Once again coinciding with a drop in outside temperature our boiler ceased functioning yesterday. We have a service booked for Thursday, 19th. and will manage until then.
With no Christmas decorations now wishing to remain undisturbed all round the fireplace and mantelpiece, we decided to light
the open fire in the sitting room.
We therefore drove to Streets in Brockenhurst to purchase coal, logs, firelighters, and two hot water bottles.
After a long spell of overnight rain there is normally a narrow puddle in the gutter outside our front entrance. Today this almost reached the middle of Christchurch Road and a long way down it.
As we watched other vehicles sailing past, and dodged their spray while waiting for a gap for us to enter the road and turn right, little did we know how much further flooding we would encounter.
The rest of the A337 stimulated spray waves at numerous locations.
For the first time in our decade here, the ford at Brockenhust was closed to traffic, the stream presumably being too deep for safety.
The lawn beside Meerut Road had become a reflective lake;
as had Balmer Lawn because its stretch of Highland Water
had burst both banks, its fast-moving currents sending squirming logs on their way until caught by other obstacles.
This evening we dined on barbecue spare ribs with Jackie’s flavoursome savoury rice. I drank more of the Syrah. The others didn’t.
This morning Jackie chopped up all the recent garden refuse too large to be composted, for burning, which Flo did this evening, or dumping at the recycling centre; I dead-headed and weeded.
For some days now we have been aware of a goldfinch incubating the contents of a nest in Wedding Day rose. We only have to walk under the supporting arch for the parent to fly off.
Jackie decided to photograph the nest as it is without the parent.
Or is it without a carer?
After lunch we took a forest drive.
Beside the ford at Brockenhurst, now bearing enough stream water for vehicles to create a splash,
a young foal, its too long legs splayed for grazing, attracted much attention from visitors and a friendly woman on a seat with a gentle dog on a leash. I wondered why the equally amenable foal appeared to have lost chunks of fur. Suddenly, coming face to face with the companionable canine, the spooked equine rushed round and round the green, eventually settling at a safe distance from the bench. Had the infant been attacked by a different dog? Was this a skin condition which needed attention?
The two adult ponies among the buttercups remained unconcerned.
At Waters Green cattle slept and ponies grazed,
foals having a penchant for ditches.
Jackie photographed me as I wandered among them,
and found her own foal in a ditch.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s pasta Bolognese or Carbonara, according to taste; Lidl Aberdeen Angus burgers; tender asparagus and green beans, with which I drank more of the Ponce de Leon and Flo drank mixed fruit cordial, while Jackie abstained.
Jackie and I enjoyed drinks while the others were impressed with the quality of the food served. Because the albeit extensive establishment was so full we had to dine alfresco and wait in line for that. The service of this family-run business was nevertheless friendly and efficient. As can be seen, Ian occupied himself with Sudokus, while Becky and Flo conversed happily. The final picture in this gallery is our granddaughter’s.
She also photographed me reacting to the apparent seizing up of my shutter while I was trying to capture
shadows of other diners. Fortunately the problem was resolved before they departed.
When we had finished at Beachcomber the others drove back to the house while Jackie and I continued into the forest. Foraging ponies grazed on the soggy turf or tore at hollies on Honey Lane.
The ford across Forest Road flowed faster than we have seen it before.
This mossy bank beside it looked decidedly damp.
Just outside Burley a bay pony also dined alfresco on the contents of a garden refuse sack.
After lunch Jackie drove us to Helen and Bill’s home at Fordingbridge to drop off a present.
Attracted by a couple of large mushrooms on the verges at I disembarked and wandered along photographing, in addition, bracken nestling beside an oak trunk, and lichen attached to fallen twigs on the forest floor and decorating another trunk.
The forded stream was racing and rippling along at a rate we have not seen before.
Cars sped splashing across;
a troop of donkeys gathered on the edge of the road-bridge, contemplated the torrent, then, deciding they didn’t fancy it, leaving one of their members with its foal to slake their thirst, turned back and
lined themselves neatly along the shrubbery for Jackie to photograph them through her windscreen and after stepping out of the car.
We returned via Woodgreen where I photographed the landscape around the River Avon, its swans and mallards, and cattle lolling alongside.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s warming winter meat and vegetable stewp, with fresh crusty bread. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Cotes du Rhone.
When I ran regularly across London to work I would adapt my route according to traffic conditions. This is what Jackie did early this morning as we took a drive in what we knew would be the very small window of reasonable light when she had to follow
a huge vehicle negotiating its way along Hordle Lane which was difficult enough without the Mums’, Dads’ and Grandparents’ school run. At the junction with Everton Road the large motor turned left so we continued straight on once the school crossing lollipop man granted his permission.
The stream meant to run under Holmsley Passage flowed fast over the ford. Having dropped me on the far side Jackie drove back through the water to present me with a photogenic splash.
I also pictured woodland with a fallen tree, and a grey pony more interested in us than in its relative trotting behind it.
