horses – Page 9 – derrickjknight

Planted In The i-Mac

Despite there being little sun and a quantity of intermittent rain today, bees were busy harvesting nectar from Jackie’s plants.

This afternoon I walked through Minstead to Football Green; up to and through the grounds of Minstead Lodge; down Seamans Lane and skirted Suters Cottage; to emerge from the forest on Running Hill just below Lower Drive. (Memo to self: if you venture into the open woods in sandals after a couple of days’ rain you will get your feet wet.)

Minstead Lodge’s horses were favoured with fly-sheets. Their companion donkeys were not. Maybe they are not as plagued by the little nippers as are the larger animals.

I moved into 29 Sutherland Place in July 2007. Soon after this, a small child pointed out the camera integral to my i-Mac computer, and that this was a wizard way of taking your own picture. Much fun was had by Oliver and Alice in particular, and many hours were spent playing with the special effects that could be achieved, especially if you were prepared to pull funny faces. On 30th July, Heidi, Oliver, Alice, and I had a very fruitful session. I seem to have cut my chin shaving.

By 15th November 2008, Oliver had become quite proficient. This I discovered some time later when I found a couple of dozen mixed colour, and distorted effect pictures planted in the computer.

By December 2009, Louisa had persuaded me into Skype, and I believe I actually took picture number 23 in the ‘through the ages’ series whilst I was Skyping her. I was certainly speaking with her on the phone.

The coriander garnish decorating Jackie’s tasty savoury rice that she served up with her delicious chicken jalfrezi, accompanied by popadoms and paratas from a little shop in New Milton, was in bloom. That is the result of growing the herb in pots and not using it quickly enough. It does mean we will have plenty of seeds for next year. With my meal I finished the Cotes du Rhone opened a day or so ago.

Have you ever coughed or otherwise breathed in at an awkward moment when eating, and wound up with a pea firmly lodged in a part of your respiratory system? It usually irritates somewhere between the back of your throat and your nostrils, until eventually you blow it out into your handkerchief. Well, I’ll let you know in good time whether mine of this evening is a grain of rice or indeed a pea.

Ron Sveden from Massachusetts once ate a pea that ‘went down the wrong way’. Jackie read out his story from BBC news the other day. It was in August 2010 that he was rushed to hospital with a collapsed lung. He feared cancer until the doctors informed him that he had a pea plant growing inside his lung. If I should be nurturing a paddy field I will report that too.

Hanging By A Thread

The following were the human beings I saw when walking The Splash ampersand this sultry morning: a few isolated car drivers on the road; a postman getting into his van outside the study centre; a woman in a nurse’s uniform leaving a house and walking to her car; one man crossing a road to another house; a psychotherapist walking from her home to post a letter in the box on the green opposite; two woman chatting in a cottage doorway; and a teacher with a group of schoolchildren having a lesson in a shady spot by The Splash. That’s it. Contrast the peace with yesterday’s heaving pavements. By mid-day, even the birds were mostly quiet. The rhythm of my sandals slapping the tarmac was at one point interrupted by the sound of a squealing gate that emanated from a donkey in need of lubrication.

A very small lamb was silhouetted against the sky visible through a hole in the Furzey Gardens road hedge.

A bunch of horses in a Fleetwater field had me wondering whether Kevin Pietersen had branched out into equestrian breeding.

Beside The Splash it was the eager voices of the schoolchildren I heard first. Peering through the foliage I spied the sun-dappled group seated around the stream. For them it was a quite different experience than that of the children I had heard yesterday in Shrewsbury Road.

On my return to the flat, the painters were, in a most relaxed fashion, availing themselves of the facilities offered by Jackie. John Broad expressed the idea that they should cancel next week’s job and come back here instead. Dean was exchanging texts with a friend to whom he had just sent photographs of the setting in which they were working.

