Martin Cafe – derrickjknight

The Garden Room

Jackie and I took a trip out to the New Forest this morning, winding up at the delightful village of Minstead. Many picturesque houses have thatched roofs; there is a pub called The Trusty Servant, which features in the Good Pub Guide; and it boasts a village shop. In the very heart of the forest it looked particularly beguiling this morning in the clear autumn light. A herd of deer had gathered near the roadside, and wild ponies turned up around every corner.

We had to cut this outing short because I had left half Mum’s albums in Morden yesterday. We therefore had to drive back up there to collect them. The journey was comparatively quick and we celebrated by lunching at Martin Cafe (see post of 14th. May). I spoiled myself with the chips option, whereas Jackie feasted on a vast baked potato overflowing with baked beans served with a plentiful fresh salad. By the time I had decided to display my meal to the world, I had made inroads into the chips and mushrooms.

On our return, just keeping ahead of the storm generated by hurricane Nadine, we had a coffee before beginning to turn the vine house into a garden room for tomorrow’s memorable event. The storm broke as we were trimming the vines, giving us a musical background of rain spattering on the glass. Trimming vines makes your hands very sticky and consequently it is most awkward trying to fish your mobile phone out of your pocket without messing up your jacket. Picking the last of the grapes we took off all the old stems from the rather ancient vine, brought in a few chairs, and swept the place up. Jackie brought the blue painted table in from the garden.

Jacqueline joined us this evening for a meal of Elizabeth’s spaghetti Bolognese. Elizabeth and I drank Roc des Chevaliers.

Self-seeded Poppies

Although it brightened up a bit later, this morning was dull, heavy and overcast; almost as if it hadn’t slept well. I took a turn round Morden Hall Park then decided to go in search of a tortoise around the Hillcross Avenue area. (see yesterday’s post), and reward myself with a Martin Cafe fry-up. I didn’t find Brendan, but the breakfast was as good as ever.

On the way to the park I saw a man pick up a fallen branch from the street and stick it in the shrubbery in the garden of a woman who, although working on her beds, had not seen this happening. I extracted the branch and, as she was looking at me rather strangely, thought I’d better explain what was going on. We then got talking about gardening. She was an elderly woman suffering from asthma and was unable to get out into her small plot as much as she’d like. Her children kept trying to persuade her to get a gardener, but she was determined to do it herself. She was interested to learn about our activities in The Firs. Pointing out her California poppies, of which she was clearly proud, she said they were all self-seeded. When I asked her if I could photograph them she looked at me with an even more puzzled expression but had no objection. The Icelandic poppies in the picture above were growing on a path between two houses in Hillcross Avenue.

The park itself was quite quiet this morning, although the meadows were peppered with junior schoolchildren on a field trip.

This afternoon was spent writing clues for The Independent Crossword.

A liver casserole Jackie made earlier (some months earlier) provided our evening sustenance. Hardy’s of Australia produced the 2011 Shiraz/Cabernet to accompany mine, whilst Jackie drank her customary Hoegaarden Blanche.

The Bees

The magpies were cranking up a sound this morning. This time it was the presence of a cat that alarmed them.

After an enjoyable visit from my friend Dominic I set off for Raynes Park via Wimbledon and back. In Mostyn Road I overheard two gentlemen taking their leave of each other. In response to one person’s goodbye his companion said ‘now you take care’. Now this is a farewell that really puzzles me. Quite common these days, it seems to imply that if you don’t do what it says something unpleasant will happen to you. Whilst anyone would be advised to take normal sensible precautions, for example when crossing the road, am I really alone or indeed most fortunate in getting up in the morning imagining all will be well? This despite what follows.

My chosen route today was along Worple Road where the trolley buses once ran. As I walked past the various hill roads leading up to The Ridgeway and consequently Wimbledon Common, I felt reminiscence coming on. Sometime around 1950 when Chris and I were still at primary school, if you were prepared to walk home, you could spend your bus fare on a bag of broken biscuits from the old style family grocer in The Broadway, or, in season, a pomegranate from a fruit and veg stall in Russell Road.

You ate the pomegranate seeds with a pin carried for the purpose. If you wanted an ice cream from De Marco’s alongside the stall that meant walking home two days in a row and managing not to spend the first day’s fare on the first day. One day Chris and I for some reason whilst walking home decided to investigate Spencer Hill.

