forest floor – derrickjknight

New Life And Old

I have now received the money from Mum’s frozen bank account. No-one appears to have thought to inform me until I opened my on-line banking to pay a bill and noticed that there was rather more than expected in that – almost a week after it had been transferred. I had also been sent cheques representing Premium Bond winnings, so one of today’s various administrative tasks was to pay those in. I also paid the coming year’s car tax.

Then Jackie and I went for a forest drive.

We stopped on Rhinefield Road where I photographed neighing ponies and

wandered among the woodland, which,

among decaying broken and mossy trunks, nurtured fresh ferns replacing last year’s dried remnants.

The forest floor, with sections soggy or crunchy harboured a generous mix of old and new.

From Bratley View two spectral dead trees still stand against the sky while those with flourishing foliage adorn the living landscape. Last year’s controlled burning gorse will now rejuvenate among the ferns.

Outside Brockenhurst an adult pony grazed nonchalantly whist her offspring held up the traffic.

Another young foal, investigating mossy posts and bright buttercups, was less keen to wander.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s excellent cottage pie; firm carrots, broccoli and cauliflower, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Shiraz.

The Enigma Of Arrival

This morning I posted https://derrickjknight.com/2022/05/09/flos-take-on-the-house-in-the-wood/

The rest of the day was spent on finishing reading “The Enigma Of Arrival”, by V.S.Naipaul.

The sub-title ‘A Novel’ is necessary, otherwise, particularly as the first person narrator drives in England as a 17 year old Trinidadian, as did the writer.

This outstanding work chronicles the life history of the man interlaced with that of the writer.

It was the Greek philosopher Heraclitus who believed https://derrickjknight.com/2014/01/25/all-is-flux-nothing-stays-still/

Naipaul demonstrates this in the book. Through three decades he follows the changes in the experiences of a Wiltshire village in which he settles; the gradual dwindling of the significance of a decaying Manor House and its denizens; the development of changes to buildings, countryside, and gardens; the comings and goings of residents, personnel, and their relationships; interwoven lives and deaths.

Simultaneously he progresses the evolution of a neophyte to a maturing author through the device of returning to triggered memories and describing them afresh in later contexts, layering them like the patina of a precious, fondly handled piece of antique treen.

The writer contrasts the cycles of natural seasons with those of humanity and its artefacts; plants like ivy return naturally, whereas others, such as roses need careful maintenance, as do buildings.

The language flows beautifully; bucolic and gardening descriptions are thoroughly delightful. His characterisation has depth and understanding.

I would have been very happy to have possessed the skill to have written this book.

As I was drafting this, Elizabeth e-mailed me a few more photographs from yesterday’s trip.

The forest floor picture fitted quite well with Naipaul’s theme.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s succulent sausages in red wine; boiled new potatoes in their skins; crunchy carrots; and tender broccoli, green and runner beans, with which she drank Diet Cola, Flo drank Elderflower Cordial, and I drank Mendoza Malbec 2019.

Hard Going

Late this afternoon, while Becky and Flo shopped in Lymington, Jackie and I took a forest drive via Brockenhurst, Rhinefield Ornamental Drive, Linwood, Appleslade and Ringwood.

While Jackie parked the Modus alongside Rhinefield Road, both of us enjoying the gentle birdsong in the otherwise silent woodland, I crunched and crackled over the beech nuts, the browned autumn leaves, and the brittle, lichen covered, twigs scattered across the bone dry forest floor, as I wandered among the trees lit by the lowering sun.

Seated in the Modus Jackie was passed by a quartet of cyclists as she photographed

the woodland,

including “Where’s Derrick” (7)

Further along, as we approached the underpass beneath the A31, a pony and a pair of cyclists were nicely silhouetted.

More ponies and the same four cyclists were seen on the moorland and the road through Linwood.

Cattle and ponies occupied the now hazy landscape at Appleslade, where the poor injured creature bringing up the bovine rear

found the journey very hard going.

This evening we enjoyed Becky’s spicy savoury rice accompanying Lidl’s very meaty spare ribs, with which Jacki drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Zinfandel.

A Huge Pat Of Rooted Soil

Power was returned to Elizabeth’s home during the night. After lunch she returned to sort things out then join us for dinner before settling back into Burnt House Lane.