I am experiencing a niggling discomfort very similar to one I suffered when I was a child in about 1949. It is strange to feel the same annoyance from a nagging gnasher at seventy as I did at seven. I have a wisdom tooth the root of which was partly exposed many years ago when its next door neighbour was extracted. It is now gradually attempting to prise itself loose from its moorings. If only I could get a good grip on it I feel certain I would be able to help it on its way, just as Mum did with one of my milk teeth. I whinged all day because it was sore, but couldn’t pluck up the courage for the final lift off. Neither would I let my mother near it. I had seen a cartoon in either the Dandy or the Beano where a parent tied a string round a bad tooth and the other end to a door knob, slammed the door shut, and had the tooth literally hanging from a thread. When I eventually allowed my mother to wrap her fingers around my molar it came off in her hand with no tugging at all. It had been metaphorically hanging by a thread. This enables me to imagine what it was like for six year old Jessica just before her front teeth fell out.

This evening, sitting in the garden before dinner, we watched a thrush competing with a blackbird and various tits for theirs. The thrush actually seems to be more alarmed by other birds now than by us.

Dinner was Jackie’s slow roasted pork with superb crackling (tip) and crisp vegetables, followed by sticky toffee pudding. My accompaniement was Berberana rioja 2012; hers was Hoegaarden.

Rabbit-Proof Fence

As I dug out the trench this morning for Jackie’s protective netting, and she was planting seedlings in pots, I noticed that blossom has indeed come to the Lodge garden. By mid afternoon the sun has always moved across to the other side of the garden. Today John’s lawn mowing looked splendid in its light. The natural landscaping, presenting different sweeping levels, with a distinct slope down to the East, reminds us that the building occupies the site of an Iron Age hill fort. Unfortunately my enjoyment of the sunshine was somewhat curtailed by my spending much of the day on administration, too boring to record, most of which should have been done months ago. I just managed to get to the village shop in time to post ten letters and collect my dry cleaning.

It was still a glorious day. The slow clip-clop of the wild ponies’ hooves as they strolled down and across the road, their haunches undulating awkwardly and their heads imitating car drivers’ nodding dogs, was almost all the sound I heard. There was also the occasionally purring of the engine of a car brought to a standstill when one or all of the animals decided to take a diagonal amble. When they are headed straight for you it is still a bit disconcerting. It is best to convince yourself they are not going to bite you. A snorting I heard came from two magnificent farm horses, which must be a particular breed, now occupying a field across the road from Minstead Hall. I don’t think the ponies have the energy for blowing air through their noses. By the time I returned home, Jackie had almost completed her little garden fence.

When preparing the ground for this rabbit and deer proof structure, I was thinking of ‘Rabbit-Proof Fence’. This is a marvellous Australian film drama from 2002 directed by Philip Noyce, adapted from ‘Follow the rabbit-proof fence’, the book by Doris Pilkington Garimara. It tells the story of the author’s mother and two other dual heritage Aboriginal girls who ran away from Moore River Native Settlement situated to the north of Perth, Western Australia, where they had been forcibly placed in 1931. They knew that if they followed the 1,500 mile (2,400 km) fence it would take them to their families in their homes in Jigalong. They covered this ground in nine weeks, all the while being pursued by a white authority figure and an Aboriginal tracker.

It is some years since I saw this film, but it is not one I am likely to forget. The terribly mistaken policy that separated so many families; the cruelty to which the children were subjected; the pain of the bereft parents; and the magnificent fortitude shown by the escapees burns in one’s memory like the searing heat which they endured.

The tasteful symphony in white and cream with an intro of orange that Jackie served up for our evening meal was smoked haddock, cauliflower cheese (recipe), mashed potatoes, and carrots. Accompanied by a 2012 Bordeaux sauvignon blanc, it was followed by a delicious plum crumble.

A-Hunting We Will Go

Sam and Holly brought Malachi and Orlaith to see us today. Mal was straight into the garden, through the rhododendrons, and exploring the forest, before his parents had paused for breath.

