heather – Page 2 – derrickjknight

Unicorn Piñata

‘A piñata (/pɪnˈjɑːtə/, Spanish pronunciation: [piˈɲata] (listen)) is a container, often made of papier-mâché, pottery, or cloth, that is decorated, filled with candy, and then broken as part of a celebration. Piñatas are commonly associated with Mexico. The idea of breaking a container filled with treats came to Europe in the 14th century, where the name, from the Italianpignatta, was introduced. The Spanish brought the European tradition to Mexico, although there were similar traditions in Mesoamerica, such as the Aztecs’ honoring the birthday of the god Huītzilōpōchtli in mid-December. According to local records, the Mexican piñata tradition began in the town of Acolman, just north of Mexico City, where piñatas were introduced for catechism purposes as well as to co-opt the Huitzilopochtli ceremony. Today, the piñata is still part of Mexican culture, the cultures of other countries in Latin America, as well as the United States, but it has mostly lost its religious character.’ (Wikipedia)

During her stay here, Tess, for an upcoming birthday party, has produced this unicorn piñata using balloons, capable of being burst by boys with sharp implements, as containers for the papier-maché body trimmed with castellated slices of scrap paper; coloured tissue strips; and a twisted card horn.

It was a delicate operation for Tess to place her creation safely in the car.

This afternoon we led the family on a pony and donkey hunt.

At the top of Holmsley Passage we stopped for a foal and other ponies among the bracken and the heather.

We did encounter one baby donkey trotting with its mother along the road at South Gorley, but by the time we managed to park the cars it was long gone.

In fact the traffic, especially along the narrow lanes, was so congested as to make the trip somewhat abortive, until it was rescued by a trip to Hockey’s Farm Shop for ice cream and fun with the livestock of this establishment, where Poppy was pleased to

stroke a donkey;

see lamas;

pigs at trough;

geese blending with buddleia;

a horse attending to pedicure;

and especially chickens.

We parted at Hockey’s and each made our ways home.

This evening Jackie and I dined on chicken marinaded in Nando’s lemon and lime sauce; her own savoury rice, and fresh salad, with which she drank more of the Sauvignon Blanc and I drank more of the Douro.

Lunch At The Rising Sun

On a morning of sunny intervals, Jackie and I nipped out to buy bread and took the opportunity for a short forest drive.

The heather on the moorland straddling Holmsley Passage is glowing purple, and the bracken beginning to yellow.

Several cyclists crossed Holmsley Passage in their trip along the gravelled path converted from former railway tracks of one of the lines destroyed by the Beeching/Marples combination of the 1960s.

Ponies and foals were cropping the verges of Bisterne Close.

We lunched with Mat, Tess, and Poppy at The Rising Sun at Bashley. Despite the hundreds of customers in this extensive establishment, we were all impressed with the speed and efficiency of the service and the excellence of the meals. Mine consisted of steak and ale pie, chips, peas, carrots, and cabbage with thick, meaty gravy, followed by ginger sponge and custard. I drank Otter ale.

There were not quite as many ponies outside the pub as in this image from 2017, but enough to give credibility to my prediction that there would be a sighting.

Our granddaughter met another contemporary called Poppy and her sister Florence – the names of our Poppy and her cousin, Becky’s daughter.

Afterwards, Tess and Poppy drove off to a beach, while the rest of us returned home and flopped.

Later, the others grazed while I didn’t.

Running For Cover

Following a warning of further fierce winds we carried out our normal protective preparations early this morning. Although still strong the gusts were not as forceful as yesterday.

Soon after lunch we took a drive into the forest to take our minds off any possible storm damage.

As we approached Smugglers Road car park we witnessed the most unusual sight of a quartet of ponies racing down the hillside. Naturally we turned in to investigate the equine objective.

There, apart from a more nonchalant trio preferring grass to whatever goodies were on offer, the animals gathered around a group of promising visitors.

My attention strayed to the purpling heather on the verges and upward on the hillside. As I picked my way up a steep and very narrow pony track, I had forgotten that, with the current state of my knees, it is far easier to climb than descend. When I realised I would have difficulty getting down, and would not therefore be nimble enough to negotiate meeting a pony face to face, I sidled crablike to the bottom. I really must keep a stick in the car – and remember to take it out.