Some way up the hill, in someone’s garden, was a tree with an inviting hollow area at the top of the trunk. I decided to climb up to it and have a look. Chris followed. As I entered the bowl shape in the bole I heard a rather angry buzzing sound. In an instant I was covered in bees. I’d like to say I was out of there like a shot. Unfortunately Chris was bringing up the rear and seemed to have some difficulty in understanding either ‘bees’ or ‘get down’ or all of it. He didn’t seem to grasp that he was in my way. I yelled incessantly until Chris twigged and leapt from the bottom branch. I was then out of Spencer Hill and onto a bus like a shot. Having, of course, spent my fare I had no money. I’m not quite sure what happened about that, but I do remember the concern of the bus conductor for this snivelling wreck with his head in a swarm of bees occupying the first seat on his vehicle. (click for what did happen, now I’ve remembered) Chris must have made his own way home, but I was no caring elder brother at that point.

To this day I remember sitting on a stool with Mum picking bee stings and the dead creatures out of my head. I can still see them crawling dazedly inside my fairisle jumper. If ever I lose my hair and there are pitted marks in the scalp I bet they’ll be from those bees.

Walking along Worple Road on this very hot day I was struck by a heavily pregnant young Asian woman, her right hand resting comfortingly on her bulge. She didn’t hit me, I just mean I noticed her. Having passed her I stopped and waited and told her that I had been born in July and that summer was a good time to be born. She looked as if it wasn’t a good time to be carrying so I thought I would give her some encouragement. She beamed, thanked me, and said that she too had been born in July.

Naturally, after an hour and a half, I felt I had earned a Martin Cafe fry-up, so I stopped for one. On the wall is a large, rather special, framed print which I felt sure I recognised. I spoke to the younger of the two men (I imagine father and son) who seem to run the establishment. In answer to my question he was able to reply that yes, it was Venice. It did not, however, have a family connection. He had bought it from the junk shop next door because he had liked it but didn’t know its provenance. I was, therefore, rather pleased to be able to tell him it was from one of John Ruskin’s marvellous illustrations to his seminal work ‘The Stones of Venice’.

Hoping he would retain the information and find it as interesting as I had, I walked back to Links Avenue contemplating the increasing humidity and the telltale little heaps of sand appearing from the joins in the paving stones which herald the onset of flying ants. We are promised a thunderstorm.

My main time for listening to music is when I am ironing. Today, whilst listening to Tchaikovsky’ symphony no. 2 (Little Russian), played by the Bournemouth Symphony Orchestra conducted by Kirill Karabits, I pressed, among other things, a beautifully embroidered lace trimmed linen tablecloth and napkins, thinking of the life of the woman who had made them.

She photographed this, her favourite example, on 8th March, 2023, in order for me to add their amendment to this post.

Here she has picked out cutwork,

tattling,

and broderie anglaise.

Jackie has a collection of this wonderfully intricate needlework given to her by various clients during her time as a Home Help some forty years ago. Many of these people were elderly women who had lost their men in the first world war. A generation of young fiances, husbands and fathers wiped out with no possible replacements. These women, many still wearing engagement but no wedding rings, lived their lives alone, some of their handiwork never leaving their bottom drawers. They were the true casualties of that first time the world went mad.

We had salad again this evening, using as always, a tablecloth and napkins possibly 100 years old. I had a bottle of Wells’ Bombardier beer, no doubt named after Billy, the famous boxer. He was before Errol’s time, but I was fortunate enough to know this grand old gentleman in his later years.

The Martin Café

The cold, wet and windy weather is back. Children’s recreation grounds on my walk to Raynes Park and back were deserted. Silence rained where yesterday had resounded the cries of happy youngsters. Even the birdsong was subdued.

My pit stop on this route was, as usual, the Martin Café. I would like to explain why I consider it one of, if not the, best in London. And, especially during ten years of road running, I became somewhat of a conoisseur of such establishments. First of all it is frequented by builders (and at least one man who walks from Merton Civic centre shunning the myriad of eating places in Morden itself). Builders and (in inner London taxi drivers) are a sure sign of good food, reasonable prices, and large helpings.

The Martin has it all. I can only eat their breakfasts after a good hour’s walk, and I am no longer rash enough to take the chips option. I stick to the three rashers, two eggs, large sausages, and loads of whatever else comes with my choice of their 10 breakfast options. There is never a trace of grease or fat on the enormous oval plates. The bread is fresh, crusty, and what we used to call doorsteps.

So, if you want a good meal come down to the Martin in Martin Way, but take lots of exercise or starve yourself first.

This evening we had more of Jackie’s delicious beef stew and I finished the wine.

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.