On the moorland stretch of the road a burnished bay blended with browned bracken;
and billowing clouds soared above hazy landscapes.
There is always a large reflective pond on the left up Clay Hill.
Today a winterbourne stream provided another mirror on the right hand side.
In order for mobile phone masts to be permitted in the forest they are required to adopt an arboreal appearance. There is one at the bottom of this hill.
Pigs at pannage snuffled-snorted, as they burrowed their eager way into heaps of autumn leaves and muddy ditches, occasionally trotting backwards and forwards across Holmsley Road. The last three pictures in this gallery represent the slobbering mobbing to which I was subjected when I emerged from the car in order to photograph the mobile pork in search of a different kind of mast. It was difficult enough to dodge the trotters and keep focussed without being nipped in the back of the leg while attempting to capture the little Gloucester Old Spot. Fortunately neither my trouser nor my skin was penetrated.
The rain set in for the rest of the day after we returned home.
For this evening’s dinner Jackie produced a minced beef pie with a topping of potato slices; crunchy carrots and cauliflower; firm Brussels sprouts, and meaty gravy with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Malbec.
On another mild, sunny, morning we visited Mum in Woodpeckers Colten Care Home.
Firstly, Jackie parked in Butts Lawn along which I wandered with a camera.
At one end the ford water left its mark on the measuring gauge.
I walked alongside the rippling, fast-flowing stream watching swaying underwater weeds, scum-forming bubbles, and leaves whizzing by putting me in mind of Hans Andersen’s “Little Tin Soldier” in his paper boat speeding along the gutter. Sunbeams revealed autumn leaves and pebbles carpeting the bed, and a red-brick house was reflected in a roadside puddle.
At the other end stands a Telephone Box Book Exchange decorated with children’s drawings and a notice of Lockdown Precautions advising that the library contents will not have been sanitised.
The stream continues under the road bridge beside a splendid oak. The wooden railings are reflected in the crystal clear water.
Attempting to claim the last resilient leaf clinging to a maple on Meerut Road the gentle breeze tugged and twisted in vain.
‘Morant Hall, also known as New Forest Hall, once stood on the Lyndhurst Road approximately opposite Greenways Road, Brockenhurst.
Soon after the establishment of the Lady Hardinge Hospital for Wounded Indian Soldiers in c.1914 at what is now Tile Barn the facilities quickly became overcrowded. The hospital had tented and galvanized roofed buildings as patient accommodation and had commandeered Balmer Lawn and Forest Park Hotels.
Morant Hall was set up to take some of these patients in an attempt to relieve some of the overcrowding treating the Indian troops of the Meerut and Lahore Divisions, who fought on the Western Front, and were patients at the Lady Hardinge Hospital. The hall became known as the Meerut Indian General Hospital and was managed by a committee of local citizens and could provide accommodation for up to 120. …..Meerut Road in Brockenhurst [is named] in their memory.’ (Gareth Owen in https://nfknowledge.org/contributions/morant-hall-meerut-indian-general-hospital-morant-war-hospital/#map=10/-1.57/50.82/0/24:0:0.6|39:1:1|40:1:1 )
Despite the current Covid-inspired lockdown Colten Care continue to provide visiting facilities. We can see my mother through a glass screen for half an hour once a fortnight.
Mum was wheeled in and provided with a rug which she didn’t need to use. Jackie, who sits socially distanced beside me, and the garden behind our open door are reflected in the screen. Mother was on good, talkative, form.
In Sway Road, not far from Woodpeckers, a family of donkeys enjoyed scratching and tearing at the shrubbery. One left its post in order to discover whether I bore any treats.
This evening we dined on a rack of pork ribs in barbecue sauce, salt and pepper prawns, and Jackie’s savoury egg rice, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Cotes du Rhone Villages.
I wasted the best part of a rainy afternoon wrestling with my scanner because I had planned to start a new series of slides and negatives, but it is so long since I worked on any of those that I managed to mess up the settings and couldn’t sort them out. I even downloaded a manual from the internet but couldn’t understand what to do with it. Children, grandchildren, great nieces and nephews – help me please.
My caring Chauffeuse, despite the increasing hammering of rain lashed by 50+ m.p.h. winds, dragged me out of my slough of despond by suggesting we went out for a drive.
We began on the eroded cliffs of Milford on Sea
along which I struggled against the gales.
Waves crashed against the rocks below and the Isle of Wight was barely visible to intrepid walkers.
Ripples blew across the car park; traffic control signs, and barriers to road works were flattened.
Continuing inland we listened to the mesmerising swish of windscreen wipers and the cacophony of clattering rain,
gazed on wet fields with neither sheltered livestock nor sensible wildlife in sight.
We were about to turn for home, but on such a day it seemed obligatory to investigate Waterditch Road. So we did.
As we traversed the ford over the stream that no doubt gave the road its name we felt grateful that we did not live in the house beside it.
