mare’s tails

Eternal Spring

After lunch I progressed enough with ‘Martin Chuzzlewit’ to feature another handful of Charles Keeping’s splendid illustrations to Charles Dickens’s novel.

In ‘The sky was black and cloudy, and it rained hard’, Dickens has used the weather as a symbol of the mood he wishes to create. The artist has reflected this in the vertical slashes across the scene involving horses hanging their dripping heads. There is neither steam emanating from their droppings, nor smoke from the driver’s pipe.

‘Martin drew back involuntarily, for he knew the voice at once’

‘He not only looked at her lips, but kissed them into the bargain’

‘Onward she comes, in gallant combat with the elements’

In ‘They walked along a busy street, bounded by a long row of staring red-brick storehouses’, Keeping displays his skill at depicting a packed street scene with gradually diminishing perspective.

On this warm and sunny afternoon we found ourselves on a drive outside

St Mary the Virgin Church at South Baddesley, photographed by Jackie, who from

her vantage point on the carved oak bench, also focussed on

mares’ tails, Celandine, and cows crunching hay opposite.

I wandered around the graveyard reflecting that the scenes reflected an eternal spring for those buried here.

Most poignant was this angel and child sculpture.

The crochet-embellished post box on Pilley Hill now sports an Easter Bunny. Nearby a sunflower embraces a post, and bluebells sweep down a bank.

For dinner we enjoyed more of Jackie’s wholesome chicken and vegetable stewp, accompanied by bacon butties, with which she drank sparkling water and I finished the Red Blend.

Starting Handles

On this brighter, balmy, day, the returning sunshine was welcomed by all; by me; by Roger’s newly sown fields; by ferns and mare’s tails on the bank of the stream; by basking cattle huddled behind the corner cottage; by a young man, with the customary electronic device, waiting for a bus; by slithering slugs and by creeping caterpillars on the footpath; and by one solitary wave watcher seated on the shingle.

These are the steps Bob runs up and down.

On my return, whist Jackie continued her autumn tidying, I began the daunting task of digging out the more stubborn roots of bramble and ivy from the back drive. Bolt cutters were required for the removal of more of our predecessor’s metal mesh.

As you can see, I didn’t get very far.

Margery and Paul visited us this afternoon, and we enjoyed our usual wide-ranging conversations. Thinking of how times have changed over the last century, we embarked on the subject of early motoring. We travelled back to 1919 when Jackie’s grandfather acquired his first car, and never had to take a test. He would regularly drive himself from Anerley to Brighton when hardly another vehicle was to be seen on the road. She remembered her Dad cranking up a starting handle to get the car going, and jump into the car hoping the engine would continue running. The dog-legged shaped metal crank was shoved through a hole in front of the motor where its own female end engaged with a male one attached to the starting mechanism. This handle for the Morris Minor most resembles one I remember using to help my Dad get moving. You had to be quite vigorous in your cranking, and hope the equipment didn’t suddenly whizz round and break your wrist.

Later, Jackie and I watched, on BBC iPlayer, episode 2 of the 11th series of New Tricks. It was in the 9th series of 2012 – the last one I watched – that the skilful and watchable Denis Lawson replaced James Bolam as one of the old dogs, (who, according to proverb, cannot be taught new tricks), namely a trio of retired policemen under the management of a female officer played originally by Amanda Redman. Their task is to reopen investigations into unsolved crimes.

As with a number of successful TV series over the years, this comedy-drama began as a one-off – on 27th March 2003. Of the original cast only the everlasting Dennis Waterman remains. Redman has been replaced by Tamzin Outhwaite; and Alun Armstrong by Nicholas Lyndhurst.

Having found the rapport between the original cast members very entertaining, I will need to reserve judgement on the current team. One of the secrets of success of such productions is the chemistry between the actors. In my view this is a little lacking at the moment, but it is worth persevering with.

The supporting cast played their parts well.

Our evening meal consisted of Jackie’s classic sausage casserole (recipe), smooth mashed potato, and crisp carrots and peas, followed by jam sponge and custard. She drank Hoegaarden, whilst I enjoyed Isla Negra Cabernet Sauvignon 2013.

