fly masks – derrickjknight

Peering Animals

I opened a few collected presents for my 82nd birthday this morning, one of which was a bottle of Calvet Cahors Malbec 2021 from Helen and Bill which I opened to accompany the Royal Indian takeaway meal which Jackie collected for our dinner this evening.

This afternoon Shelley and Ron visited bearing more welcome gifts, after which Jackie and I took a forest drive.

The Portmore goats peered at us through their wooden fence;

I photographed the landscape through metal railings at East Boldre

where storm clouds gathered over the fields.

Canada geese and goslings with a few mallards occupied Hatchet Pond.

Back at East Boldre posts and wire along the verges fenced off the woodland beside

field horses peering through their protective fly masks.

The gates to their pasturage threw shadows across the roadside.

All Round Protection

Despite the still stiff breeze on this warm and generally overcast afternoon I was able to rake up leaves and clippings from the Shady Path and, with the contents of two trugfuls in the Rose Garden, add another used compost bag to the stack awaiting the next dump trip.

Afterwards Jackie and I took a forest drive.

According to the Royal Horticultural Society “Himalayan balsam (Impatiens glandulifera) [introduced to UK in 1839] is a relative of the busy Lizzie, but reaches well over head height, and is a major weed problem, especially on riverbanks and waste land, but can also invade gardens. It grows rapidly and spreads quickly, smothering other vegetation as it goes.”

There is a fine crop of this, blending with spears of our native willow herb, swaying on the banks of a dried up stream normally running under Bockhampton Road.

While we drove along Braggers Lane later, a group of field horses on a hill attracted my attention. By the time I had changed my lens and disembarked once more, I had also attracted theirs.

The first two had thundered down towards me before I lifted my camera.

As the others joined in the welcoming committee I became aware of the muzzles and fly masks offering all round protection. The covering for eyes and ears were clearly to keep the flies at bay; maybe the muzzles were worn to prevent biting. The animal craning its neck in the last picture was scratching on a fencepost. Flies were perhaps not the only source of discomfort.

A long tailback on Holmsley Road was brought about by ponies and a foal three shades of grey and one of brown clustering together for protection from the traffic.

The wind having picked up considerably by the time we returned home, we found patio chairs and parasol downed; as we stubbornly took our drinks seated on two of the chairs we watched trees, shrubs, and plants bending sharply this way and that until we went back inside for our dinner which, with the addition of parathas and vegetable samosas, consisted of a second sitting of last night’s chicken jalfrezi meal. Jackie drank Zesty and I drank more of the Gran Selone.

What To Do With Flies

For much of the morning and the first half hour of a sweltering afternoon Jackie continued weeding the Brick Path, taking her own

before

and after photographs;

meanwhile I filled several trug-loads of dead-headed roses and weeds pulled up from the beds along the way.

Afterwards I printed another batch of A4 prints of him at work for Nick, who finished his work today.

Early this evening Jackie and I took a drive into the forest.

There seemed to be three options for photography when we arrived at Hatchet Pond: a man throwing sticks into the lake for his dogs to splash after, crows pecking in the grass, and, as a last resort my lens might reach a few groups on the far bank. As I disembarked from the Modus the man and his dogs walked away, and the rooks flew off.

Fortunately, a young lady aimed a judicious kick on the far side.

On Furzey Lane, a young foal, looking enviously at his mother’s tail, the switching of which he tried to emulate with no effect, did his best to dislodge the flies which pestered him, with ineffective kicks and waggling of his abbreviated little brush.

Along Lodge Lane a colourful pheasant strutted in the verge grasses, and inquisitive field horses displayed their fly protection gear.

This evening we all dined on Jackie’s pasta bolognese with fresh salad. The Culinary Queen and Ian drank Hoegaarden, Becky drank Zesty, and I finished the Côtes du Rhône.

Whose Core?

