Hatchet Pond – Page 3 – derrickjknight

The Rush Hour

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We had a very enjoyable time yesterday evening at Vicki and Barrie’s Golden Wedding Celebrations, organised by their children and grandchildren.

Pop records and TV adverts from 1967 were played on a monitor. Son, Steve, conducted a spoof ‘Mr and Mrs’ programme that his parents entered into with gusto.Oral tributes were made. The septuagenarians nimbly led the dancing.

A plentiful, varied, and fresh, cold buffet was supplied and we were invited to bring anything stronger than the soft cold drinks, or tea and coffee. We shared the bottle of Prosecco we had won at Ron’s party quiz.

The couple’s daughter, Angie took photographs on her mobile phone, and will e-mail me the results so I can add them to this post.

Late this morning, I watched yesterday’s recorded rugby matches between Scotland and New Zealand, and between England and Australia.

While I watched telly, Jackie tended plants in the greenhouse.

She is nurturing pelargoniums

of the more tender variety,

and begonias.

Hardy pelargoniums

survive outside,

as still do antirrhinums,

nasturtiums,

honeysuckle,

and somewhat battered Red Admirals.

Jackie has given the Kitchen Bed’s urn its winter planting.

In addition to roses we have, in the Rose Garden, clematis Duchess of Albany, her skin taking on the quality of parchment,

various fuchsias,

and penstemons.

Hydrangeas take on autumnal hues.

When I sat down to upload the above pictures, my Apple invited me to upload the latest operating system. I attempted to do this. An error occurred in this. The system is locked and I can’t do anything more with the computer. I had to give up, and eventually used the Microsoft laptop. Windows 10 has changed everything about importing pictures since I last used it, and it wasn’t easy to get my head round.

Off we then drove to Hatchet Pond in an effort to calm me down.

Not long before sunset

photographers

gathered;

waterfowl

paddled along;

swans trailed their wake.

The pond reflected

gold

tinged clouds,

rapidly turning red.

A jet plane streaked into the foaming flames.

So many photographers were now lined up that this seemed like rush hour on the railways.

The treatment worked. I retained my equanimity.

This evening Jackie produced succulent roast pork served on a bed of peppers and onions, accompnied by roast potatoes, carrots, and Brussels sprouts. I drank Concha y Toro cabernet sauvignon 2016.

None So Brazen

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Autumn tidying in the garden produced enough clippings to warrant a trip to the Efford Recycling Centre. In exchange for two bags of these and £4 we returned with four firm chair cushions for raising the front passenger seat, and a plinth for the owl in the new arbour.

Towards the end of the afternoon we drove through the forest and stopped at Hatchet Pond

where gulls occasionally took off after food,

and donkeys attempted to share visitors’ refreshments.

When I asked the group in a camper van if they minded the photographs, the gentleman, beaming, replied: “I don’t mind. It’s not my donkey”.

Approaching Brockenhurst on our way home, we deviated to that extension of Highland Water that flows under the A337.

Shadows were cast beneath the trees.

A family and a couple lingered, enjoying the last rays of sunshine.

Tried not to trip over tree roots, probably laid bare when the stream has been in spate.

The usual samples of litter had been left behind, none so brazen as this.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s luscious lamb cobbler, new potatoes, carrots, and Brussels sprouts. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Graves.

Pumpkin Head

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Today I was mostly engaged in boring administration; correspondence in writing and in e-mail; filing; form-filling; and posting.

Rapid rooftop rattling hailed a brief interlude with my camera, as ricocheting crystals created springboards of chairs, tables, paving, and anything else less receptive than soggy soil.

Early this afternoon we drove out to the Turfcutter’s Arms at East Boldre for a pre-dinner drink. In this we were to be disappointed, but every cloud has a silver lining.

Beginning with the building near the corner of Hordle Lane, we engaged in an exploration of September skies. The blue, white, and indigo palette was to change over the next hour.

The skyscape over Lymington River introduced an ochre tinge,

retained at Tanner’s Lane where the Isle of Wight stood out in clear relief,

as did ferries en route to Lymington.

Looking east, Southampton, with its Spinnaker tower was beautifully lit.

Indigo was the dominant hue to the west;

in between the shoreline led through the Solent to the Isle of Wight.

On across the moors towards East Boldre the hues continued to shift with the swirling clouds.

We soon reach our goal.

We had forgotten it was Saturday. When you are retired there is no such thing as a weekend. It was initially clear that the pub was extremely popular, packed out, and with no available seating. Almost immediately, nothing was clear except the glowing pumpkin head in the fireplace. The electricity was down. Although it soon rose again, we decided to call it a day and return home.

It was not yet sunset when we approached Hatchet Pond,

where a pair of, as far as I could make out. coots paddled across the reflected skies.

Sunset was not far off.

This evening we dined on succulent chicken Kiev, Jackie’s moist ratatouille, crisp roast potatoes, cauliflower, carrots, and green beans. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I drank more of the Madiran.

