keys – derrickjknight

A Knight’s Tale (124: A Night To Remember)

I have never been one for camping, or barbecues, for that matter. I like my home comforts, and cannot see the fun in struggling to light, and keep alight, an outside facility when there are perfectly good ovens and grills in the kitchen. In August 2012 Louisa and Errol and their daughters were flooded out of their tents, but they think that is all part of the fun.

The last time I went camping was by accident. I have not yet mentioned the ten nights involved in the Henley – Newark trip. Sam’s friend James began accompanying him on the boat. The vessel in which Sam was to spend 59 days alone rowing across the Atlantic Ocean was purpose-built. There was therefore a small cabin on board. Designed for one, it was going to have to accommodate both Sam and James. As I have already stated, I like my comfort, so the plan was that wherever we stopped at night, we would find me bed and breakfast accommodation. That worked pretty well. Most of the time. The two occasions on which it didn’t would have to be consecutive, wouldn’t they?

Fortunately the nights were warm. Fortunately James had brought a small tent which he was generously prepared to lend me. Unfortunately there was no mattress, no ground-sheet, and no sleeping bag. Because we hadn’t considered the possibility that we might decide to stop in the middle of nowhere. On the first occasion, we managed to find me some sort of camp-site with tents, but no bedding of any sort, and latrines which I was quite unprepared to use. I slept on the hard ground. Yes, I did actually sleep. When you’ve walked as much as I had, you’ll sleep anywhere. I thought. Until the next night. This time I used James’s tent. These outdoor nights were spent in my day clothes. The place where we had pitched the tent seemed to be incredibly stony. One particularly sharp stone dug into my left thigh all night. I was just too tired to attempt to move, and desperately trying to get some shut-eye. I’ve no doubt I did sleep a bit, as is always the case when you think you haven’t slept at all. When, early in the morning, I finally decided I’d had enough, I looked for the offending stone. I couldn’t find it. Then it dawned on me. I fished in my left trouser pocket, and pulled out my bunch of keys.

The Fountains of Bergerac

It hadn’t been a good idea to sit up half the night watching the general election which resulted in a hung Parliament. Not when I had to make a start on putting together accounts information for my accountant. Not when we received a surprise visit from a prospective buyer for the house next door to discuss a boundary issue. Not when I had to deal with correspondence and phone conversations on that subject with the seller’s solicitor. Not when I was engaged in on-line communications of various other natures including reading and responding to followers’ comments. Not when all these activities were being juggled together.

I was beginning to wonder how I was going to summon the energy for photography when Sam came to the rescue.

When my son and his family left us in Portsmouth a couple of days ago they were en route to France where they spent the night in Caen and visited the Bayeux tapestry before going on to Sigoules to our house in that village. Because of the early morning trip to Southampton Hospital we managed to send them off without the keys. This necessitated my having to arrange for the estate agent out there to provide Sam with a set of keys, and to contain my anxiety until the handover had been accomplished. That had also interfered with my sleep the night before the election.

This morning the family explored Bergerac where the children enjoyed the fountains.

This one, where Malachi and Orlaith soon engaged with a little friend, is in the medieval Old Town. I have myself enjoyed many an ice-cream from the kiosk opposite while seated on that little wall.

These further fountains must have been installed in the newer environs some time after my last visit.

In e-mailing these images, Sam had unwittingly saved my bacon. Given that Malachi’s new raincoat was also left behind in Downton it is just as well that they are clearly enjoying good weather.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s excellent beef casserole, new potatoes, carrots, green beans, and cauliflower cheese.

Dials

I drafted this post against the unfamiliar rhythmic, sonorous, ticking of a proper, analogue, wall clock that was more or less silenced by the various moves after leaving Sutherland Place in 2009. Martin Fairhurst of Dials Antique Clocks has done a grand job of restoring the timepiece to the condition it enjoyed when Michael bought it for Jessica and me about 35 years ago. Not new then, Mr Fairhurst tells me that the movement is American. I suspect that, should anyone other than Scooby, who is now rather hard of hearing, attempt to sleep in our sitting room, they may benefit from a set of ear plugs. You never know, it might help me to keep awake for an entire TV programme.

As I have shown previously, Dials lies at the foot of the exquisitely cobbled Quay Street in Lymington. Jackie drove me there this afternoon, but, it being Saturday, and market day, the car parks were full, so she had to park some distance away,

and I walked round The Quay and up the cobbled slope to the shop, which lies

diagonally opposite Karina’s colourful miniature emporium.