After a visit to Ferndene Farm shop this morning Jackie drove me into the forest, where, as in Beckley Common Road,

posts protecting verges along lanes are being planted to keep off the eagerly anticipated summer influx of visiting vehicles.

Field horses along this road are already wearing their fly masks protecting eyes and ears from their own less welcome visitors.

I am not sure what crop we can expect to grace this opposite field.

A fairly widespread forest feature is the random apple tree such as these at Thorney Hill,

with its gorse-gold landscapes, and in

Forest Road . We could easily have focussed on many more today. Whenever we do we always speculate on the muncher whose apple core provided the seed for others to enjoy. Was it lobbed from a car?, tossed on a walk?, or chucked from a folding picnic chair?

Forest Road woodland also contains pink-hued hawthorn, otherwise known as may. We are enjoined ‘ne’er [to]cast a clout until May be out’, prompting a time-honoured controversy. A clout is an archaic word for an item of clothing; and cast means shed, as in take off. The proverb refers to putting aside our winter clothing. There is, however, no consensus as to whether the upper case month of May is meant, or the lower case may tree. If the old saw (proverb) refers to May, then ‘be out’ means ‘has ended’; if may, ‘be out’ signifies ‘has bloomed’. This may never be settled. Whichever is correct, today I wore shirt-sleeves, sans undershirt and sans jacket – with neither the English nor the American vest. So, with either interpretation, I have it covered.

Donkeys shedding winter coats cropped the verges on our return road out of Brockenhurst, while ponies kept clear of the tarmac.

This evening we dined on pork spare ribs and Jackie’s savoury rice with which she drank Hoegaarden, Flo drank Kombucha ginger and lemon, and I drank L’Ayrolle Fitou 2019.

Foxglove And Twinkle

Early this bright, sunny, and cool day we drove out to Pilley to deliver a letter to Elizabeth. I popped it into her letter box and we continued on our way.

I have a couple of times before featured the horse and pony occupying the garden of Jordan’s Cottage on the corner of Bull and Jordan’s Lanes. Today I was to be formally introduced. As I photographed the two equines feeding from their trough a Gentleman planting flowers invited me in. This was Roderick, whose granddaughter owns these creatures. The horse is Foxglove and the pony, Twinkle.

Given her freckles, Foxglove is so aptly named. She is an eventer who is convalescing while recovering from and injured back leg. Roderick confirmed that the mask is for protection from flies. Seeing me back away as the horses trotted over to me when I entered the small paddock, he assured me that they were very friendly. I laughed and explained that I was not afraid but had to keep my distance to use the lens on my camera. In fact I left the paddock to take the shots of Foxglove in her mask. It would, of course, have been rude not to have photographed Twinkle’s eye.

On Norleywood Road we passed trick cyclist who probably wasn’t a psychiatrist. This was to have been on our way home until Jackie took a diversion down

Lower Pennington Lane to investigate the nature reserve at the far end.

Hurst View camping site was packed out and I could hear voices planning their day’s trips all the way down the lane along which I walked while Jackie waited in the car, parked on a verge just before a considerable narrowing of the thoroughfare.

Even cyclists had little passing room.

The marshland to my left was quite dry and occupied by a few basking ponies. The Isle os Wight could be seen in the distance.

When I reached the entrance to the bird sanctuary it seemed that the caravan site was decanting its entire contents who were making their way along the dedicated path which I consequently decided to eschew and set off across undulating terrain which I largely had to myself. I took the last section of the path on my return and I have to say that the boys in the third picture above thanked me for stepping aside.

In the circumstances it is hardly surprising that the only birds I saw were flocks of Canada geese,

occasionally joined by others flying in.

Against the backdrop of the Isle of Wight, The Needles, Hurst castle and their lighthouses, across the marshland could be seen walkers, cyclists and a dog. Particularly the last of this gallery would benefit from bigification.

A few goats occupied a field opposite the campsite.

