the woodland new spring flowers emerge daily. Young bracken, just two weeks ago crouched curled and cowering from the cold conditions, now stands proudly erect, flaunting its youth beside its withered forebears.

In parts the ground is hard clay pitted by ponies’ hooves; in others the darkened soil warns of a quagmire beneath.

I nearly found my way between The Rufus Stone and Castle Malwood Farm without a hitch. Not quite. I am now recognising a few fallen trees and just about know which way to turn when I cross the stream. However, crossing the stream is only a first step. What to do when you get to the other side is not always clear, and clambering over sleeping giants that once rose aloft gets more and more difficult as the months pass.

We drove to Shelly and Ron’s home in Walkford for a barbecue lunch which extended into the evening and was shared with Helen and Bill and Jackie Ryder and Malcolm. Ron presented us with skewers of sausages, swordfish, beef, and chicken tikka. Shelley provided an array of fresh tasty salads and a fruit flan that was so full and artistically presented that it wasn’t until it was sliced that I realised it had a base. The barbecued items were tender and cooked to perfection; in other words to a correct even temperature, not burnt to a crisp one side and raw on the other. And they didn’t taste of firelighters. The various beverages included red and white wines and beers. Cheese and biscuits and mints accompanied coffee.

As always at such gatherings, tales are told, jokes are shared, and there is much reminiscing. A consequence of the forty year hiatus in my relationship with Jackie’s family is that we fill in the gaps in our histories; I have a completely new audience for my stories; and Bill has the opportunity to share his with someone who hasn’t heard them all before. The musical activities of Jackie’s nephews and nieces led the conversation in the direction of musicians, which gave me an opening to speak of Tom, posted on 24th August last year, and tell of his A level in guilt quip, given on stage in Newark.

As we entered Minstead early in the evening a flock of excited sheep came streaming up the hill, various young farmers following in their wake. They appeared to have escaped from somewhere.

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 Could Say I’d Be Stumped

The encouragement Jackie has received from our neighbours about her garden at the Lodge has inspired her to aspire to new heights. This meant we had to visit Cadnam Garden Centre, ostensibly for more netting for the rabbit proofing. I set off a little earlier than Jackie, so she could drive there and have a coffee and read whilst waiting for me to arrive. What I hadn’t been aware of was her plan to add a Gardman Gothic Arch to her little plot which measures 86 inches (220 cm) by 18 inches (46 cm). So we bought one. And the netting. And a couple of terra cotta pots to block a hole between the steps and the end of the building through which a rabbit, capable of breaching a three inch gap, might wriggle. There also had to be a couple of hanging baskets. I was attracted to a display containing a wheelbarrow beautifully coordinated with the plants in front of it. Jackie pointed out that it reflected garden centres’ realisation that most gardeners are women.

The afternoon was devoted to the assembly of the arch. With all our IKEA experience we are dab hands at this now. However, should you ever think of allowing yourself to be diverted whilst stretching out a measuring tape, into letting go the far end without locking the spool, it is not to be recommended. Later, we returned just before closing time for the necessary compost. My right hand wasn’t too comfortable with the Elastoplasted knuckle of its third finger being slid under the compost bags to lift them.

After lunch we had another trip by car to the Acres Down Farm Shop where we bought vegetables for the bank holiday weekend, not fancying braving one of the supermarkets on such a day. It is a distinct feature of country life that trips to buy standard items become outings worth recording. No longer can we obtain anything just around the corner or after a trip on an underground line.

The walk that split the shopping and construction periods was most pleasant. The blooms of an ornamental cherry of a Japanese flavour at the back of the house gleamed in the sunshine or sheltered in the shade of a neighbouring trunk. Running Hill becomes leafier by the day, and shadows were cast everywhere. Ponies, whose numbers were to increase as the day went on, were out in force.

I have already mentioned (on 24th April) the number of fallen trees that litter the forest. As a newcomer to the environment I could only presume that the fact that they appear to be left in situ for the benefit of the ecosystem. During our ancient tree hunt on 1st May, I asked Berry about this. She explained that a comparatively recent policy had changed traditional practices. It was once the case that one third of the fallen tree should be left on the ground whilst two thirds could be removed by local people for firewood. This age-old right of neighbouring residents has now been removed; the forest now looks untidy; and footpaths are blocked. But what do I know about it? Undoubtedly these fallen giants, in various stages of decay, do provide great benefits for a variety of flora and fauna. Jackie pointed out that there must have been a need for a way of establishing when two thirds of a tree had been removed. ‘Suppose’, she said ‘one family took away two thirds; then another took away two thirds of what was left, and so on. You would wind up with nothing’. Well, I hadn’t got an answer for that. Masquerading as Mother Christmas, she had included a Mensa calendar in my stocking. This has a puzzle challenge on a tear-off pad each day. I wonder if there is such a conundrum in there? If so, I’d have to pass on it. You could say I’d be stumped.

On my walk I had taken a diversion through Shave Wood. It was quite difficult to negotiate a way through this, because of the fallen trees.

Ox heart casserole was Jackie’s offering this evening. It was tender and tasty. Plum crumble was for afters. I finished the Piccini.

Deceptive Appearances

Orlaith Beth came in at 9lb 5oz. She is expected home with her Mum today.

This morning I walked along Seamans Lane and through London Minstead to Shave Wood, turning right there and back to Minstead, emerging at Football Green whence I walked back home via the Village Shop where I bought tickets for tonight’s play at Minstead Hall.

Although there is still much colour in the forest, many deciduous trees are now almost devoid of leaves. Their branches fan out, one, for example, tracing the outline of a Spanish senorita’s fully extended cooling accessory.

Driving along this route a couple of days ago our way had been blocked by six cattle, four of whom had their front halves buried in hedges, in the manner of the one pictured on 12th November. Today I think I spotted the reason for the fascination of hedges. Much of the land on the far sides of these hedges lies at a higher level, and the lazy cows don’t have to bend down for their fodder. I assume the tag on the pictured animal’s ear indicates to which verderer this protected wanderer belongs.

Further on, Jackie had pointed out another primeval creature she had seen the day before. The pony which had been grazing alongside this relic of pre-history seemed to have crossed the road and was now consorting with a giant Galapagos tortoise.

Leaving Minstead behind as I approached Castle Malwood Lodge I met the man I am due to impersonate on 1st December. He was in civvies, of course. He encouraged me to persevere with my less prolific growth and suggested I gave his picture the caption: ‘This is what I aspire to be’.

Early this evening the bed we bought yesterday was delivered by IKEA. A next day delivery as promised went some way towards improving our feeling about the company. All we have to do is assemble it. Coincidentally, we learned from Becky that the wardrobe we left behind for her in Links Avenue has been collected by Mat and Ian. Jackie and I had assembled that when we moved in there eighteen months ago.

It was touch and go whether we would be able to attend the performance of ‘Dish of The Day’ by Christine Woodhead, for which I had purchased tickets this morning, because we had to wait in for the deliverymen. But we made it, after Jackie had produced a meal of omelettes and baked beans. We finished the wines begun two days ago.

The performance was an hilarious one by the local Minstead Players. The piece was well written, set in an Italian restaurant run solely by a woman clearly modelled on Julie Walters’ Mrs. Overall who did, indeed, turn out to be the cleaner. The three tables were occupied by a couple with an elderly mother, three young women on a hen night, and a dating agency rendezvous. One rather clever moment was when one person from each table simultaneously received a call on their mobile phone, and the individual conversations fitted together as if they were all three speaking to each other.