Orlaith, having herself been fed, lay contentedly on the floor while the rest of us partook of a splendid Jackie vegetable soup. After this all except Jackie went on foot on a pony hunt. We walked the London Minstead, Bull Lane, Football Green loop. Walking Malachi is like walking a dog, in the sense that, because he is constantly running backwards and forwards he covers twice the distance we do. He did actually perch on his father’s shoulders for the last twenty minutes. Since Sam already had a sleeping baby sister strapped to him, he had quite a load on for the last uphill stretch.

Malachi enjoyed any sights of horses, even the jacketed farm type. He climbed on gates for this pleasure. When I led the family down Bull Lane so they could see cattle in a farmyard, my grandson showed far more interest in a stream running outside it. He made believe catching fish, and his mother caught a real piece of treasure. Lying on the gravelly bottom Holly found a penny bearing the head of young Victoria, so thick and unworn as to suggest it had been there for a very long time.

Until we reached Football Green we saw no ponies. That area made up for the absence elsewhere. We squelched through the mud and streams still lying on this open space, so that we could observe the creatures and Malachi could photograph them. The picture of the ponies below was taken by this little chap who is not four until Saturday.

On our return a further hunt took place. This was for Easter Eggs. Malachi was very excited every time he found one of his fourteen eggs, and wouldn’t eat any until he had his whole collection arrayed before him. Jackie’s photographic clues idea was very successful. Holly accompanied him around the house, helping him identify the objects in the pictures, whilst Sam sat with Orlaith.

Having already experienced an early Easter, Mal then enjoyed an early birthday celebration. The actual day is Saturday, but we gave him our presents today. The dinosaur card and book went down well, as did the Lego petrol tanker.

The next treat was an early dinner of Jackie’s smoked haddock and cauliflower cheese combination, followed by blackberry and apple crumble with cream, custard, and/or green jelly. Sam drank Marston’s Double Drop and the rest of us – not including the children – shared a bottle of Roc Saint Vincent sauvignon blanc 2011.

Where Is My Poncho?

After lunch on another bitterly cold day, I walked through London Minstead to the Cadnam roundabout where Jackie picked me up and drove us to The Firs to visit Elizabeth.

I was envious of horses in their jackets. One even wore a scarf. In fact I contemplated the illicit acquisition of equine accoutrements, then thought better of it, surmising that a heavy horse’s hoof probably carried more clout than the long arm of the law. In the 1990s I must have watched ‘Doctor Zhivago’, or some other long coat epic, for I bought a made to measure Burberry with a warm lining insert. It was so long I probably looked ridiculous, especially when we didn’t have Russian snow for it to flap away, and as my regular readers will know, I didn’t wear wellies. The flapping around the ankles was likely to unbalance me, especially when going down stairs. I left it on a train. By mistake. I went back a few minutes later. It was at Kings Cross, a terminal station. In that short space of time the coat had disappeared, and never turned up at the lost property office. I hope the thief was continually tripping himself up.

After delivering me to my sister, Jackie went off for a Sainsbury’s shop. We had coffee on her return. In the interim Elizabeth and I had discussed the prospective art exhibition she will be holding in August on the theme of drums. Danni’s boyfriend Andy (not quite an anagram, but at least an onomatopaeic one), as am drums (worth a look – www.amdrums.co.uk) as well as being an excellent drummer, makes beautiful instruments. His drums will be there, as will work by a variety of artists and photographers, one of which will be me. I took a series of photographs in 1976 of Ondekoza, an absolutely stunning Japanese drumming group, then only seven years old (the group, not the members), performing at the Soho festival. I am to make some prints for the exhibition. My colour slides are still at The Firs. My scanner and printer are now at Castle Malwood Lodge. So I unearthed those 37 year old slides which are still vibrant, and will be reproduced in various sizes.