Donkeys and Ice Cream

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When we arrived home from Elizabeth’s late yesterday afternoon, the house was very smoky, and the garden full of ash, all emanating from a bonfire in the North Breeze garden, which had been almost razed to the ground. The jungle is no more.

Much rain in the night freshened up our garden,

but had not put out the fire which was added to today.

Some parts of our plot and its contents, like these dahlias, still saw the sun,

but mostly it remained befogged.

Elizabeth, Danni, and my great nephew Jasper, came to lunch, after which we drove in convoy to Hatchet Pond.

Jasper and his Gee-ma investigated the lapping wavelets at the edge of the water.

A woman handed the little lad a bag of prawn crackers with which to feed the water birds. As I said, you always receive too many of this freebies with a Chinese takeaway meal. Jasper wasn’t all that interested, so Danni decided to feed them to

the hastily arriving donkeys, one of which was really very young.

She began with a medium-sized one,

which was head-butted away by the largest creature.

This animal was so aggressive that the crackers were soon chucked on the ground.

Leaving Jackie on a bench, the rest of us walked to the far end of the pond, past the water lilies,

and others seated in the sun,

in search of ice cream.

Elizabeth clutched wipes for protection against her grandson’s drips,

occasionally licking her lips in anticipation.

Eventually she was handed the melting cone.

After this, the aggressive donkey rested its muzzle on my lap.

We dined on Mr Pinks’s fish and chips, gherkins, and pickled onions. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, while Elizabeth and I finished the Douro.

Danni has just e-mailed me our selfie on the bench.

Why Did The Pony Cross The Road?

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This morning, headed for Hatchet Pond, we drove out to the forest early enough to see the children trailing to Lymington’s schools.

The pond itself was now rivalled by waterlogged terrain

that had been settled by a group of mallards, already pairing up among the reflected trees.

Various gulls, more mallards, crows, and ponies

basked

and flew around Hatchet Pond,

on the far side of which a couple of cormorants perched on posts in the water,

and a solitary swan drifted among last year’s plants.

Dappled ponies grazed among the golden gorse,

and alongside additional pools.

These gentle creatures, ignoring the thorns of gorse and bramble, tore at the clumps of grass.

Now, why did this one cross the road?

To join its foraging fellows.

The forest terrain was covered in clear rainwater bathing last autumn’s leaves,

and reflecting trees.

Balmer Lawn’s land alongside Highland Water was similarly awash.

That river runs under the A337 on the approach to Brockenhurst.

It provides reflections from the bridge over which we drive.

This evening we dined on our tried and tested choice of M3 from the set meals of The Family House Chinese restaurant in Totton. As so often the establishment was full of both Chinese and English family members with dual heritage children milling about. As I said to the assembled company on our departure, “one of the reasons we like this place is that it is a family house”.

An Act Of Love

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Knowing that the clear morning would turn overcast as the day went on, Jackie drove me to Beaulieu and back for a photo session.

We began at Hatchet Pond where a couple of well-wrapped-up silhouetted walkers, observed by swans in the icy water, passed

a pair of chomping ponies, one freckle-faced.

After a while they turned and headed back for the car park.

A number of other ponies unsuccessfully attempted to merge in with the bare branches of the trees.

Even this duck appeared to be huddled against the chilly weather;

despite being blue with cold, the more playful gulls swooped, skidded, and skated along their improvised ice floe landing strip.

There is always at least one pony lurking around the cars in the hopes of drivers donating delicacies.

This one mistook my attention for intention to feed, and peered hopefully through the windscreen as I returned to the car.

Both the large pond and the tidal Beaulieu river bore shards of ice on their banks.

I was unaware that there was risk of flooding, but the owners of Abbeygate Cottage, opposite the river, had reinforced their gateway with sandbags, so I imagine there must be one.

Ponies very rarely either make a sound or break into a trot. I was therefore surprised to hear one whinnying at a pace up and down the bank.

It was only when it took its place among the traffic that it slowed down and kept silent.

Another surprise was to see gentleman with a long stick, carrying a Waitrose ‘bag for life’ across the still wet river bed. He strode purposefully until his goal became apparent.

Quietly, patiently, the swans lined up for the treats he carried. There was none of the usual clamour as these elegant creatures craned to take food from his fingers. Even the non-squabbling gulls awaited their turn. They knew this man who loved them.

On our return, seeking a place to turn, we were assisted by two ponies blocking the road.

They were licking the salt from the tarmac.

This evening we dined on cottage pie, boiled potatoes, carrots and green beans. Jackie drank sparkling water, and I finished the barolo.

A Murmuration

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An underground problem with installation of the new phone line required further attention today. This necessitated a visit from another engineer who completed the task.

Jackie then drove us around the forest in a very wet late afternoon.

Much rain has fallen during our weekend away. Familiar pools have returned to the forest floor.

The moorland in the rain took on a dramatic aspect as the clouds unloaded their precipitation.