Our storms seem to be over, and we enjoyed a much brighter afternoon when we shopped at Ferndene then continued on a forest drive.

Along Lyndhurst Road

A newly broken tree prompted me to disembark beneath Lucy Hill and explore this microcosm of forest ecology. Storm Franklin could not uproot this small oak, but it was strong enough to shatter the trunk and leave it standing where it will stay until it gradually disintegrates.

Previous skeletal remains are never far from each new casualty

gradually returning to the soil from whence it sprang years before.

Another giant, clearly hollowed with age has received it last push to crash to the ground, breaking up already dead timber.

The mossy roots and sturdy trunk of this large oak seem firm enough, but one long branch now leans against it.

Shadows fell across the slopes of the hill.

Further along the road, also bearing shadows on its verges

a really massive fallen oak must have blocked the thoroughfare until really heavy vehicles left their tracks in the churned up mud. Trees still standing were reflected in the overnight rain pool beside the huge pat of rooted soil.

On our way home a pair of ponies crossed from the sunlit side of Rhinefield Road onto the more shady area.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s tasty sausages in red wine; creamy mashed potatoes; firm Brussels sprouts; and crunchy carrots and cauliflower, followed by mixed fruit crumble and ice cream. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden, Elizabeth finished the Toscana, and I drank more of the Douro.

In The Rough

This morning we received an e-mail from our good blogging friend Lavinia Ross attaching a photograph of the cedar tree (Calocedrus decurrens) she has planted in remembrance of my son Michael. We are very touched by this.

Jackie nipped out to photograph the evidence of last night’s sub-zero temperature.

We have light frost on various leaves;

and thin ice on the Frond pond – well, cistern actually.

Plants like primulas

and wallflower Sugar Rush Purple Bicolour seem unscathed.

After lunch Jackie turned her lens on the front garden foragers. in the process discovering

a dunnock and

a second robin happily coexisting with Ron. Robins are notoriously territorial, the males fighting to the death to repel invaders. Two companionable examples must therefore be one male and one female. When Ron first came on the scene we did speculate that the bird could in fact be a Ronette. We now have a real identification problem.

Is this Ron or Ronette waiting for the sparrows to finish feeding;

and which is sharing pickings with the pigeon?

Later this afternoon we took a drive into the forest.

The sun was quite low over the Burley Golf Course where one couple were nicely silhouetted;

another apparently caught in the rough;

and ponies,

one of which lethargically turned to observe me, dozing or grazing.

On the opposite side of Burley Road trees, like Narcissus, admired themselves on the surface of a deepening pool.

Before we left home I had remembered that Elizabeth had given me a long walker’s stick for my birthday last year. This is intended to aid balance. I therefore decided to keep it in the car. I was tempted to leave the road at Bisterne Close and walk into the woods. As I set off Jackie reminded me of the stick. Well, at least I had got it into the car without prompting.

It was a great help in traversing the undulating forest floor with its soggy, shoe sucking, areas, yet lacking yesterday’s booby traps.

Moss-covered raised roots were easier to negotiate than yesterday’s bare snaking ones.

Winter’s long shadows stretched over the terrain

much of which was reasonably dry underfoot.

There were, of course, more reflective pools.

One long-limbed mighty oak needed only a wildcat steed to present a passing semblance of the Hindu goddess Durga.

Somehow she has retained her mighty arms whilst another lost one of hers some time ago.

Back in the car and further down the road, even at 3.30 p.m. ice shone on the waterlogged verge.

This evening we dined at The Smugglers Inn at Milford on Sea where Jackie enjoyed spinach and ricotta cannelloni followed by sticky toffee pudding and ice cream. I would have enjoyed my otherwise good sirloin steak, chips, onion rings, and fresh salad more had my steak knife been thrown away. My great and butter pudding and custard dessert was excellent. The service was friendly, speedy, and efficient. Mrs Knight drank Hop House Lager while I drank Doom Bar.

Encounter With Robin Hood

I spent the afternoon listening to the men’s Cricket World Cup match between West Indies and Bangladesh while scanning a set of prints from a trip to Sherwood Forest on 31st October 1999.

Jessica was a great fungi forager. I think she must have been carrying her trug for the purpose.