What I also found was a 1976 slide of me in my poncho. This was how I kept warm then, and could have done with it today. I have no doubt no-one who has never fancied themselves as Clint Eastwood in the Spaghetti Westerns would think I looked ridiculous, but if I knew what had happened to it I would retrieve it and wear it tramping around the freezing forest. When I got back home I tried to scan the slide and attach it to this post. On 20th of this month I explained how the computer can do my head in. Well, I have not used the professional scanner for three years. I scanned the picture very well, but I couldn’t save it in Jpg format which is what it required for the blog. So I sat and cursed the first person I had engaged to teach me how to use Photoshop. Not only was he one of those people who has to do it for you at a rate of knots, so it is impossible to take it in, but he attempted to arrange things so I could scan direct from Photoshop. The result has been I cannot scan unless I go through Photoshop. Whenever I turn the computer on I am told there is a ‘shared library error’. I have never found a way since then of saving to jpg. After a couple of hours at this, I was in a foul mood and hadn’t written a word of this current masterpiece. So I reverted to the memory stick Elizabeth had given me of the photos she had collected and reproduced to project on a screen for my ‘Surprise’ party on 1st July 2012. And I couldn’t get up any pictures. What appeared seemed to be a game. In duplicate. I really lost it then. And phoned Elizabeth. I got her voicemail. Deep breaths. Glass of wine. Start again. Exit the first game. Exit the second. Eureka. Pictures. One of which you see today. You may not think it was worth it. But if anyone recognises the garment, I would be grateful for its return.

At least in the garden of The Firs the Prunus pissardi has not been deterred by the weather, and is beginning to bloom. Jackie couldn’t resist pointing out to me that this flowering cherry had a Turdus turdus (blackbird) perched upon one of the branches. Poor Matthew. With parents like us he didn’t stand a chance to be other than an inveterate punster.

Our evening meal was an excellent roast chicken with all the trimmings followed by sticky toffee pudding and custard. I drank Carta Roja gran reserva 2005 and Jackie had Hoegaarden. Having been grateful for the glass of red wine which helped me write this, I managed to knock it over onto the pale green carpet. Fortunately I knew how to deal with this. I learned soon after we moved to Newark. I had had a very large area of dining and drawing rooms fitted with a green carpet. The very first guests to sample this extravagance were Ann and Don. Poor Ann managed to overturn a full bottle of red wine onto our glorious purchase. Jessica steamed into action. Salt was applied in bucketfuls. Bottles of liberally spilled white wine were added,. The next morning the carpet was as good as new. So was Ann. We’ll have to wait until morning to discover whether I will be equally relieved. In the meantime I am having a refill.

Renovations

Shafts of sunlight from across the frosted lawn early this morning signalled the glorious day we were to have. As I walked through Minstead joyous church bells vied with celebratory birdsong for attention. The solitary crowing cock barely competed.

Berry stopped her car and got out for a chat. She has been engaged in rescuing a pony. This creature, now billeted with her own two, disappeared last summer and has been sought ever since. He turned up recently in a very sorry state, really thin, and not eating much. Apparently he is not a good forager and has just spent an awful winter trying to do just that.

Just past Football Green, on the right, there is a rough road going uphill past a large imposing building. Ignoring the ‘No Through Road’ sign, I took that route. Williams Hill House is the big one. There are also two farms, one of which is called Mill Lane Farm. Eventually the road peters out into a wide footpath. This is very churned up. Walking down it I was puzzled to see two bridged streams in quick succession running under it. I also had to battle with the mud-suction for possession of my walking boots. Having run down to the streams the path then rose and turned round to the right revealing a most idyllic sight. Perched atop a wooded bank was a group of old brick buildings having undergone recent renovation. The bank sloped down to a wide and deep millpond whose clear waters reflected the surrounding trees.