After lunch I put in another stint at pruning Félicité Perpétue in the front garden.

Later this afternoon Elizabeth came for a cup of tea and stayed for dinner consisting of another of Jackie’s succulent cottage pies; crunchy carrots and cauliflower; tender cabbage; and meaty gravy, with which the Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Carles.

Close Encounter Of The Canine Kind

Despite the bright sunny morning there was a distinct chill in the air as we set off for a drive into the forest.

Field horses at South Sway Lane, in view of Sway Tower, demonstrated contradictory protective needs now that flies are beginning to appear in the daytime, yet the nights remain cold. The bay wears a rug whereas the other two sport masks to protect eyes and ears from winged irritants.

Recumbent forest ponies sprawled over the moorland outside Brockenhurst; a mare stood guard over her recently born foal. I thought it politic not to come too close.

Long-horned cattle lounged on the other side of the road.

From the Boundway Car Park I walked down a gentle slope to photograph

the distant landscape.

As I returned to the car I stood aside for a young lady and her frisky dog to have free passage and to keep my knees out of their way. I was a little nonplussed when the owner cried “keep off, Derek”. Derek turned out to be the name of the six month old canine kick boxer who launched himself at me, muddy paws to the fore. You may be surprised at the impact such a creature can have.

I was. I was even more surprised that I stood firm and did not end up on the ground. That way it was only

the front of my trousers that would need washing.

Soon after this encounter we drove through Rhinefield Ornamental Drive where long shadows crisscrossed the forest floor with its carpet of fir cones; and this year’s ferns rose from the mulch of last year’s natural compost.

This evening we dined at Lal Quilla where we were treated as well as ever with friendly service and excellent food. Jackie’s choice of main meal was prawn sally; mine was king prawn vindaloo. We shared special fried rice and an egg paratha and both drank Kingfisher.

Free Ice Creams

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We spent a sweltering morning on garden tasks. Jackie prepared an area in the West Bed from which Aaron had removed an ancient, unproductive, rose yesterday for a replacement yet to be acquired. I occupied myself dead-heading and clearing up.

This afternoon we drove into the forest. Jackie did her best to avoid the bank holiday visitors, many of whom were beginning their slow trek home.

We found ourselves at Thorney Hill where the views down the slopes were uninterrupted; the bracken is beginning to adopt its autumn colouring;

and blackberries sprawled over the hedgerows.

The occasional car, and one sole cyclist occupied Braggers Lane,

further along which we stopped to observe horses in a paddock. Some wore fly masks.

The fencing cast criss-crossed shadows.

As we were about to leave, Heather and her companion drove up. Despite her Scots accent, this delightful woman owned one of the horses. Another belonged to her friend. Heather was enjoying an ice-cream. She offered us each a Magnum, for which we were suitably grateful.

The two horses were eager to be tackled up for a ride. Their noses appeared over the barred gate, and I do believe that, as they were petted, they sampled Heather’s ice-cream cone.

Once my driver had consumed her choc ice on a stick, we waved farewell and continued on our way.

Ponies at Furze Hill cropped the grass

beside a stream

into which one of this year’s foals ventured

for a paddle while it chomped on blackberries.

Possibly it was this creature’s parent that pounded down the slope and across the pool to the far end; slaked its thirst, then clambered past me to the road. I thought it best to move out of the way. It looked quite heavy.

I had made my way down to the pebbly bed of the stream, so, when a passing cyclist called to her companion to look at the baby down there, it took me a second or two to realise she was referring to the young pony.

After this we enjoyed a drink in the Foresters Arms at Frogham, and returned home.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s wonderful beef in red wine; creamy mashed potato; and crunchy carrots, runner beans, and broccoli. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Fleurie.

By Request

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Pauline, The Contented Crafter, recently expressed an interest in seeing a photograph showing the whole length of the garden and the house. Well, this may have been possible were it not for the foliage in between. Nevertheless, I did my best to comply.