On my return manoeuvres I was happy to see the ponies still occupying the car park.

A group of walkers set off by a different, gentler, route

So far the rain had kept off. Enough, at Linwood Bottom, for me to be tempted to stray to photograph

a number of white cattle from a different angle.

No sooner had I disembarked than a heavy downpour sent me diving into the Modus; the cattle lurching to their feet; and a gentleman and two boys passing the bovine bunch in their dash for cover.

Having read enough of David Copperfield to scan four more of Charles Keeping’s memorable illustrations, I did so.

‘Mr Micawber accepted my proffered arm on one side, and the proffered arm of Traddles on the other, and walked away between us’

‘With the veiled face lying on his bosom, Mr Peggotty carried her, motionless and unconscious, down the stairs’

‘The door of the boat-house stood open when I approached’

‘ ‘The Devil take you!’ said Uriah, writhing in a new way with pain’

All the portraits in these examples remain faithful to earlier versions.

Tonight we dined on a mixed meat melange with tasty gravy; new potatoes, both boiled, and fried with mushrooms; crunchy carrots; and tender cabbage. Jackie drank more of the rosé while I drank Chevalier de Fauvert Comté Tolosan Rouge 2019.

Beside The Pond

This morning was the dry part of day beset with showers of varying ferocity. We shopped at Ferndene Farm Shop for three more bags of compost and a replenishment of our stock of fruit and vegetables, then continued into the forest.

Fly-decorated ponies planted in the road around the fully occupied Holmsley Campsite did their best to impede decanted campers, cyclists, and walkers setting out on their trips.

A nonchalant adolescent foal ambled across Burley Road, along which Jackie parked so that I could

follow the bone-dry powdery pony track to Whitemoor Pond. The third of these pictures is “Where’s Derrick” (5)

It was the sight of the distant clusters of ponies and foals that drew me to take the trek through the

moorland heather. Note the crow on the back of the reflected bay alongside the grey.

This afternoon I scanned four more of Charles Keeping’s skilled illustrations to “David Copperfield”.

‘Mr Dick leaned back in his chair, with his eyebrows lifted up as high as he could possibly lift them’

‘Mr Peggotty kept a lodging over the little chandler’s shop in Hungerford Market’ contains the artists ubiquitous little dog.

‘The girl we had followed strayed down to the river’s brink, and stood, lonely and still, looking at the water’

‘I began to carry her down-stairs every morning, and up-stairs every night’

Later, I did some more work on the next episode of The Knight’s Tale. Shortly before his death in 2017, my brother Chris asked me to help with the writing of his research on the family history. Now, for this section, I find myself wading through pages of material, including contemporary photographs and reminiscences. The problem is how to cull it to reasonable blog length.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s special savoury rice with tempura and hot and spicy prawns; tuna and egg mayonnaise with paprika; and plentiful fresh salad, with which she drank more of the Carricante and I drank more of the Barolo.

An Unknown Soldier

Just before I spent the week in Eymet with Maggie and Mike in September 2008, culminating in agreeing to buy their house in Sigoules, I enjoyed various locations with Mike and Heidi, Emily, Oliver, and Alice. One of these was at

Onesse in Les Landes. Oliver doesn’t seem to be in this family shot from the selection I scanned today from the recently recovered colour slides.

I am not sure where this beach was, but I remember picnicking on the bank in the foreground.

We took a number of walks in the sun-dappled forest with its tall pines, red-brown streams, and sandy banks of bright purple heather.

The farmhouse and its field; the nodding sunflowers; and the village perching above it are all outside Eymet, while the colourful garden and the church spire behind the rooftops are probably inside it. Without notes I am a little hazy after twelve years.

I really regret not being sure where this wonderfully sensitive sculpture of an unknown soldier adorns a war memorial. Maybe someone will enlighten me.

Having read another four chapters of ‘Little Dorrit’ I now present four more of Charles Keeping’s skilful illustrations.