I considered that if it were possible to continue the way I was going I might emerge somewhere in the vicinity of Emery Down. As I wasn’t sure, I was rather relieved to see the sunlit steam of human exhalation billowing like tobacco smoke from the leafy bank. A woolly-hatted bearded head, and then an athletic looking body, rose into view. I was looking up at Robert, with whom a long chat ensued. Robert had spent twenty years turning the buildings into a most attractive home. He explained that the mill itself was no longer in existence. He also confirmed that if I continued up the slippery path, I would soon reach a road which, turning right would bring me to Emery Down.

Some time later I was in Emery Down, from where I took my usual route back home. In that village there is a rather beautiful collection of almshouses, a banner on the railings of which announces a refurbishment project for 2013.

After lunch we joined Elizabeth and Mum at The Down House in Itchen Abbas. This is a large private house that was open today under the National Gardens Scheme. The organisation enables home owners to display their gardens to the public on two or three days a year. The small entrance fees are donated to various charities. Jackie and Mark Porter, the owners, had a splendid day. Parking was well organised and catering was excellent. The garden was very well laid out, the woodland walk being at its best at this time.

In the evening, Elizabeth, Jackie and I dined at ‘The Hampshire Bowman’, at Dundridge, near Bishop’s Waltham. This is reached by following a long winding single track road perhaps a couple of miles long. I had been to this real ale pub once before for a drink with Paul Newsted. Tonight we chose to sit close to the log fire. The mantelpiece contained a row of candles in their brass sticks. As the barman lit them before transferring them to tables, he told us why the one on the left hand end burnt down quicker than the others and produced nobbly stalactites. It was in the direct line of a draft between two doors, so the flame was always flickering with interesting results. A small boy, on leaving the pub, couldn’t resist peeling off some of the nobbly bits.

Proud of its range of beers, the establishment only reluctantly serves the odd lager. Fortunately for Jackie, there was Becks on offer. Elizabeth and I drank Wallops Wood. Jackie and I consumed excellent mushroom soup. The very good main courses were roast chicken for Elizabeth; roast lamb for me; and fish and chips for Jackie. Blackberry and apple crumble; sticky toffee pudding; and bread and butter pudding, were all equally delicious.

An ageing lurcher, to no avail, sat hopefully under our table.

Pinched Buttocks

Discussing Tens machines this morning Jackie mentioned that she can’t find hers, and assumed it has got lost in one of our several moves. A short while later, we spoke about the potential for photographing, in the snow that has fallen overnight, a subject for next year’s Christmas card. I said that one card I’d always wanted to produce was from a photo of a manger scene Becky had painted years ago in Newark. She had designed the float for the Caribbean Club’s contribution to a parade. I had a print of it, but didn’t know about the negative. When I left Lindum House a box of negatives went missing. ‘There’s a storeroom somewhere full of all the stuff that gets lost in moves’, said Jackie.

Snow fell steadily today, coating Minstead to provide romantic images. As I set off down Running Hill, a four by four vehicle, its brake lights piercing the falling snow, travelled downhill, without mishap, very very slowly. Sky and distant landscape merged into a backcloth of sludge. The snow on the ground was, however, virginal white. My goal was the churchyard. I hadn’t gone far before Berry called me from behind. She was walking up to the field to tend her horses. We accompanied each other as far as The Splash, at which point she turned right and I took the footpath from the ford to All Saints church.

At the ford there is a rather sheltered parking area. Car tracks in the relatively shallow precipitation layer made a pattern which required the addition of two sets of initials separated by L to complete the picture. The footpath was very muddy under the snow, but I was wearing wellies so I retained my footwear and kept my trousers clean.

Two horses grazing in the blizzard looked up when their owner called them, then carried on powdering their noses.

I felt a bit of a vandal ruining the thick white carpet covering the churchyard as I left my footprints all over it. No-one else had yet disturbed the view.

The trees bordering our garden continued to gather snow, occasionally letting fall flurries echoing those blown off houses earlier at Seamans Corner. At first sight these billows had looked like the woodsmoke I often smell there.

