magpies – derrickjknight

Two For Joy

This afternoon we collected repeat prescriptions from the Pharmacy at Milford on Sea.

The Needles and their lighthouse had transmogrified into a red-eyed sea monster.

As equally calm as the Solent was the surface of Hatchet Pond with its skimming waterfowl and shimmering landscape.

While a photographer peered into the sun a friendly gull stood guard on a disabled parking space.

This was useful because the waters of the lake had encroached on the overspill car park, and partially iced over providing looking glasses for the surrounding trees.

A pair of magpies – two for joy – and a nippy little wagtail foraged on the banks.

One chestnut pony at East Boldre cropped the verge while another mowed the lawn beside a stretch of winterbourne water.

Today’s sign of post-operative progress was being able to dine at the table where Jackie served a sweetly savoury sausage casserole containing pork chipolatas and larger varieties with caramelised onion. Also on the menu was creamy swede and potato mash; crunchy carrots and cauliflower; and curly kale.

Leaf Compost

The cranking clatter of marauding magpies heard as I walked down Downton Lane on my Hordle Cliff top walk this murky morning, was to give way to that of a mechanical digger in Shorefield on my return. The latter, which was breaking up the concrete bases of the demolished chalets, could be heard from the beach.
Perched atop his ladder in the lane was an Openreach engineer whose van advertised Superfast Fibre. Perhaps others who have been sold this particular broadband are more fortunate than we are. This has been the fifth working day since BT informed us that it would take that long for us to be returned to our old copper broadband. We have heard no more.
Blackberry leaves at the cliff top and the seed cases of an unidentified shrub on the way up to Shorefield glowed brightly. It looks as if the seeds are relished by the birds. Does anyone recognise them?
The stream photographed late yesterday afternoon runs beneath Downton Lane and emerges near Bridge Cottage.
Perhaps because they were neither shrouded in mist, nor burnt out or silhouetted by strong sunshine, the South West side of the Isle of Wight and The Needles were as clear as I have ever seen them. As I prepared to take this shot, the woman in the red coat disappeared from view, so I awaited her return. I then had a lengthy and wide-ranging conversation with the couple, while a cold wind blustered.
It has been my aim to build a row of compost bins similar to those I made at The Firs two years ago. I haven’t yet managed that, but leaves need to be treated rather differently than general plant matter, for they produce a more beneficial soil conditioner and therefore should be kept separately. In order to aid their decomposition they should have air circulating. A plastic mesh frame found in the former kitchen garden provided the perfect receptacle, which, in fading light, I set up at the garden end of the back drive this afternoon, then made a rather desultory start to filling it from piles Jackie has been sweeping up over past weeks. The whirling wind gave me an acceptable excuse for deferring sweeping up any more today. I rather think we will need more of these containers.
Like most of their products, Lidl’s Bordeaux Superieur 2011 that I drank with my dinner this evening is surprisingly good. There is a twist to this particular bottle because Mo and John brought it back from Lidl in France, whereas we have bought similar in New Milton. Jackie drank another glass of the Cimarosa and we both enjoyed her succulent roast chicken, crisp roast potatoes and parsnips, and perfect peas, carrots and cauliflower. She says she is getting geared up for Christmas.

A Pair Of Sandals

The magpie wars continue. Not simply in our garden and the adjacent railway embankment, but also on Cannon Hill Common, where I walked today. Parakeets in an oak tree were particularly excited by them. I’ve never seen so many magpies. There are two on the grass and two in a fir tree in the garden as I write. And their warning cry gets on your nerves after a while. It really grates.

Jackie was visiting a care home off Grand Drive, so she drove me to The Paddocks, award winning, Allotments alongside the common. The plots on this site, the paths between them, and the various communal facilities, are all well tended. I would imagine that every variety of fruit, vegetable, and flower, capable of being cultivated in this country may be found there. It would take a day or two thoroughly to explore it.

The lovely morning sunlight dappled the wooded paths in the common itself, and set sparkling the buttercups, clover, and numerous other spring flowers in the well tended meadows. I had to ask a dog-walker for directions to the lake to which, sixty years ago, Chris and I had walked from Raynes Park to collect newts. I don’t recollect any other wildlife on the lake then, but then perhaps I was only interested in newts. The lake is an eighteenth century brick pit which has been filled in. Renovated in 2007 it now supports, and sports, a wide variety of wild life. It is not just parakeets that are newcomers to Cannon Hill Common since 1950. There are mallards, coots, cormorants, and many other waterfowl and birds feeding on the pond life; the lake has been stocked with dace, carp and other fish; there are frogs, and, of course, newts; and bats come seeking insects, perhaps the dragonflies that are in evidence. I would speculate that the newts are descendents of those Chris and I did not catch. Yellow irises and other water-loving plants were in bloom. Beams of sunlight caught a myriad of insects.

Walking back to Links Avenue, it being earlier than usual, I was able to walk past The Martin Cafe without entering. A rare occurence.

This afternoon in Lidl I got my come-uppance for yesterday’s comments about ‘take care’. Not noticing a wet patch on the polished floor of the store I slipped on it, slid across the aisle, and bashed my forearm on a metal rack. C’est la vie.