I managed to cross the road at the front of the house without either dying in a road accident or falling in the ditch on the other side.

There was no room for the corner facing the trellis in that view of the building.

I aimed in the direction of the house from as far south as was possible, beginning with the Weeping Birch Bed;

the Brick Path was next;

then the Back Drive barrier;

the Oval Path;

and the Rose Garden.

Well, at least they show glimpses of the back of the house.

Here are a couple of sightings of the roof, one from the Back Drive,

and another from the compost heaps.

Here are some aerial views from the bedroom and bathroom windows.

This one features Jackie watering, on which she spent much time. To the right of the fence is the North Breeze jungle.

Here are today’s dahlia

and some white sweet peas.

Normally Aaron takes his clippings to the dump at no extra charge. Yesterday Jackie insisted that he left them for us to deal with. The orange bags in this picture were already destined for the Effort Recycling Centre. The heaps in the foreground filled them up again after we had completed our first trip. We needed to chop them up a bit more to fit them in. We then made a second journey.

I was only a couple of days ago that Jackie was announcing that she had come away empty handed from our last few trips to Efford. That run was to be interrupted today with these two tables. The metal, glass-topped, one was for the greenhouse to be delivered tomorrow, so she may be forgiven.

We had then earned a break, so we took a trip into the forest.

Seeking shade under trees in Sandy Down a little donkey was given similar masked protection from the pesky flies to that afforded to its larger equine cousin.

Our chosen approach to Brockenhurst was somewhat congested with ponies and their foals. Can you count how many?

Eventually we found ourselves at Patrick’s Patch in Beaulieu.

This community garden has its own wildflower meadow;

colour coordinated marigolds and nasturtiums;

echinaceas in the form of shuttlecocks;

splendid Swiss chard;

a variety of sweet peas;

russet sunflowers;

and a carved rabbit.

An admirably creative collection of scarecrows are distributed throughout. This one is a revolving balloon;

and this one, having a rest from watering, has a gourd for his head.

This evening we dined at The Monkey House just outside Lymington. The service was excellent, friendly, and unobtrusive; the food excellent. We both enjoyed gammon steaks for main courses. My starter was whitebait, Jackie’s brie in breadcrumbs; my dessert Eton mess, Jackie’s crème brûlée. I drank a very good pinot noir and Jackie drank Amstel.

Joints Not Yet Stiffened

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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]

At one time there was an ice house in the park.’

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.

A Nation Uncomfortable With Being Ahead

Today, just as humid, was slightly cooler and breezier, which was just as well, because we made a start on clearing the Head Gardener’s work area to make room for the shed to be delivered in two days time.

First, Jackie needed to plant the rest of her prolific purchases, so I took a walk along to the paddock in Hordle Lane and back.

The deep ditches were now bone dry.

The horses in the paddock, protected by their fly masks, had, early in the morning, no need to shelter under the oak. Watch the one on the left,

now again summoning the customary energy to investigate my presence,

then to be first in the queue for the water trough.

Clematis Mrs N Thompson (not to confused with my daughter, Mrs E Thompson), now mingles with pink roses on the front garden trellis.

Jackie has added this strident perennial coreopsis to the rose garden.

A far more subdued aruncus bows respectfully

alongside the weeping birch,

from where I was able to snap a crow on the far side of Christchurch Road.

These views, one from Fiveways, and two of patio corners, display less recent planting.

This afternoon, on TV, I watched another Brit narrowly miss going through to the fourth round at Wimbledon. This time James Ward lost a five set match to Vasek Pospisil. You have to understand we are a nation not comfortable with being ahead in sport – unless it is cricket against the Australians.

This evening we dined at Lal Quilla. My choice of meal was chicken Jaljala with a plain naan; Jackie’s was prawn Sally with the perfect accompaniment of a delicate lemon rice. We shared an onion bhaji, and both drank Kingfisher. Everything was as good as usual.