As the roads became more difficult we wondered whether we would have another night of pinched buttocks. This is because our lavatory seat has riven in two. We’ve tried to close the gap by taping it , but the tape seems to split too. Consequently, unless you are very careful you are nipped when enthroned. A man was due to bring and fit a new one at nine o’clock this morning. The poor chap was stuck in traffic. He insisted on perservering and eventually, to our relief, turned up soon after two. The fitting was too small, but, for our convenience, he left it and will return with a bigger one next week.

Rather rashly, we set off to drive to The Firs. We didn’t get very far. About a car’s length. Backwards. With wheel spin. We weren’t going anywhere. So we decided to return the car to the parking spot. No way. Spinning wheels going nowhere. Jackie went inside to get some dishwasher salt. She spread it about a bit. It didn’t help. I set about kicking snow out of the way. Adam, who lives upstairs, said there was some grit in a box. We didn’t have anything to carry it in. Jackie went back to the flat and emerged with a grill pan and a broom. Meanwhile Adam had found another broom. I gathered some panfuls of grit which we dispersed on the swept snow. Jackie had another go at driving back to where she’d come from. All ten yards. Eventually, with a push from Adam and me, she made it, and we returned home to thaw out.

We had planned a visit to Eastern Nights at Thornhill. Jackie’s smoked haddock and a shared bottle of Cimarosa Chardonnay 2012 was a very satisfactory substitute.

Bonjour

Despite the date, the weather, as I set out for a walk in the early afternoon, was almost sultry. Already feeling sticky under my open jacket, as I walked through Minstead on the Shave Wood loop route, I thought the domesticated horses in the fields looked decidedly over-dressed. As I approached Football Green, a young man sped past me on a noisy moped. The staccato roar of his vehicle was similar to those I sometimes hear tearing down rue St. Jacques in Sigoules. Unless the law has changed you can ride a moped at fourteen in France. There is a little square further down the road from numero 6 where there seem often to be a number of teenagers. They enjoy speeding up and down the steep gradients of the road.

It was the reputation of these young motorcyclists that deterred Nicole from moving to Sigoules from Bergerac. I met this woman who lived in Bergerac, one cold and wet Easter Sunday as we were both traversing the pedestrian crossing by the village square. The custom locally is to greet anyone you meet in a friendly manner. As Nicole passed me I uttered ‘bonjour’. This, for some reason, sent her little white poodle incandescent. It barked repeatedly and snapped at my heels. I must have been a little perturbed because I used English for the first three words of my next sentence. Addressed to the dog, this was: ‘I only said bonjour’. This made Nicole very happy. She jumped at the chance to practice her English. We had a long chat, the rain dripping off her waterproof hat, and off my equally waterproof scalp.

Bergerac, which I had previously only known as John Nettles’ early television detective character, has become familiar to me as the town 16km from Sigoules. Olivia, the young Frenchwoman who bought the upper floors of the house in which I lived in W2, had an English boyfriend who, by coincidence, grew up in Bergerac.

As I continued into the forest this afternoon, I carried on Wombling (see yesterday’s post). Straightening up after picking up a couple of cans, my head almost collided with that of a pony which had crept up behind me, no doubt intrigued by my strange activity. This made me jump a bit. As I gingerly gathered up the second of a scattered pair of thin rubber medical examination gloves I thought that Becky’s 2011 Norbury Wombler who wore the protective variety was probably quite sensible. I was decidedly less squeamish about the more substantial single gardening glove that lay further along the verge. So now you know, Beck, what to get me for my birthday. I could try a grabber, like those the volunteers use in Morden Hall Park, but I would then be deprived of the pleasure of repeatedly bending without having to think of what else I could do whilst down there.

Before setting off in earnest today, I had delivered photographs of their horses to Berry and to Audrey Saunders. Berry was delighted with hers. Audrey didn’t seem to be in. Her front door was unlocked, so, rather than risk disturbing the other elderly resident again, I opened the door and left the pictures where I had placed the first set. By invitation, when I returned home, I took Flo round to Berry’s to plan a horse ride for the morning. Berry was amused at Flo’s fear for the poor 14.1 hands Poppy having to carry her, who normally needs a 16 hands horse. ‘She’s a New Forest Pony’, was the answer.

