honeysuckle – Page 6 – derrickjknight

Sets

An unseen bird in a neighbouring garden has, for some time now kept up an incessant, repetitive, day-long warning cry. This is no doubt related to the fact that a possibly predatory crow patiently waits perched on the branch of a high tree. Perhaps awaiting a chance to plunder eggs, or to pounce on newly hatched chicks? Yesterday evening Jackie clapped her hands and shooed off the vigilant avian. As soon as it flew off the other bird became silent.
Two days ago a magpie was spotted in our garden, suspiciously close to the blackbird’s nest.

This morning the nest was empty, only its cleanliness and two downy feathers attached to a twig, indicating any occupation. There were no broken shells. Sadly, on little more than circumstantial evidence we suspect either crow or magpie of theft of the eggs.
Today I finished weeding yesterday’s bed. In the process, I found a honeysuckle and several more passion flower plants entwined among the other plants.

Trying not to replicate the McDonalds logo, I erected my own golden arches out of bamboo to give the climbers something else to scale.

Perhaps the honeysuckle was seeded from this wonderfully scented specimen, bordering the kitchen garden.

Jackie has continued her creative work. The water boy is now well established in his little corner, complete with more shells and planting.
She is now focussing on further improving the edging of the paths. In many instances, the earlier brick edges have been covered by stones and granite sets.

These have tended to be obscured by covering plants, and have not stemmed the flow of soil into the gravel. Sieving the earth from the gravel, and placing the bricks on their sides lifts the edges.
The sets will be used elsewhere, where they attractiveness is more apparent. We began with the border between the patch of grass and the long path. I was the labourer to Jackie’s artisan. This meant I searched out more sets, loaded them onto a wheelbarrow, brought them to the mistress craftsperson, placed them roughly where she would need them, and ambled off for some more. Some, in the furthest regions, were covering ants’ nests.
We didn’t quite finish the job before preparing for a visit to Danni and Andy’s new flat. Jackie drove us over to Shirley, where it is; we were joined there by Elizabeth, and all dined at a very good Indian restaurant nearby, the name of which I did not register. We all enjoyed the food; Andy drank Magners, and the rest of us, Kingfisher.

Ondekoza

Although it brightened up enough around noon to add a glow to vibrant magenta roses intertwined with honeysuckle in a Minstead hedgerow, the day dawned dull and dank as I walked the Seamans Lane/Shave Wood loop. I did not venture off the tarmac.

The blossom I had seen on the edge of the forest leading to Football Green was indeed apple, as evidenced by the little green fruit on the boughs.

Until I met Anne in Minstead, I had the road to myself. The elderly woman has been away for a while whilst her dilapidated house with its waterlogged garden, photographed on 21st April, was being refurbished. It was good to see her back home and looking well.

On 24th February I posted information about Elizabeth’s Open Studios exhibition to take place in August. There I mentioned that I was to submit some photographs of drumming that I took in September 1976, of the stunning Japanese band of timpanists that entertained the Soho Festival that year. This afternoon I made a start by unearthing the original colour slides, scanning them and uploading (if that’s the right word) them to my computer. There was a fairly considerable amount of retouching to take out tiny blemishes in these little rectangles of positive film almost 37 years old. They do not have the sharp clarity of today’s digital images, but maybe they are none the worse for that. One I have even managed to crop, yet still retain enough of a focus to show the speed of the drumstick fanned across the drummer’s face. We’ll see what I manage to do when I come to print them tomorrow.

Jackie is camping at Corfe Castle with Helen and Shelly, but she still fed me this evening. She has left me enough cooked meals and cold meats, pies and bread to last me a fortnight, let alone the four days she will be away. This evening I made a little impression on the large casserole of chicken curry, and ate one of the beautifully served dishes of savoury rice with a vegetable samosa and a nan, accompanied by a bottle of Kingfisher. I did have to microwave the home-cooked dishes and heat the samosa and bread in the oven, but that wasn’t really any hardship.

The Nuthatch

Back down to earth after yesterday’s Mottisfont display, we were nevertheless delighted to note the progression of Jackie’s south side garden, begun some time after the kitchen one. With few exceptions, her plants are benefitting from her love and attention, and the warmer weather.

Jackie was running out of certain specific items of bird food. They now take precedence over shopping for human nutriment. So we had to go to In-eXcess near Poulner on the A31 for replenishments. While she bought the avian fodder and sat with her newspaper in the establishment’s cafe waiting for me, I walked a loop taking in Hangersley, Linford, and Shobley. This consisted of sometimes steeply undulating lanes, harbouring idyllic homes, and offering views of sweeping woodland and hillside pasturage. The thick hedgerows are decked with dog rose, bramble blossom, and honeysuckle, attracting much insect life.