Here we have a ruined uncle well portrayed by the artist;

‘My eldest daughter and my son Mr Clennham.’ The essences of one weak and one haughty captured by the artist’s pen;

‘Oh, Maggy, What a clumsy child you are!’ Drawn to perfection is Dickens’s portrait of this simple soul, including her clothing’s ‘general resemblance to seaweed’;

‘He seemed to have been sitting for his portrait all the days of his life’. Keeping has caught Dickens’s vivid description of the aptly named Tite Barnacle, down to his very clothing.

This evening we dined on a second sitting of Hordle Chinese Take Away’s excellent fare, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Recital.

Extra Time

Before visiting Mum at Woodpeckers this morning, Jackie drove us to

Ober Water where I photographed the stream and its reflections as I clambered among

the roots and grasses.

The acute sunlight etched shadows across the land and the water.

Acorns, like Pooh sticks, floated gently down the stream.

At first we had the woodland to ourselves

and the ponies, ignoring their flies. The occasional equine snort was the only sound we heard

until the gentle voices of walkers and the occasional bark of a dog announced the gradually filtering humanity.

On our departure the moorland opposite was rich in green/gold bracken and purple heather.

We settled ourselves behind the screen in the dedicated visiting room at Woodpeckers awaiting the delivery of my wheelchair-bound mother when a loud blast rent the air and the door to the room slammed shut. This, it transpired, was a fire alarm test. Clearly the system was built for instant isolation of each room.

A few minutes later Mum, with a section of peeled skin on her arm, was wheeled in. She had been being pushed out of her room at the crucial moment and the closing door hit her arm. A nurse would soon arrive to dress the wound and order pain relief.

She did this efficiently. Mum was untroubled by the event and was on good enough form to point out that this warranted extra time for the visit. In fact we were given an additional twenty minutes which our mother considered a result.

This evening we dined on succulent sirloin steaks; fried onions; oven chips; fat grilled tomatoes; and baked beans with added tomato purée. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Bordeaux.

“Go Round Us”

This morning we righted the fallen pots in the garden before visiting Ferndene Farm Shop where

Jackie joined the masked queue. I have her word that she was smiling in the last picture.

The shopping went quite smoothly. Afterwards we took a drive into the forest by way of

Holmsley Passage which was already becoming quite busy.

Heather enhanced the moorland landscape and the vibrant verges.

Other vehicles, walkers, and cycling groups needed to be negotiated.

As we reached the end of this narrow, winding, lane this family group who we had allowed to go ahead hadn’t yet decided which way to go. Left would have taken them to Burley; right was the road to Brockenhurst; straight on was the route to Bisterne Close. Jackie decided she would go one of the ways they didn’t. They went straight on; we turned right and stopped at

the pool on the way up Clay Hill. Jackie parked by the roadside while I wandered around photographing the water, the reflections, the woodland, and its shadows. I found a metal dog tag with a local phone number stamped on it. I phoned the owner and left a message explaining where I would lodge it.

After this we thought that Bisterne Close might have been clear of the cyclists and wended our way back there where ponies, their foals, and cattle happily shared the road.

Another group of ponies were not about to cede ground to the motor vehicle. One driver left his car and attempted to clap them out of the way. They must have thought they were being applauded, for they didn’t budge. Cajoling had no better effect; the car horn was tried next. Eventually the unspoken message “go round us” was heeded.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s classic cottage pie; pleasantly chewy curly kale; and crunchy carrots with which she drank Beck’s and I drank Carles Priorat 2016.

More Water For The Animals

Early yesterday evening Jackie drove us to Darbar Indian restaurant in Emsworth where we joined Becky and Ian in celebration of our daughter’s 50th birthday. Catching up after six months in lockdown was remarkably easy – we just dropped into delightful conversation over excellent food with attentive service. We shared poppadoms, onion bahjis, three different types of naan, and pilau rice. My main dish was Goan fish curry. Ian and I drank Cobra while the ladies drank Diet Coke.

The waiting staff all wore PPE masks and were as attentive and efficient as ever.

The warm, sunlit, weather today asserted that summer is not yet ready to yield to autumn. For this reason we took a mid-morning drive into the forest.

Robert Gill’s garden in Everton Road is always the showpiece of the annual Hordle Scarecrow Trail. We are not sure whether there will be one this year, but this professional gardener has given us an advance display with his NHS tribute while his alter ego sits comfortably with his name-mug.