A Rose For Retirement

Early this morning Jackie resumed a task she had first undertaken more than forty years ago. She cut my hair, thus putting Donna-Marie out of business. Its colour was rather different first time round. The dark bit must be a trick of the light.
After this I placed the beach stones between the slabs in yesterday’s path. There were still not quite enough, and they put those found in the garden somewhat into the shade, so we will probably need a few more, even after I picked up some interesting pieces of flint on my later walk, and inserted them in place on my return.
During a break, Jackie has managed to identify two of the plants that had us beaten. The first is the white flower, libertia, depicted on 28th April; the second had been identified by Tess, but we couldn’t remember the name of the hebe salicifolia koromiko. Like our daughter in law, and so many of our garden treasures, these are both natives of New Zealand.
The day’s major joint task was to start on clearing the kitchen garden in preparation for its transformation into a rose bower. Largely hidden beneath the greenery lie treacherously uneven criss-crossing paths in all sorts of material, mostly brick, stone, and concrete, covering ancient layers of gravel. Any speculation about the evolution of this ankle-twisting surface would be fruitless. This, we have decided, will be the one area where we abandon what we find previously laid down, level it all off, and start from scratch with a sheet of squared paper.
I have begun piling up the paving, apart from the concrete slabs Jackie has snaffled to build a wall with which to restrain the compost.
Jackie has planted up what was the rather barren shady bed opposite the pale blue Ace Reclaim bench. The red rose in the container beneath the Gardman arch was given to her by her work colleagues when she retired from Merton Social Services Department two years ago. It has survived several moves, including overwintering at Shelly and Ron’s.
Later this afternoon, I walked down to Shorefield stream and back. The field opposite the entrance to the Country Park has a fine crop of mare’s tails. The New Forest Tour bus stops at the zebra crossing leading down to the chalets beyond the stream.
I had been hoping to photograph some coots today, but there were none in evidence. I did, however, watch a pigeon doing a high-wire act, and a male small tortoiseshell butterfly sunning itself on a buddleia. Our butterflies, like this male Red Admiral prefer basking on our paving stones to perching on our version of that plant.
We dined on refreshing salad again this evening, followed by strawberries and evap (for the uninitiated this is a family term for evaporated milk) on a bed of Tesco’s raspberry twirl cheesecake. The cheesecake was reduced in price because it was pushing its sell-by date; the evap was reduced in fat content, because it is less likely to fatten the consumer. I drank more of the French cotes du Rhone and Jackie her Belgian beer (Hoegaarden in case you’ve forgotten).

The Pizza

10th July 2014
Yesterday evening I finished reading Cicero’s Orations. The two final pieces are not forensic. The first, ‘Pro Marcello’, is a panegyric, and the second ‘Phillipics II’ an invective. Marcellus is not really the subject of For Marcellus. It is a document of forthright praise for Caesar, whose generosity in pardoning one of his most implacable enemies had astounded and delighted the writer. The far more lengthy tirade, Phillipics II, astounds this reader. In his response to Mark Antony’s verbal attack on him in the senate, Cicero pulls no punches. His language is florid, accusatory, insulting, and unequivocal. If ever there was an character assassination speech, this is it. In my view, it was also suicidal. He closes by stating that he welcomes death if it makes the state more secure. It did bring about his brutal murder.
This morning I walked up the D17 to the lofty village of Pomport, and back down the narrow, steep, winding, road that passes Chateau La Gironie and links back to the major route in the refurbished leisure centre now termed ‘Pomport Beach’. Given that this complex is, I believe, further from the sea than is anywhere in England, that would seem to be a rather misleading name, especially as it is posted in English. When I arrived in Sigoules, late in 2008, the financial crash had just hit the world. This burgeoning French village did not escape the consequences. A number of local developments ground to a halt. One of these was the Pomport leisure centre which has only this year seen what looks like completion.
Wild sweet peas illuminated the verges, as did cornflowers the fields. I even encountered a sweep of mare’s tails.Vines were being sprayed by a purpose-built vehicle that moved between them quite quickly.
The only pedestrian I met was a woman pegging out her washing. There were, however, a number of cars on the D17, one of which, for a second time, was driven by Lydie, who stopped and greeted me as warmly as ever.
Having begun it yesterday evening, I finished Michel Benoit’s novel ‘The Thirteenth Apostle’. This was a captivating and thoroughly researched historical thriller telling of the murder of a monk who ‘possessed proof of the existence of a thirteenth apostle and an epistle stating that Jesus was….and inspired prophet, not the Son of God’, and another who, under grave threat, conducts his own investigation. The Vatican, Mossad, and Fatah all wish to keep this secret, and will stop at nothing to prevent its exposure. It is well written enough for me to have read 360 pages in two sessions. I was reminded of the difference between the religious reactions to this imaginary novel and that of Salman Rushdie’s ‘Satanic Verses’ which earned him a Fatwa.
As I closed the book, Saufiene and his wife Carole arrived to collect me for dinner at their home in Saint Medard de Mussidan. This was the day before their daughter Eya’s birthday, and was a family affair. Other daughters Cleya and Xena, son Geoffrey, nephew Johannathan, and Jerome, were all present. It was good to meet Geoffrey again after a couple of years, and to spend the evening with a likeable and convivial French family. We managed pretty well with Franglais, and found this blog a useful medium for introducing photographs of my family, home, and garden.
Saufiene prepared an excellent Tunisian meal which was too much for me to eat. I only regret that I did not try the wonderfully piquant salad before I had reached satiation. I enjoyed the meal and the company very much. The host, who drove me back, did not drink alcohol, but I relished a superb Saint Emilion and the others drank rose.
Unfortunately Carole’s pizza was no longer available because it had already been eaten by the neighbourhood cats. Saufiene, who we saw last year can be kind to cats, thinking the pizza was a little old, had jettisoned it in their direction. One white and two grey felines tucked in rapidly, forcibly excluding the black one which gazed plaintively up at the watchers on the second floor balcony, who, with great hilarity, demanded a photograph be taken for my blog.