As I vainly wafted my ordnance survey map and watched horses switching their tails, I discovered why they are equipped with fly sheets.

The Surrealist artist Rene Magritte’s 1929 painting, ‘The Treachery of Images’ is of a pipe beneath which is the phrase ‘this is not a pipe’. The philosopher was correct. It was not actually a pipe, but the image of one.

Similarly, the insect that alighted on the dog rose, was not what it looks like. This was a harmless individual that masquerades as something else much more harmful, no doubt to scare off the opposition. Not a bee, not a wasp, it was a hoverfly.

Whilst she was preparing our dinner of delicious sausage, bacon, and liver casserole, Jackie was startled by a thud from outside, as of a bird hitting glass. She looked outside and saw a nuthatch on the welcome mat, with metaphoric stars in a speech bubble above its dazed head. It was then her turn to bang on a window as she came round outside the sitting room and I handed her the camera. On her return her little friend had recovered sufficiently to fly, but was disoriented enough to be perched at the top of the kitchen window blind. I don’t think it still had limited vision. It soon disappeared.

The aforementioned casserole was enjoyed with potato, carrot and swede mash; cauliflower; and, by me, the last of the Terres de Galets.

The Traditional English Tea

We stayed in this morning for a visit from the owner of the flat upstairs and a technician sent by her insurance company. On 2nd March I described a leak from number 9 that had dribbled through our ceiling. Christine, in residence, is the tenant. Sarah, the owner, had been told by the insurer that, in order fully to investigate the cause of the intermittent penetration of our ceiling, it was necessary to aim a device at our plasterwork from inside our flat; the electronic gadget, allegedly capable of its own painless penetration, would be able to diagnose what was wrong with the bath. Apparently looking directly under the bath was not an option.

This rather mystified us, but we had no objection. It rather surprised the technician too. He had no such instrument, and had no idea how he was supposed to diagnose the leak from a bath nestling on the floor of a room about twelve feet above the soles of his shoes, and through ceiling, joists, and floorboards. After some quite lengthy and helpful discussion about the building, estate agents, and owners, Sarah and the young man repaired to number nine. When he had left after completing his work, she kindly came to tell us that he had indeed taken off the side cover of the bath and found what was wrong; apparently an overflow and something to do with damp plaster, possibly from showering.

We were thus delayed in partaking of our brunch which was to sustain us until the visit, for a traditional English tea, of Helen and Bill and their German friends Hilda and her great nephew Simon. This meant that we did not have time for checking out two prospective properties for which we have been idly surfing the net. Or is it browsing the web?

Actually, we would have had time for two had we not got lost. Property-wise we have rather a dilemma. We are very pleased with the wonderful flat in its idyllic setting that we occupy. But we do have to pay rent, and by the end of the year, we may just have enough money to buy somewhere. Not, unfortunately, in the rather expensive New Forest. So, we have been having a look on the property websites, but not actually at any houses themselves. Today we decided to at least reconnoitre the areas of a couple of places that could not be more different. The first a pretty cottage in a pretty lane in a pretty village; the second a large ground floor flat in an Edwardian Manor pretty much like what we have at the moment, possibly even grander.

We found Fyfield Cottage in Everton with no trouble, and had a wander around. It is more extensive than it looks from the very narrow West Lane, and has a lovely garden with a new shed and parking space for three cars. I have my doubts about whether the ceilings would be high enough. Every home in the lane was attractive, and I was particularly taken by the happy juxtaposition of honeysuckle and actinidia in the hedge opposite. Just window shopping.

It was the second possibility that proved elusive. This was Ossemsley Manor near Bashley. We knew exactly where it was. But how to get to it? Had my driver not turned right too soon we may well have been congratulating ourselves. But she did. As the track began to peter out, we came alongside a teenage girl on a horse accompanied by an older woman on foot. The girl claimed not to be any good at directions and left her companion to set us on our way. The young lady had said we needed to go straight ahead, but wouldn’t be able to get through the gate in front of us. We followed the other’s directions, and after we had detoured for a good mile or so, our paths crossed again. Our informants had only travelled about a hundred yards, or metres. This was after the car’s suspension had been sorely tested by invisible speed bumps set in a badly made up road. I was convinced we were going in the wrong direction so we turned around, returned to a proper road, and set off back to Minstead to be in time for our German guests. In the process we drove the reverse of a long stretch I had walked on 27th February. I was then able to see where we should have gone. Had I only realised where we were or remembered the name of the common where I had seen the chicken cross the road, we may have had better luck. As it was, we had to put off that little recce.