Between Brockenhurst and Beaulieu, the River Lymington has burst its banks.

Sunset is early at this time of the year;

it is a reflection of the different light today that this is the same clump of trees beside Hatchet Pond that I photographed at virtually the same time from a slightly different angle yesterday.

As we waited at the level crossing on the approach to Lymington, an elliptical disc that was a murmuration of starlings slid around the skies.

This evening we dined on roast lamb with roast potatoes and crunchy carrots and cauliflower. I drank Clervigny Arbois, 2014

Marianne

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Watching Jessica and Imogen keenly studying catalogues this morning, to make a selection of Christmas wishes, took me back years. Twice in my childhood and adolescence, I collected postage stamps. Very briefly I was a cub scout, so this would have been quite useful for my collector’s badge. Had I taken more interest in the history and geography they tell us than simply in the attractive designs, I might even have been given the award.

So, what has philately to do with gift catalogues?

It is all a question of approvals. Buying stamps ‘on approval’ is one of the oldest methods of building a collection. Dealers give a questionnaire about your interests and send you little approvals books from which you remove your choices and send back the remainder with your payment. It worked well for a young lad on a very small income. Each period of interest waned, and I gave the collections away.

Jackie’s father, however, did keep the Triumph Stamp Album given to him by his grandmother, Mrs Dove, featured in ‘Revealing The Ancestors’. This collection dates back to Victorian times and contains much history. I had a look through it, seeking sets that I may have once possessed, and which I had attempted to fill gaps.

One such is the early ‘Marianne’ one dating from 1903. This woman is a national symbol of the French Republic – a portrayal of the Goddess of Liberty. Since the mid-twentieth century the full length figure we see here has been replaced by head and shoulders images, and later, beginning with Brigitte Bardot in 1969, busts of famous women. The currency shown is in francs and centimes, from before the days of the euro. I don’t think I ever completed the set

The similarity with the girls’ activity lies in the eager anticipation engendered.

Our return journey, travelling by Errol’s route, was much smoother. Took a diversion through the Oxfordshire countryside and lunched at the Fox Inn at Boars Hill. We enjoyed excellent pizzas and sparkling water which was enough for the rest of the day.

The weather had been dull and rainy for most of the journey, but by the time we reached Beaulieu and Hatchet Pond, a clear light produced smooth reflections.

Fire In The Sky

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I began the day by managing to load all the pictures missing from yesterday’s post.

Flushed with success on this morning bright and crisp enough to bring tinges of pink, like those still visible in the garden, I ventured outside with my camera.

Although the curtain of weeping birch leaves is preparing to shed its beads, and the hosts of honesty reveal its seeds,

we still have plenty of colourful blooms, such as these dahlias, Japanese anemones, and fuchsias;

while begonias, honeysuckle, nicotianas, and penstemons persist.

This afternoon we went on driveabout.

On the moors between Brockenhurst and Beaulieu, the lowering sun gilded the topmost bracken fronds.

As we approached Beaulieu, ponies and cattle shared the grazing.

The equines wandered along the road seeking traffic to disrupt;

further on, a trio was more interested in the fodder.

Hatchet Pond itself was still and reflective.

On our return we diverted to Milford on Sea to catch the sunset. Looking east towards the Isle of Wight the sky wore pastel pinks and indigo hues;

contrasting with the fiery flames lighting up the west. As the sun receded into the water its radial beams streamed upwards.

This evening we dined on cheese-centred haddock fish cakes, mashed potato and swede, crunchy cauliflower, carrots, and runner beans, with which we both drank Prestige & Cavet sauvignon blanc 2014.

Feeding The Birds (2)

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Mat arrived with Poppy this morning. Our granddaughter was walking about and talking scribble. She was straight into toys.

She likes playing with the mice;

but was soon absorbed with the seal box and its fish contents, making lots of cooing noises.

Stopping for beverages at Beaulieu Farm Shop, where there was an Halloween table on display

we took a packed lunch to Hatchet Pond so Poppy could see the gulls,

which Jackie began to feed with the stock of seed that Matthew had supplied.

It wasn’t long before the hopeful donkeys came over for what they saw as their share. They were even more interested when our lunch appeared. Matthew correctly observed that that was why we were discouraged from feeding the asses..

Poppy wandered around clutching her food, which, naturally, was liberally smeared around her mouth.

A rather large fungus mushroomed through the turf.

Matthew used an interesting method of feeding the swans;

then took his daughter to look at the water.

He and Jackie then began a swinging game which had to be constantly repeated.

Thinking Poppy might like the tyre swing on Tanners Lane beach, we made that the next visit. She wasn’t happy with this swing, which was a little too advanced for her, but she was quite content to wobble about the shingle.

Across The Solent we could see a string of yachts passing the Isle of Wight.

After our offspring had returned home, Jackie and I dined on her perfect pork paprika with wild rice, followed by chocolate eclairs. She drank Hoegaarden and I finished the shiraz.