I had bought the sandals I was wearing, and in which I had just retrodden a childhood path, in Barbados in 2004. I had walked around the island in them, so much so that I became known as ‘the white man who walks’. The local people thought this a sign of not being quite right in the head. One morning I walked the ten miles from our hotel to Bridgetown along what passed for a main road. Whenever I checked directions I was told I should be on a bus. Not that there appeared to be any bus stops. If you wanted one you leapt into the road and gesticulated. It may have been marginally safer to have been riding on one of these ramshackle vehicles which went careering along the winding roads than to have spent my time jumping into bushes to avoid them. I am not sure. If there was a speed limit no-one adhered to it. Actually I did ride back and the journey was remarkably comfortable. Unfortunately I had wasted valuable time standing in the wrong queue. A certain amount of local knowledge was required to station oneself correctly.

Along these roads people lived in chattel houses. These are portable homes, stout, and some very old. Although people didn’t seem to worry about outside maintenance, the insides looked spotless and the adults and schoolchildren who emerged from them were beautifully turned out; womens’ dresses and children’s uniforms vying with the display of the ubiquitous bougainvillea. This made a long walk which finished in the full heat of the day seem very refreshing. My memory of the juvenile tramp from Raynes Park to Cannon Hill Common was much less so. It was hot, dry, dusty, and to two small boys it seemed a very long way.

This evening we had Jackie’s Bolognese sauce with penne from the freezer. Mine was accompanied by a couple of glasses of Pont St. Jean Minervois 2010, whilst Jackie had a glass of Sancere.

And so to a game or two of Scrabble and bed.

Mrs. Barbe-Baker’s Summer House

Last night and early this morning the only birdsong in the garden was the magpie warning call, a kind of incessant chattering. There certainly are a lot of them about. This morning, however, the mother fox and a cub, basking in the sunshine, were definitely the subject of the warning. Mum was studiously ignoring a magpie making pecking raids on her backside. Or perhaps it was de-fleaing its target. She appeared more interested in me watching from the window. This reminded me of the blackbirds at Lindum House. During magpie season they would dive-bomb the raiders, with about as little effect on them as this one had on the fox. There would be a significant decrease in the other bird population the year of their appearance. The following year, no magpies, and lots more other birds. A clear demonstration of nature’s natural balance in action.

Arriving at Elizabeth’s in West End after a beautiful drive through Surrey and Hampshire we were delighted with the blooming spring garden, showing dividends from all our hard work through the autumn and winter. New beds had been dug; they and older ones had been thoroughly composted; new lawn edges created; major projects like removing a bamboo plantation; and quite a bit of planting. Elizabeth tells us that many of her plants are looking much healthier and more profuse than ever before. It is amazing what composting can achieve. Mind you, the same goes for weeds. The house (The Firs) and garden had once been owned by Richard Barbe-Baker, a local born internationally renowned arboriculturist. One of the beds we have resuscitated lies in the centre of a large concrete ring. This is the remains of a summer house the 12 year old Richard made for his mother one year.

This summer’s tasks are rather less arduous than the last. We just have to weed, finish off a couple of beds, and carry out general maintenance. Rather fortuitous since Elizabeth is the only one getting any younger. The major task today has been retraining a rambling rose up an arch bought at the Bishop’s Waltham Garden Fair three weeks ago. This had clung precariously to the false acacia inside the concrete ring which had been blown down in the bad weather. Actually we are rather chuffed at the result, despite the rose having taken revenge on our flesh.

We were joined this evening by my other sister, Jacqueline, and enjoyed a succulent roast lamb meal prepared by Jackie, accompanied by an excellent Cote du Rhone.

Rubbish

Today’s walk was the Mostyn Road, Kingston Road, Cannon Hill Lane, Martin Way quadrangle. Passing Rutlish School in Watery Lane I remembered Mick Copleston, my boyhood friend who attended the school during the 1950s. A contemporary of his was John Major. In the photograph of the school cricket team which adorned all the newspapers after John Major’s appointment Mick stands next to our former prime minister.

I enjoyed a fry-up at the Martin Cafe.

I bought yet another birthday present details of which must be concealed from a potential reader.

Today being refuse collection day I am going to talk rubbish ( OK. OK. I know, I know…..)

Bin collectors no longer go round to the back of the properties to drag out and empty dustbins. Those days are quite rightly long gone. What we do is leave black plastic bin bags out at the front. This means that the foxes have a field night and the residents and/or unfortunate street cleaners have to pick up the pieces. In the morning therefore gardens and streets are strewn with food packaging and bits of food even foxes and magpies reject.

Merton’s recycling containers are open plastic bins into which everything is placed together – paper, cartons, bottles, etc., etc. If it rains, as it has done continuously throughout this month, everything gets very soggy. It is surprising what the contents of these open bins tell you about the residents. Newspapers and magazines are one indication of interests, politics and taste; bottles can be very revealing; and it is easy to tell whether people cook or eat precooked food.

What is common to almost everyone in Merton, it seems, is a total rejection or ignorance of guidelines about what to recycle and how to present it. Cardboard containers are never flattened; tops are left screwed on drinks containers; nothing is rinsed; slices of pizza, chicken bones, rancid vegetables and suchlike are all left in their containers, most of which are of the wrong material to recycle or so soiled as to be of no use to anybody.

This may seem like a rant. It is merely descriptive.

I am not foolproof either. Each Local Authority has its own requirements, and when in someone else’s home I am often unsure. When living in W2 in Westminster I faithfully bagged up shredded paper for recycling until we got a notice saying it was not required. I don’t suppose confetti is much use either.

As someone who doesn’t know what happens to this stuff after collection I wonder ‘am I wasting my time trying to to my bit’? What does happen to it? How much is actually useful?

Who knows?

This evening we are having Lamb dopiaza from the freezer. Another one I made earlier. The rice is courtesy of the Watch Me leftovers from last night.