Flo was also aware that she may look rather like her Uncle Mat on Alda’s Shetland pony Max. I imagine Mat looked rather like a Victorian child on a hobby horse.

This evening we ate Jackie’s cottage pie variant. ‘In deference to Flo’, this had crusty roast potatoes instead of soft mash topping. Nice. Revamped bread and butter pudding was to follow. The revamping was required because someone stripped the crusty bits off yesterday’s leftovers during the night. Since the back door was locked, it can’t have been the deer. I drank Carta Rosa gran reserva 2005, and Kalu snored and muttered in his sleep on the carpet.

The Bay Leaf

Although regular fresh droppings provide evidence of the presence of deer in the garden, we have not, until today, seen these timid, delicate-looking creatures for ourselves. We are told they come out at night. Over lunch, we saw two on the far side of the lawn. Jackie fetched my camera as I dare not move. Despite the distance and the window between us they knew we were there and looked straight at us. I could not even risk placing the camera lens against the glass. I managed to get in a couple of quick shots before they were off like one.

After lunch I walked the Seamans Lane, Shave Wood, Football Green route. One of the first houses in the Lane is Agister’s Cottage. The agisters are employees of the verderers whose task is to assist in the management of commoners’ stock turned loose in the forest, and to collect the annual fees for pasturage that these commoners must pay for each animal. Whether the cottage’s name is purely historical or whether an agister lives there, I have yet to ascertain.

Perhaps because this was a Saturday afternoon there were a number of horse riders on the roads today. The first was a little round girl, with a face like the Cheshire Cat, astride a little round black Thelwell pony. They were being led by a large round woman who held the reins of a large black horse in her other hand. Their greetings were cheery. In London Minstead two riders were dismounting after three hours’ riding. Two more approached me alongside Football Green. When they wished me ‘Good morning’ I realised they too had been out quite a long time. Another pair trotted towards Seamans Corner as I returned home.

I asked the couple in London Minstead if they knew the origin of ‘Seamans’. Apart from our being in Seamans Lane, next door to Agister’s Cottage there are two Seamans Cottages. The apostrophe in Agister’s is missing in each use of Seamans. They were obviously comparatively new themselves, and a little vague, but related it to press gangs from Portsmouth. Nick, who lives across the road from them, would know the story. I must ask him some time. What I can do is explain press gangs. They were legal gangs of men who could press men into Naval service. We read, for example, of drunken gentlemen tottering out of hostelries, when they were snatched and knocked on the head, and waking up on board ship. Sometimes, plied with enough strong drink, they just passed out in the inns. The unfortunate victims were then given a choice. They could either sign up for the Navy and get paid; or remain ‘pressed’, in which case they received no pay. Not quite Hobson’s choice, but near enough. The end of the Napoleonic Wars in 1815 saw the end of this horrific, yet legal, method of manning the famous British Navy.

Jackie fed us tonight on a delicious lamb jalfrezi containing succulent Waitrose meat beautifully cooked with a greatly enhanced Patak sauce. This was followed by a Malwood Mess. We finished yesterday’s Pinot Grigio. Noticing that I had all the bay leaves and bits of cinnamon stick on my plate, we decided that the law is that the person who doesn’t cook gets the debris. It is only since cooking myself that I have become fully familiar with bay leaves. There is, of course, a large tree at The Firs, and there was an absolutely huge one at Lindum House. My first encounter with the leaf was somewhat embarassing. When I worked at Lloyd’s Insurance we had our own canteen. Mum had been an excellent basic English cook. We were occasionally fed meals at Lloyd’s with which I was unfamiliar. One day, aged eighteen, I fished a thickish leaf out of my stew. ‘This is disgusting’, I thought. ‘Where has this meal been to get this into it’. So, I took it back to the counter, claiming a bit of privet had found its way into my portion. It was replaced without a murmur. I was too ignorant to feel embarassed then, but I still feel so when I think of my first bay leaf.

