landscapes – Page 2 – derrickjknight

Riding Round Potholes

On a grey but dry morning of intermittent sunshine Jackie and I shopped at Ferndene Farm Shop, then brunched at Lakes View Café before taking a forest drive.

The verge fronting the shop’s chicken fields accommodating a ditch is decorated with daffodils bowed by raindrops.

A few ponies grazed the landscape alongside Holmsley Passage

on which an equestrienne group rode among the potholes pictured yesterday, where

Jackie photographed an elf’s lost hat draped on a post.

Later we saw them, all unscathed, gathering on the moorland.

Still shaggy ponies foraged alongside Wootton Road, where,

the post box still celebrates St Patrick’s Day.

This evening we all dined on meaty Ferndene Pork Sausages; creamy mashed potatoes of white and sweet variety; crunchy carrots; firm cauliflower; and tender broccoli stems with which Jackie, Ian , and Dillon drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of La P’tite Piérre.

A Further Deluge

This grey day was at least dry when we set off for my encouraging “all good” routine dental inspection from Dr Matthew Hefferan at Birchfield Dental Practice, followed by a forest drive.

This held good until, while photographing – judging by the dry sawdust – a clearly very recently fallen tree which must have straddled the lofty Braggers Lane earlier, I felt the first drops of what was to develop into steady heavy rain for the rest of the day.

Most field horses wore protective rugs in muddy fields.

Here are views from this high point of the lane.

Until we reached Thatchers Lane I stopped photographing the increasing circles dropping into pools, many completely crossing camber of lanes, but here we found their depths could not be discerned and Jackie was not about to chance discovering them.

We turned and headed to Ripley’s

water meadows now draped in the swollen River Avon.

Jackie parked on the entry to a private fishing area which we thought would stay closed for a while, while I got wet. She produced the last two photographs in this gallery.

This evening we all dined on piri-piri spicy marinaded chicken; creamy mashed potato; tender purple sprouting broccoli turning green when cooked; and a melange of mixed vegetables with which Jackie drank more of the rosé and I drank Mighty Murray shiraz.

Black And White

Bright sunshine lifted the lingering morning mist as we set off for a short forest drive today.

Shafts and shadows streaked across Jordan’s Lane, where

our path was soon blocked by a driverless tractor, the cab of which was

soon occupied by a man who drove it on its way, complete with trailer.

Distant tree lines alongside Shotts Lane remained somewhat hazy.

The colourful Georgian terrace of Southampton Road with its clusters of

towering chimneys at its point of departure from Lymington has often attracted me, but it is not a place to stop the Modus.

Today I regretted not making an exception, so Jackie drove around the block and parked in a side road while I walked back.

You may be able to spot the gentleman approaching me on the left hand pavement.

He proved to be another man who, in the days of film, had turned his kitchen into a darkroom in order to print black and white images with trays of chemicals and an enlarger poised on the daytime work surfaces while black sheets covered available windows.

We had an enjoyable reminiscing session, in which he explained that he had a large collection of black and white photographs that he really ought to “move [his] butt” to print. I informed him that the only real editing I carried out with my digital photography was cropping and converting to black and white.

I hope I had inspired him to take up his printing once more as he inspired me to produce these converted images.

The uncropped version of this 1982 portrait of Becky first published in 2014 has not yet been recovered from WordPress, but I include this header picture of her eyes from a later post as an example of a print of such a size that I needed to project the enlarger onto the floor to produce it.

Late this afternoon, having collected Dillon from Heathrow, our daughter delivered him and his young family back home and returned to her own in Southbourne.

We dined on tender roast pork, crisp Yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes, crunchy carrots, firm cauliflower and Brussels sprouts, and meaty gravy, followed by a spicy pumpkin pie which Jackie had baked in honour of Dillon’s return. She drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Gran Selone.

No More Than A Truce

This afternoon we drove Flo and Dillon to Burley where we left them to wander while we continued the drive and returned for them after 90 minutes.

We paused at Bashley where one foal lay flaked out while its mother cast her shadow while nibbling parched grass;

while another group took shelter beneath the oaks;

as did others along Forest Road. Note the bothersome flies,

more of which pestered cattle sharing shade with another pony and foal.

Two more greys stood beneath trees on Ringwood Road at the top of Crow

Hill, from which landscapes revealed an early brightness to the heather, and

ripening blackberries.

Hidden from below among the undergrowth is an historic milestone telling of a certain amount of optimism.