So much tarmac is regularly nibbled from the edges of this lane winding through the undulating moorland carpeted with heather and bracken that we always wonder how much longer we will be able to use the route.

There is no passing space for any two vehicles without one diverting to the verge; whenever I want to leave our car in order to wander among the ponies Jackie has to find a spot where there is possibly enough leeway for such a manoeuvre.

Ponies in and around the stream are sometimes irresistible. After the recent rains there is more fresh water for the animals.

Cyclists and walkers tend to gather and consult maps before the modern house built on the footprint of the old signalman’s building beside the former railway track which is now a path for their convenience.

Penetrating the trees the bright sunlight dappled both woodland and ponies along Bisterne Close. This poor creature trying to ignore the flies coating its muzzle let out an almighty snort when the insects became too intrusive.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy pasta arrabbiata served with fritters of courgette that Giles had bought from some enterprising children on his way to his last visit to us. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I drank Axis 280 Cabernet Sauvignon 2017 – a smooth red wine from Western Australia’s Margaret River.

Proper Rain

The heavy rain that fell this morning was more welcome to us than to the influx of holidaymakers. Thinking that now was our chance to find Ferndene Farm Shop without a queue we set off in hope.

A four-way traffic control gave me ample time to photograph the lights through a wet windscreen.

After the wait our hopes were dashed. Even in pelting rain a line of bedraggled visitors stretched round the outside of the shop, so we set off for a forest drive instead.

The caravan site at Holmsley is one of a few that are closed because of Covid-19. Consequently would-be campers tend to park on the approach road when the adjacent car park is full. Ponies and cattle are no doubt appreciating the raindrops settling on their hitherto hot dry hides. One of the ponies sports a fern fascinator.

Dogs still had to be walked, some patently not very far because, despite

notices there was more dog shit than pony excreta around the edges of the parking area.

Car headlights glowed on Burley Road stretching down the hill towards the hazy landscape.

Many ambulant visitors, like these on Chapel Lane, were cheerful enough under their colourful umbrellas.

During the heatwave strings of ponies could be guaranteed to block Forest Road as they clustered together to shelter from clegs, heat, and humidity. Today they kept more Social Distance and even ignored the less prolific flies. Like the walls of concrete buildings today’s previously dry ponies all bore downward streaking water stains.

Alongside Holmsley Passage golden-browning bracken and purple heather glistened in the still driving proper rain as we made our way back home.

This evening we dined on tasty garlic and pepper coated roast chicken; herby sage and onion stuffing; crunchy carrots, firm cauliflower, tender kale; crisp Yorkshire pudding, and flavoursome gravy, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Montepuciano.

Summer Holidays In The Woods

In an effort to avoid the holiday traffic and the intensely hot sapping humidity of the day we set off for a forest drive at 8 a.m.

Beside Ober Water which passes under Rhinefield Road ponies quietly grazed, cattle strode purposefully, cyclists and cars sped along;

sunshine dappled the woodland, reflecting trees and skies on the surface of shallow, bubbling, water

from which a splashing, excited, dog time and again retrieved a soggy tossed tennis ball.

Three different shoes and a rather useful looking pan had all been abandoned on the banks;

as they swooped from tree to tree and hunted among the roots I witnessed ample evidence that robins spend their summer holidays in the woods.

Cattle drank from the stream.

Early bracket fungus stepped up trunks further along Rhinefield Road;

bracken pierced the shadows along Mill Lane

where walkers and dogs were beginning to wander.

On Bisterne Close an inquisitive foal left its mother’s flanks in order to investigate the warm bonnet of our Modus. It took a loud application of a certain amount of vroom to shift the mohican-coiffed youngster.

Purple heather, such as this beside Holmsley Passage among which a lone walker tramps is brightening daily.

As usual, clicking on any image will access its gallery, individual members of which can be viewed full size and further enlarged if required.

Even when entering the garden for a watering session we were hit by a blast furnace, and the library dehumidifier required emptying twice today, when normally once every two days may suffice.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s luscious liver and bacon casserole; creamy mashed potatoes, crunchy carrots; and tender green beans with which I drank Carles Priorat 2016, and the Culinary Queen abstained.