Our guests arrived on time and were treated to a traditional English tea. The kind that no-one ever eats today, unless on holiday in the West Country. Which I suppose they were. A bit like the Full English breakfast only being consumed when staying at a B. & B. And since everyone except Simon, who preferred sparkling water, drank coffee, it wasn’t quite authentic. Nevertheless the excellent spread included the traditional cucumber sandwiches, scones, clotted cream, strawberry jam, strawberries, two different cakes, and even biscuits with an assortment of cheeses and pickles, and was consequently enjoyed. It was a more than adequate evening meal for us.

After the repast we all watched an old sixteen millimetre film starring Helen, Jackie, and a little later, Shelly, taken by their Dad, Don Rivett, about sixty years ago. The format, after several reincarnations over the years, is now DVD. Guest appearances are by their paternal grandparents, mother and father, and cousins Adrian and Christopher Barlow. Although the sisters have seen these films often, the memories came flooding back. Since it was silent, it probably gave poor Simon a rest from listening to spoken English.

Unrequited Love?

Today’s tramp was terribly tiresome. Having often noticed, on my usual Colliers Wood walk that the Wandle trail allegedly continues on to Wandsworth, I decided to take that path as the first stage of my journey to Waterloo to meet Tony. Crossing Colliers Wood High Street, the signs led me on a meandering route, the first mile or so through uninteresting side streets populated by rather ugly modernish housing. Eventually the road crossed the Wandle and I could pick up the trail. This was a dismal and windswept winding wander on a dull and windy day. I have no idea of the distance travelled, because, with very few exceptions, each milestone gave the same number of miles.

The tangled undergrowth everywhere bore evidence that summer is almost over. Weeds were brown and parched. Buddleia was similarly dry, colourless, and scorched. Blackberries were almost completely ripe. Nettles and brambles were rampant, and convulvulus choked everything in its grasp. An occasional fluttering butterfly and one hardy honeysuckle bravely brightened the withered Wandsworth stretch of the river. Paths were often overgrown. Birds, if there were any, were silent. All that could be heard was the wind whistling through the trees, except when that was drowned out by the roar and clanking of industrial machinery. An Irishman and his dog, making their way painfully along the narrow path, stepped aside, risking being stung, because, the man said: ‘you are quicker than me’. As I passed, and thanked him, I pointed to the ancient Labrador and commented: ‘you are being held up’. ‘Yes, me legs are holding me up’, he replied.

After a while I found myself in Earlsfield, where I encountered the first long straight road. Magdalen Road, SW18, is an uphill stretch bounded for most of its left hand length by Wandsworth Cemetery. Even the cyclist who brushed past me on the pavement was using his lowest gear. Consequently his legs were going like the clappers, but his speed was slow. A notice outside the cemetery seemed to bear a zombie warning. This put me in mind of Stanley Spencer’s memorable painting, ‘Resurrection in Cookham Churchyard’.

An effort had been made to brighten up the heavy, sombre, facade of Wandsworth Prison. It didn’t really work for me. From Wandsworth Common I made my way to Clapham Junction where I boarded a train, reflecting that I could have done so at Earlsfield.

As I sat on a bench in Waterloo Station, eating a pasty whilst waiting for Tony, a pigeon at my feet adopted the posture of a hopeful dog. It had a great deal of trouble swallowing the one piece of crust I did drop. Rather like a dog with a long stick held crossways in its jaws, the bird tried twisting its neck and rapidly opening and shutting its beak. This didn’t work. When It tried using a claw it almost toppled over. In an effort to avoid a young woman’s feet it flew off. I didn’t notice the crumb drop. It may be stuggling still. The young purple-haired man sitting next to me sucked his thumb continually as he studied his mobile phone. And he’d already eaten a Macdonald’s. At long last he found someone to talk to. He explained that he had just had to spend a week in the same bedroom as a girl without being able to touch her. He didn’t mention whether that was 24/7 or just the nights. His listener could not possibly have any idea of how hard that was. Perhaps that’s why he needed a dummy. Once he’d finished speaking, the thumb went back in the mouth, until he was joined by two other equally colourful young gentlemen. Hugs all round ensued. I am now beginning to realise where sitcom scriptwriters source their material.

The Paralympic Games traffic was really hotting up. Brightly clad marshals were adept at identifying those who needed direction, and providing the necessary service. Transport police were in strong but largely discreet evidence. Except for the two, carrying automatice rifles, who were cheerily chatting to customers on the concourse. Mostly elderly ladies who didn’t seem to be terrorists in disguise.

Tony and I, as usual spent an hour or so in the Archduke bar underneath the railway arches.

Our evening meal tonight was an array of salad, after which we had stewed plums, courtesy of Geoff of the Tardis, with Dream Topping. Jackie wishes the world to know that the Dream Topping was bought in error. It should have been custard, which also bears the name Birds, and comes in a red and yellow packet. I finished of the Vina Araya, while Jackie had a Hoegaarden