To Sir, With Love

Just after lunch we drove to Ringwood to shop, then delivered a present for John and Stephanie to Helen and Bill’s at Poulner.

The earring no longer adorns the information board in the car park. I do hope it is now happily reunited with its partner and dangling from one of a pair of beautiful lobes.

After unloading the shopping, we sped across the other side of the forest to Milford on Sea, there to investigate Agarton Lane, on the outskirts, where there is a house for sale.

The cottage is down a very narrow lane with fields all around, across one of which, virtually next door, trooped what, from a distance, looked like a group of grouse. The other neighbour seemed to be Woodlands which was staked out, it seemed, for building one house in the centre of a very large plot.

Although the garden of the subject cottage appears free of them, the whole area is infested with mare’s tails. A stream runs across the road adjacent to the building.

Having given ourselves food for thought we continued to the coastline at Milford, finding that we had approached Hurst Pond Nature Reserve from the other side to the one we had investigated on 3rd July. I became quite excited when I saw a heron stalking fish in the water, really quite close by. Jackie stopped the car. I got out. She revved up the engine to move on to a parking spot. My prey flew off in search of a safer spot to seek his. Noticing his landing point, I decided to stalk him. He chose to camouflage himself by imitating reed stalks. It’s a good thing this wasn’t a stork, otherwise my wordplay may have got a little out of hand.

Along the causeway we had traversed in July, fisher folk could be seen carrying home their gear after the day’s work.

Jackie has never cooked risotto before, but she decided to give it a try this evening. Her mushroom version was superb. She will definitely do it again. After all, it is different from biriani simply in the type of rice used in order to provide the glutinous effect which is required. I don’t think there is a great deal of difference in the method, or, for that matter, in the Persian inspired pilau, at which she is most proficient. Jackie’s choice of ice cream to follow was strawberry. Mine was rum and raisin.

Given that we were eating risotto, I sought out a wine from our IKEA wine rack that sits in the bathroom cupboard, that I thought would do it justice. I had the exquisite taste to hit upon a superb Sicilian offering from Fiorile, a Nero d’Avola Syrah of 2010. In truth, I had never heard of it, but it had been given to me by the Head of Geography at Chichester Cathedral’s Prebendal School. This is Ian Steele who we are welcoming into our family. Ian had been given this present by a satisfied parent at the end of the last school year. Knowing I was more likely to appreciate it, he had given it a good home. What better pedigree, I thought, for a wine, than that it has been purchased by such a donor. So I very much enjoyed it this evening. Thank you, Ian, and the anonymous giver.

This bottle provided the inspiration for today’s title, for which I am indebted to E.R.Braithwaite’s semi-autobigraphical novel dealing with social and racial issues in an inner city school. There have been several dramatisations of this ever-topical tale, the most famous possibly being the 1967 film starring Sidney Poitier, the title song of which propelled Lulu to No. 1 in the US charts. Lulu, incidentally smiles across at Sam from the opposite wall of the Akash in Edgware Road.