Why I No Longer Drive

Last night, on the way to Walkford, in the beam of the car’s headlights, I saw my first forest deer. They were rather small. Maybe females, maybe fawns, I am not sure. It seems they only emerge into view at night.

We had an enjoyable time with Helen and her friend Pete at the quiz night, finally being placed firmly in the middle of a fairly large field containing some apparently professional players. In Jackie’s words we were so mediocre as to warrant neither one of the cash prizes for the first three, nor of the two bottom booby chocolates. Helen says we weren’t mediocre, it’s just that some of the others were especially good that night. Well, that’s a relief. Never mind, they served Tanglewood bitter and Peroni on draft, so who really cares.

This morning, it being a Mordred (see 12th July) day, I walked down to the village shop to collect my copy of The Independent; continuing on to Football Field, and back home by the circular route via Shave Wood and London Minstead. Domesticated horses in the fields were jacketed as a protection against the weather. Forest ponies, being made of stronger stuff, had only their rough-coated hides for the purpose.

In Minstead I met and had a long conversation with Gladys and Dave who live on the top floor of the Lodge. They own their flat but need to sell it, because Dave can no longer drive and Gladys doesn’t like to. They were friends of our owners and know our flat well. They have occupied the building for twenty four years.

I don’t drive either. Perhaps twenty years ago, I visited a good cafe in Islington for lunch on my way to my consultancy at the now closed adoption society, Parents for Children. Deep in The Times crossword, I was vaguely aware of a male figure taking a seat at a table adjacent to mine. I was completely unaware of his departure a very short time afterwards. Reaching for my brief case which I had placed on the floor beside me, I was completely unaware of that too. It was gone. After I had looked all around me, it gradually dawned on me that it had been nicked. It was the proprietor who told me of the man’s rapid departure.

I had done what no sensible person ever does. I had everything in that brief case: my wallet, cheque book, mobile phone, books, favourite pipe, lighter, and just about everything else except my biro and copy of The Times. I couldn’t phone to cancel the cards. I couldn’t pay for the meal. Fortunately the cafe staff helped me out with coins for a wall phone and didn’t take even a contribution for the food. I did, of course, return the money soon afterwards. I reported the theft at Islington police station, knowing full well I would not see my belongings again. The system, however, is that you must waste your and police time to provide a crime number for the insurance company.

One item in the wallet had been my driving licence. I duly collected a form for a replacement from Newark post office, filled it in, wrote out the cheque and stuck it in my ‘to do’ tray. This was because I needed a photograph for the new style licence to replace my old paper one which had needed no picture. Several years later I came across this paperwork and managed to get a couple of photographs out of a machine, this being no mean feat in itself. Of course, by then the £2.50 or so cheque I had written probably wouldn’t have been sufficient. So I put it all back in the tray for several more years, whilst I got around to checking. It could be there still.

Not driving was really no problem during the years I was commuting to London. I used public transport all week and Jessica drove at the weekends. This is because I didn’t mind who drove, and she couldn’t bear not to. It seemed quite a satisfactory arrangement. After her death and my return to live in Central London a car would have been a liability. Even running across London was quicker than driving. Finding somewhere to park was a nightmare, and paying for it exorbitant. And, of course, with a London address, I was given a senior citizen’s Freedom Pass which meant public transport within all six London Transport zones was free of charge. And you could get quite a lot of cab journeys for the cost of running a car.

Where we are living now a car is pretty well essential. But now I have a beautiful chauffeuse who has her own car.

This evening my chauffeuse served up very spicy arrabbiata followed by Sainsbury’s creme brulee. I finished the Brindisi red and Jackie the Montpierre sauvignon blanc.