The day was overcast and there had been some rain, but not on my promenade.

Apart from the modern grandfather clock to the left of this browser,

Dials is a treasure trove of attractive antiques,

including a centrally placed telescope.

No self respecting horologist would be without a box of intriguing keys.

Pub food in this country is streets ahead of that of my youth, which was either non existent or not much cop (the food, not my youth). Steak and ale pie is one of the staples. Good as this generally is, it cannot hold a candle to Jackie’s steak and mushroom pie in red wine that she served up this evening with roast potatoes and parsnips, cauliflower cheese, crisp carrots and Brussels sprouts, followed by Co-op laced profiteroles. I enjoyed making a start on Montemajone chianti classico 2011, given to me for Christmas by Helen and Bill.

Latin Gave Me Up

Although not having got round its baffle, the crow is back trampling the petunias on the chimney pot. The squirrel, on the other hand, earned a meal this morning. It made a successful launch from the eucalyptus, crash landed on top of the corvine baffle, slipped underneath it, and scoffed away. Given that the rodent has now rivalled Eddie the Eagle, Jackie moved the feeder further from the tree. The next lift-off point will doubtless be the new arch. Google can supply further information both on our aforementioned Olympic skier and yesterday’s Greg Rutherford reference.
We returned, briefly, to Castle Malwood Lodge this morning to retrieve two garden recliners we had left behind; and for a chat with Mo. Jackie then drove us to Ringwood where I deposited two pairs of shoes for repair; back home for lunch; then on to New Milton for me to catch the London train to visit Carol.
The corner around our old flat is well stocked with self-seeded blooms from Jackie’s temporary garden; and

the little meadow alongside New Milton station has an abundance of wild flowers.

Today I finished reading Cicero’s ‘Pro Roscio Amerino’ (For Roscius of Ameria). This is an eloquent and subtle defence of a man facing a trumped-up charge of parricide, and is significant for its being the young advocate’s first speech in a criminal court, and for his courage in taking on powerful political elements. No doubt aided by D.H.Berry’s able translation, the writing flows, and is very readable and entertaining.
It is to be inferred from my last sentence that I did not read this in the original, which would have been far beyond me. I am no Latin scholar, as was proven by my first three years at Wimbledon College. My Grammar school was then notable for its emphasis on the classics. Keen to obtain as many OxBridge university places as possible, Latin and Greek were the school’s most valued subjects, for in those 1950s days, a Latin qualification was a requirement for entry into our two leading centres of learning.
I was never subjected to Greek, and my Latin was so abysmal that, long before the O level stage, I was transferred to Geography, not then considered of prime importance.
Being top of the class in French, it was always a mystery to me that I could not grasp Latin. At school, I thought maybe it was because it seemed to be all about wars that didn’t particularly interest me. Not very many years ago, I twigged the reason for the imbalance. It was partially about word order, but more significantly about ignorance of grammatical terms. Without understanding these, I could manage the modern language, not that dissimilar in construction to our own. Meeting concepts like ‘subjunctive’ which were not considered needing explanation for passers of the eleven plus exam, I didn’t just swim, I sank.
Latin gave me up. And Geography teaching was hit and miss, so I failed that too.
So. In English. I went on to read ‘In Verrem 1’ (Against Verres). This was a necessarily short piece used as a device to circumvent the delaying tactics of the defence of a patently guilty man. It was so successful that Verres withdrew and further prepared speeches were not required.
Each of the Orations in my Folio Society edition is preceded by a helpful introduction by the translator. I began Berry’s piece on ‘The Catilinarian Conspiracy’.

From Waterloo I walked across Westminster Bridge to Carol’s in Rochester Row. I have seen this route even more crowded than today, but it was still a struggle to reach and walk across the bridge and past the Houses of Parliament and Westminster Abbey.

At the junction of Great Smith Street and Victoria Street a woman struggled with a chain of keys that would have done credit to Dickens’s Jacob Marley from ‘A Christmas Carol’, to free her bicycle from its fixture on a set of railings. Having succeeded, she dropped the cluster on the pavement and loaded her steed. Given her apparel and the content of her baskets, I wondered how she would manage to ride off. She didn’t. She donned her furry hat over the straw one, pushed the bike across the road, and continued down the street.
I took the 507 bus from Carol’s back to Waterloo and boarded the train to New Milton where my chauffeuse was waiting to drive me home; show me her planting and tidying of the garden; and feed me on fresh vegetables with beef casserole, the method of cooking of which is given in yesterday’s post. She drank Hoegaarden, and I abstained.