“Early in 1801 the British war against France under Napoleon as First Consul was not going well and the country was sick of it. When the Younger Pitt’s government fell in February, the new premier was Henry Addington, who was bent on peace and an end to entanglements on the Continent. As he wrote to Lord Malmesbury two years later, ‘his maxim from the moment he took office was first to make peace, and then to preserve it … if France chose, and as long as France chose; but to resist all clamour and invective at home, till such time as France (and he ever foresaw it must happen) had filled the measure of her folly, and had put herself completely in the wrong.’

Talks went on quietly in the summer of 1801 in London between the foreign secretary, Lord Hawkesbury, and a French diplomat, Monsieur Otto, and a preliminary agreement was signed at the beginning of October. The French had far the better of the deal. They agreed to restore the Two Sicilies and the Papal States to their former regimes, but they kept control of the Netherlands, the west bank of the Rhine, Piedmont and the Savoy, while Britain agreed to leave Egypt and let go of the Cape of Good Hope, Malta, and various islands in the Caribbean, while keeping Trinidad and Ceylon.

The agreement gained the approval of Pitt, however, and Lord Cornwallis, an eminent soldier and former governor-general of India, was appointed as ambassador-extraordinary to agree the final treaty. He was no diplomat and had largely forgotten his French, but he left for Paris and an interview with the First Consul in November, after which the two sides got down to detailed discussions in the Hôtel de Ville at Amiens. With Talleyrand hovering in the background, the French deputation was led by Joseph Bonaparte, Napoleon’s elder brother, who was well liked personally by the English representatives, though dismayingly prone to offering concessions in private one day and ruling them out in public the next. William Wilberforce urged Addington to include the abolition of slavery in the Amiens terms, but Addington, though sympathetic, wanted nothing to interfere with progress towards peace. After months of wrangling over details, Cornwallis threatened to go home unless matters were settled in eight more days, and the treaty was finally concluded [on 27th May 1802].

Though widely welcomed on both sides of the Channel, the Peace of Amiens was no more than a truce. It lasted for not much longer than a year, giving both sides a breathing space in which to reorganise before the war was formally resumed in May 1803.”(https://www.historytoday.com/archive/months-past/treaty-amiens)

The treaty had ‘marked the end of the French Revolutionary Wars; after a short peace it set the stage for the Napoleonic Wars.’ (Wikipedia)

This evening we dined on different lefties – the others on Red Chilli Takeaway, and I on the roast lamb dinner. Jackie drank more of the Pino Grigio; Flo and Dillon, sparkling fruit flavoured water; and I Max’s Penfolds Shiraz Cabernet 2019.

How To Get Rid Of Dandelions

I began the last push on clearing the two rooms Nick is currently working on together at 4 a.m. this morning. These are the new sitting room and our bedroom upstairs.

Our friendly decorator began prepping before Jackie and I took a mid-morning forest drive.

A framed crocheted Queen welcomes visitors to St. Mark’s Church, Pennington.

We travelled along the very narrow Pauls Lane on our way to Pitmore Lane

alongside which I photographed the landscape with horses.

Further along we encountered a group of donkeys and their foals which

attracted a number of other photographers including this Frenchwoman. I quipped that these donkeys would become very familiar with the camera, and realised that her husband did not understand me. He told me so in English and followed in his own tongue which I didn’t understand. When he explained this to his wife I suddenly tuned into his French accent and replied, haltingly, in his own language. The three of us then spoke about how difficult it is to speak in another language for the first two or three days of a visit. The husband told me that they kept two donkeys at home.

One of the foals appears to have been attempting to emulate the stereotypical female Argentine tango dancer. Tossing its head around, scratching against the stiff grass, first on its feet, then sinking to the ground and rolling its muzzle close to the ground, the little animal failed to grasp the secret of how to get rid of dandelions.

By this afternoon Nick had made considerable progress and will begin applying paint tomorrow.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s excellent chicken korma and various leftovers from last night’s Red Chilli takeaway, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden, Ian drank Cobra, and I finished the Bordeaux.

Rich Pickings

This morning Nick completed his painting of the garden room and vacuumed and tidied everything, as he always does.

After lunch Jackie drove me into the forest.

As I walked down the slope from Wilverley Road to capture the views of Longslade Bottom, its landscape festooned with ponies, foals, and dog walkers

I noticed buttercups and daisies on the lush verges and blackberry blossom and ferns flanking the stony tracks produced by generations of wildlife.