British Summer Time does not end until 2 a.m. tomorrow morning, but, driving into headlights through Highcliffe soon after 5 p.m. one would never have known.
This evening we dined on toothsome baked gammon; crisp roast potatoes; succulent ratatouille; crunchy carrots; and tender runner beans with which the Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Montpeyroux. Afterwards we enjoyed Jackie’s aromatic apple pie and cream.
This was a much milder day – the consequence of a wet, overcast morning. In anticipation of a possible break in the weather, we drove to Cadnam in ever-increasing rain. By the time we reached
Wittensford Lane the rain had ceased, clouds were on the move, and the sun took an occasional peek onto the landscape.
The stream flowed across the ford.
I watched Jackie sending spray either side of the Modus as she crossed the water,
and followed by way of the footbridge.
Reflections and oak leaves lay on and under the pools in the gutter
and the forded overflow.
We turned left into Kewlake Lane,
where, in order to focus on the landscape I stepped gingerly over fallen oak leaves covering lichen coated branches and barbed wire broken from a fence guarding
this scene.
Another roadside pool reflected overhead
naked oak branches set against the variable sky
which gave the landscape a light that belied the time of mid-afternoon.
Occasional flocks like these gulls speckled the skies.
While still on Kewlake Lane we approached silhouettes of sheep on a darkened ridge.
Nearer home, Sway Tower was just visible.
It must have been London’s Piccadilly Theatre in which I saw the musical show Black Nativity and bought the vinyl recording in 1962. Wikipedia tells us about the exhilarating  production which had come to London the year after its opening on Broadway. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Black_Nativity
This memorable song ran through my head as I gazed up at these clouds.
Here is a “Where’s Nugget?” (51) Jackie made earlier. Biggifying the image is recommended as our resident robin attempts to hide behind an honesty seedpod.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious cottage pie; crunchy carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli; and tender cabbage with tasty gravy. The Culinary Queen drank Blue Moon and I drank Patrick Chodot Fleurie 2018.
The day began as gloomy as yesterday. The early rain was quite light – enough for us to put in a stint of clearing up clippings and dead heading before it increased in ferocity.
I watched recordings of the Rugby World Cup matches between USA and Tonga; between Wales and Uruguay; and between Ireland and Japan. As usual I will not reveal the outcome of any of these , save to say that the sight of several of the smaller Japanese simultaneously tackling some of the larger Scots put me in mind of a pride of lions bringing down an elephant.
By late afternoon the sun emerged as the clouds sped away.
We took a drive into the forest via Holmsley Passage where the lowering sun burnished the bracken beneath still laden clouds.
I rambled for a while along Bisterne Close where ponies ambled once they left the
woodland on one side.
This mare led her foal
across to the side occupied by farms, houses and field horses. The mother enjoyed a scratch as her offspring waited patiently.
The domesticated animals now sport their rugs. The free ranging ponies grow their own.
Readers may observe that leaf shadows on one of these tree trunks have provided a template for a Halloween pumpkin face.
Mushrooms and tree fungus are found here;
varieties of tree fungus emerge from logs lying alongside Beechwood Road.
The stream under Mill Lane flows again over the ford.
Cattle graze beside the waters, and pigs
snuffle along the lane vacuuming up the fallen acorns so that they do not poison the ponies.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s nicely matured pork paprika with rice and peas, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Pinot Noir.
This morning I made my final cut of the Everton Festival Photographic Competition with the subject of The New Forest.
I am grateful to all those of you who contributed to the debate about my submissions. The ‘Happy Thatchers’ was a clear favourite. Although they were very popular I have reluctantly excluded those of sunbeams through the trees. This is because, in reality, they could have been photographed anywhere. For the same reason, the deer with the crow on its nose had to go. People may be surprised at the rank outsider which made it to the finish. I had removed ‘A Vantage Point’, namely the photographers on the hill, on the same grounds, and ultimately persuaded myself to reinstate this image because, after all, they were photographers, and there was a lot of gorse in the foreground.
I have made A4 prints of ‘Happy Thatchers’; ‘Drinking In The Gorse’; and ‘The Watersplash’.
‘A Huddle’; ‘Hedge Trimming’; and ‘A Vantage Point’, required in digital form, have been despatched in an e-mail.
Later this afternoon Jackie drove me to Everton Post Office where I delivered the prints, and on into the forest.
I disembarked at Wilverley in order to photograph the landscape. Jackie made the first photograph, then focussed on me after I had crossed the road for a closer vantage point.
She even captured me aiming at the
Ryanair plane flying overhead.
From this very narrow, winding, unnamed lane at Rockford End, I could look down on
a horse in a field surrounded by his entourage of crows and geese;
and a bevy of doves pinpointing a thatched roof.
Back at home this evening we dined on fillet steak – mine perfectly medium/rare and Jackie’s well done; creamy mashed potato; succulent ratatouille; and crunchy carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden while I, sadly, finished the Garnacha Syrah.