Emily enjoyed exploring the forest and its tree forms;

Until a later encounter Oliver was largely satisfied with his own bow and arrow.

He clutched them as Jessica helped him into a tree cave.

Bright sunshine set the forest alight.

Louisa took a turn at carrying Alice in a sling.

Here she leads the group with Michael.

Following Heidi, I also carried the sling for a while.

Different groupings wandered freely.

Here Michael and Emily take the lead.

Eventually the speculation about whether or not we would meet Robin Hood was satisfied by a lone archer whose bows Oliver was allowed to grasp.

Finally we met a cow masquerading as a tree trunk.

This evening we dined on toothsome Tai Fish cakes; creamy potatoes, butternut squash, and swede mash medley; crunchy carrots; tender runner beans; and succulent ratatouille, with which Jackie drank Blue Moon and I drank more of the Galodoro.

A Pannage Extension

CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. REPEAT IF REQUIRED This morning we visited Lyndhurst in order to buy a couple of presents.

In order to benefit from the gorgeous autumn light, we took a diversion

down Shirley Holms.

Across fields to our left we admired the situation of a house nestling on the hill

and a chestnut horse blending into surrounding trees.

A pair of cyclists rounding a bend,

soon to be followed by a solo rider, laboured up the undulating tarmac. Note the speed limit.

Long shadows were cast across the

forest floor

fast receiving

autumn leaves,

some of which clung to shady banks,

and stood proud at intervals.

Ornamental trees animated a

splendid garden.

Having made successful purchases in Lyndhurst, we lunched there on Bertie’s excellent fish, chips, and mushy peas. We both drank tea which, rather unfortunately, resembled a dishcloth that needed boiling.

The Private Ear Clinic, this afternoon was based at Lymington Hospital. Our next visit was to this establishment where my left ear was relieved of the remains of its stubborn wax.

We then returned to the forest where, just outside Bramshaw,

we came across a sounder of swine slobbering

among ditches

leaves

and mud.

Occasionally with a loud snort they would trot across the road

to investigate the pickings on the other side. The pigs are revelling in a month’s extension of the pannage, possibly because of our stretch of mild weather.

This particular spot was doubly hazardous for drivers, because ponies

played the same leisurely game.

The speed limit in the forest is generally 40 m.p.h., but you would be well advised to reduce this on the serpentine roads. You never know what is around the next bend.

This evening we dined at Bartlett’s in the Church Hall at Bransgore. Jackie’s main meal was chicken tikka masala; mine was lamb madras. We take our own drinks. Jackie’s was Hoegaarden. I finished the madiran (WordPress, how many times must I tell you this is one word?).

I Was Set Up

CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. THOSE IN GROUPS ACCESS GALLERIES THAT CAN BE VIEWED FULL SIZE.

Somewhat encouraged by the lack of adverse effects on my knackered knees after the long, flat, walk round Keyhaven and Lymington Nature Reserve, I decided to take the somewhat shorter, yet undulating, route through Honeylake Wood. At about halfway I ventured into the undergrowth, after which I turned back.

A pedestrian gate breaking a hedge serves as an entrance to the field leading to the wood.

The hedge was reflected in the muddy verge beside Christchurch Road.

A bent and aged oak on one edge of the field bowed beneath the prevailing wind,

which even around mid-day bit into me as I crossed to the wood.

On my way in the leafy path offered welcoming shelter,

while a sight of Downton’s cottages as I left it gave notice that home was near, if not in sight.

Often springy underfoot, the forest floor,

over which squirrels scampered,

was, especially near the stream, occasionally waterlogged.

The wind roared overhead. There was much evidence of broken trees,

and, although some autumn leaves had not yet reached the ground,

others glowed in the sunlight

which played among the trees.

The bridge had been so severely damaged as to deter anyone from leaning on the rickety rail; a sapling had been converted to an entrance arch.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s classic sausage casserole, creamy mashed potatoes, and crisp carrots, cauliflower, and Brussels sprouts. I drank Basson Shiraz 2014. The others didn’t drink their Kronenbourg 1664 until afterwards so that didn’t count.

A minute particle of my casserole splashed up from my plate and onto my grandfather shirt. Jackie and Ian swooped on me to supplement the stains and Becky grabbed the camera. I was set up, I swear it.

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.