Poon after I have pent this sopt, I will have brunk the hole dottle. (The computer’s spellcheck wnet breseckr at this)

On the train yesterday, with Kenneth O. Morgan’s ‘The Twentieth Century’, I finished reading ‘The Oxford Illustrated History of Britain’ in the 1992 edition. Ten university historians have each contributed a section in their particular field, from Roman times to 1991. Written for the layperson it does neverless assume a certain amount of prior knowledge, the lack of which caused me to make some assumptions. It is an excellent overview of 2,000 years of history, well written, and lavishly illustrated. Each separate piece flows into the next, quite seamlessly. It provided interesting revision for periods I know a bit about, and was informative about those I didn’t.

I must confess to having been relieved at getting to the end. Not because the reading wasn’t pleasing, but because it will considerably lighten my bag on my train trips. It is quite a big book, but its size was not the reason for its weight. The illustrations are interspersed with the text. This requires a heavy glossy paper throughout. I much prefer it this way. The alternative is to cluster the illustrations at two or three arbitrary places, so you are often perusing pictures the subject of which you have not yet encountered.

As we progressed through the second millennium the illustrations changed in nature and subject. Photographs of artefacts provided most of the early ones. With the advent of the possibility of using a contemporary camera, people and events came into focus. Written records enabled the writers to go further than when facilitated mostly by archeological finds. From the eighteenth century onwards there was less of an emphasis on royalty and more on the politics of the people. Given its publication date it was rather salutory to see the first fifty years of my life confined to history.

I enjoyed the book. It was another that I had inherited from my late friend Ann.

A trip to Corfe Castle in Dorset continued the historical theme. Certainly in situ during the time of King William I, it was said to be the scene of the assassination of King Edward in 978. Described in the twelfth century as the most secure castle in England, it remained impregnable until, during the Civil War, Lady Bankes’s stout resistance to the Roundhead siege was ended by the treachery of one of her own soldiers who admitted Cromwell’s men during the night. It was then blown up by Captain Hughes’s sappers in 1646, leaving us with a dramatic skyline on a natural mound the outer perimeter of which has been eroded by the action of two rivers. From the National Trust car park Jackie andI followed a path along the site of the moat tracked by the Corfe River. Through gaps in the trees we could see the impressive remains that had survived the explosion. Pieces of ‘tumble’, as were termed those stones falling down the hill, mingled with the residue still standing.

Inside the castle, through the entrance and across the access bridge, we could see the remains of walls sprouting valerian and accommodating dog roses. Jackdaws trotted about the ramparts, and buzzards circled overhead. Just past the gateway sat a pair of stocks. I managed to climb most of the way to the top of the keep, which was scary. There was an observation platform from which people looked down over the valley and the sloping sides of the mound. Although I did unwittingly actually reach the same level as that, I chickened out of turning the corner that would have led me to it. Jackie, who had done this trip with her sisters at the weekend, had the good sense to sit on a bench and await my descent.

Venturing to look over almost any wall gave one a good, vertiginous, view of whatever lay beneath.

Having had our fill of the ruins we wandered into the picturesque stone village of Corfe which is dominated by its castle.

On the way home we took a diversion to Sway Road in Brockenhurst to look at the outside of a railway cottage we had seen on the internet. The house and its neighbour shared a small private track accessed by a cattle grid. This should have led us to expect the banks to be completely devoid of mares’ tails. We were to be disappointed. There was a widespread proliferation of the botanical version. These are invasive deep-rooted weeds with fast growing underground stems that may penetrate as deep as 7 ft, and have been doing so since the time of the dinosaurs. This pernicious plant is extremely difficult to eradicate. Ground elder, which took me sixteen years to banish from Lindum House, is a pussy cat in comparison.

After this investigation, we drove straight through Sway and carefully entered the car park of The Plough at Tiptoe, where we had wonderful meals. Mine was a mixed grill cooked to perfection, with the steak medium rare as I had asked for, so large as to make it impossible for me to contemplate a sweet, and to earn me the admiration of the barmaid for actually finishing it. Jackie was equally impressed with her ham and mushroom tagliatelli and the creme brûlée she did manage to eat. She drank Becks and I drank Doom Bar.

Our last diversion was to Barton on Sea where we had a look at The Wilderness, another house from the internet. This was in a secluded position near Barton Common, but has been sold subject to contract.