At the corner of the dog-rose-lined Armstrong Lane on the approach to Brockenhurst a small group of ponies including a leggy foal and their short limbed Shetland acolyte grazed among glowing buttercups; while another group preferred to shelter in the dappled shade. Perhaps the couple in the last image, prone to weird moaning sounds and a certain amount of head butting, were engaged in some kind of unrequited courtship ritual.

On the bridge over the ford at Brockenhurst a group of amused tourists photographed ponies on the road.

Along Meerut Road a woman approached a small highland cow, and seemingly oblivious of this bovine, stood beside it photographing the landscape and pointing out something of interest to her male companion.

I wandered over to a pony and foal and discovered that some small corvine creatures had found rich pickings at the equine hoofs.

This evening we all dined on Becky’s flavoursome savoury rice; succulent chicken Kiev; fresh salad; and tomatoes with mozzarella and basil. Jackie, our daughter, and son-in-law drank Rosé Prosecco; I drank Château Sainte-Clotilde Blaye Côtes de Bordeaux 2018; and Flo abstained.

A True Tale Of Love In Tonga

Last night I read ‘A True Tale of Love in Tonga’ by Robert Gibbings, and spent some time today scanning

the dust jacket, the front and back boards;

the Foreword;

and the pages, which speak for themselves.

Between bouts of scanning Jackie drove me into the forest, where

I wandered among the gleaming golden gorse around Crockford Clump.

Ponies cropped the verges of St Leonard’s Road, while donkeys

tore at more prickly provisions,

and a pheasant tried camouflage in the long grass of a field.

This evening we dined on Becky’s delicious pork casserole; creamy mashed potato with nutmeg; and firm broccoli, with which Jackie and I each drank more of the Rosé and Rouge respectively.

Doreen Barlow’s Cymbidium Orchids

Bellowing cattle; creaking branches; squawking pheasants, intermittently punctuated the otherwise silent chill of the early morning air carrying cold gusts across the high ground of Braggers Lane as, after a Ferndene Farm shop visit, Jackie parked and

I wandered down the road

focussing on the bucolic landscapes on either side.

A relaxed pheasant was undisturbed by a learner motorcyclist wheeling by.

I aroused the interest of the residents of the pig farm near Ripley when I photographed them,

a sawn tree trunk contributing to the local ecology which had helped to nurture a blackthorn bush opposite.

This afternoon our nephew John visited with his brother-in-law Faizal to collect various items of furniture surplus to our requirements since our new cupboards were fitted.

Later today I received a comment from Lin Craig who had found and bought in Chichester one of Jackie’s Aunt Doreen’s paintings. My correspondent, who had found her name on my blog, sought confirmation that Doreen was the artist. I was able to provide this by sending a link to one of ours.

This evening we repeated last night’s meal with which I drank more of the Douro.

From Wilverley Plain To Rhinefield Road

After a morning’s further catching up with ourselves and reminiscing, Becky and Flo spent much of the day registering for NHS and banking services; shopping; and various other administrative matters.

This afternoon Jackie drove me into the forest.

I wandered among ponies on Wilverley Plain, where a group of potential surfers failed to keep a kite in the air.

Outside Brockenhurst Jackie parked at the corner of Forest Park Road while I wandered among ponies in the woodland alongside, which was littered with

timber from broken trees in various stages of decomposition littering forest floor.

When we prepared to move on a number of the ponies crossed the road to disrupt the traffic and to impede our departure.

Our last stop was the Blackwater Car Park, from which I wandered among the woodland and photographed rippling reflections on the stream flowing under the bridge.

This evening we dined on second helpings of yesterday’s sausages in red wine with fresh vegetables; Jackie and I drank the same beverages as last night; Flo drank fruit juice; Becky abstained.

To The End Of The Day

Before lunch I sent an e-mail scan of the resubmitted probate form to the relevant Government Department; afterwards I posted the form and a covering letter in snail mail.

From Everton Post Office we took a forest drive.

The landscape with horses in rugs alongside Barrows Lane was nicely lit by the late afternoon sun.

The corrugated iron building is in that same lane; the farmhouse and wonky outbuilding in Mead End Road.

Jesus beams burst from lowering clouds onto the tree lines along Burley Road.

A group of donkeys outside Brockenhurst, chomping on thorny shrubs near where Jack parked the Modus gradually transferred from one side of the entrance drive to the other to try their luck from our vehicle, especially as I had disembarked to photograph them and