Tag: Lowther Castle

Rissoles

Jackie’s contribution to Shelly’s sixtieth birthday party catering this evening was a couple of platters of salad.  This meant a late morning trip to Ringwood to buy the disposable plates and the more pleasantly disposable ingredients for the meal. And when in Ringwood at lunchtime it is now obligatory to visit the Bistro Aroma.

We did so.  Jackie had up-market ham egg and chips, known as ‘gammon delight’, and coffee.  My choice was faggots and tea.  Although I don’t normally like tea, for most of my life I have drunk that beverage when in a cafe.  This is because, until comparatively recently cafe coffee was always infinitely inferior to working men’s tea.  In my youth there were no coffee machines and you were usually served milk-in-first instant granules if you didn’t take tea.  Cafes do mostly serve good coffee now,  but you can’t guarantee it, and anyway, old habits die hard.

Faggots-and-gravy[1]

Mum’s rissoles are the reason for my choice of faggots.  These latter, mostly a Northern and Welsh delicacy, had not passed my lips before, but I thought they would be like our childhood post-weekend feast.  They were, albeit rather softer in texture and somewhat lacking in the other Sunday roast left-overs that we may have found in our rissoles.

Meat_rissoles._Easy_as_1-2-3_(2179666929)[1]

It is some years since we enjoyed Mum’s minced meat and onions treat, so I have downloaded this image from the internet.  I am sure Mum’s were much more succulent.

Argentine economics of the 1950s changed British eating habits forever.  My boyhood understanding of my mother’s explanation was that an outbreak of foot and mouth disease had reduced both supply of beef and willingness of importers to receive what there was.  No doubt there were other, subsequent, factors.  This put up the price, making it unaffordable for such as us.  Until then chicken was the expensive meat, generally reserved as a Christmas speciality.  This decade, however, saw the rise of the now frowned upon battery chicken farms.  Beef became expensive and chicken cheap.

When I and the next two offspring were still young, Mum had, every Monday, used a hand mincer to grind up the left-over previous day’s joint, and make such as cottage or shepherd’s pie, depending on whether we had partaken of beef or lamb.  You can’t really do that with fowl.

Only once did I ever visit chickens in their long rows of cages piled on top of each other.  This was in Hugh Lowther’s farm in Cumbria’s roofless Lowther Castle (click here for post of 23rd November last year).  The stench made one retch from a long way off.  It is a relief to my conscience that we are back to free-range chickens.

I have Becky to thank for now being clever enough to be able to link readers to previous posts.  She and Ian paid us a visit, having been to view a flat in Emsworth. One of my most staunch blog followers, Becky has always been determined enough to track back to earlier posts through the laborious method.  Today, she showed me the trick. Becky's instructions And wrote it down.  Which was the most important bit.  To have one’s daughter say: ‘What have you just done?’, indicating that whatever it was it wasn’t a good idea, is a most enlightening experience.

Jackie and I joined Shelly’s party for a couple of hours.  It was an enjoyable event and we were sorry have to leave early.  An excellent band and barbecue were provided, as were free drinks at the bar for the first hour.  Many friends and relatives joined in the festivity.  After a while the dancing began.

Teacups

Teacup Chihuahuas 11.12Today we took a drive to Bournemouth; Jackie to wander around the town and me to walk along the coast; then both of us to meet at Harry Ramsden’s.

A colourful hot air balloon hovered over the hotel buildings.  Readers of yesterday’s post will not be surprised that I did not fancy myself in the gondola.  They may, however, be surprised at the tale of Hugh Lowther’s microlite.  I was.  Sometime in the 1990s we stayed with Ali and Steve and James in one of Hugh’s cottages in Cumbria.  Hugh, the husband of Jessica’s cousin Angie, was a microlite fanatic.  A microlite is a very flimsy looking flying machine designed for two people.  Hugh would study his route, fill up with fuel, and set off, like Baron Munchausen, in the direction of the moon, reappearing some hours later.  He was quite keen that we should all have a trip.  As  I watched each member of the family in turn strap themselves in to their seat, tune in their walkie talkie radio, and glide into the firmament, I determined that no way was I going to do the same.  Eventually, of course, I was the only person who hadn’t been up.  So I had to.  I didn’t want to be thought of as chicken.  After all, I had seen, and smelt from a great distance the battery chicken farm in Lowther Castle.  Lowther Castle had, many years before, lost its roof, as a not uncommon measure to avoid paying a roof tax; it had post-1960, been converted to the rearing of battery hens.

You will have to excuse that little diversion.  I didn’t really want to be reminded of my turn in the air.  Hugh’s flying machine, in which he did become a remarkable man, was of the type in which the passenger sits above and behind the pilot.  There is therefore nothing above the victim but the propeller system.  In my case, I didn’t even have the shoulder strap, because it wasn’t long enough for me and had to be secured around my waist.  I still have difficulty believing I actually did this.  Then came the surprise.  Communicating with Hugh by means of the portable radio kit, I had the sense that this rather unusual man was in complete control of his element, which made me feel safe.  It is still not an experience I would wish to repeat, but the only slightly queasy moment I remember was when he directed me to look down onto the miniature cattle below.  Actually it was rather more than slight queasiness, but subsided somewhat once I refocussed on the top of my driver’s head.

Today I walked the length of the pier and spent some time watching surfers playing with the incoming waves.  Several young men in tight wetsuits would stand waist-high in the sea waiting for a suitable wave to approach, set their board on it, sometimes, turning their backs, gliding along it; sometimes head-on, falling into it; always afterwards shaking themselves down like the dogs on the beach; then doing it all again.

After this I walked along the promenade as far as Middle Chine up which I walked, meeting Pip and his owner.  Pip was a Chihuahua dog trotting beside a gentleman in a motorised buggie.  As we stopped to chat I realised he had what I assumed to be a puppy, like Dobby, peering out of his handlebar basket.  Further investigation revealed another inside his coat.  Pip, it transpired, was the youngest.  What I thought were babies, the man informed me, were Teacups.  Teacup Chihuahuas, an even more minature breed.

From the top of the chine I walked down West Overcliff Drive, left along Cherry Tree Walk to the cliff top gravel path from which I descended by steps back to the shore, passing rows of closed up beach huts, back to and past the pier, after a while back-tracking to Harry Ramsden’s where we ate world-famous fish and chips followed by treacle and ginger sponge and custard for me and ice cream for Jackie.