Tag: memorial bench

A Visible Contrast

The Needles foghorn beckoned us all the way to the coast at Barton on Sea this morning. All other sounds were muffled by clouds of tiny water droplets known as mist.

We took the route through Angel Lane where Jackie parked the Modus and I photographed

misty scenes

and more visible views of the banks of the ditch.

The silhouettes of the few dog walkers on the clifftop at Barton could not have contrasted more with the many enjoying yesterday afternoon’s sunset.

After visiting the pharmacy at Milford on Sea we progressed to Keyhaven harbour where there was not much to be seen:

Bob Barnes reflected in the first picture, a fisherman, gulls, swans, and a few boats.

Later, I was able to photograph Bob and his reflection once more as we engaged in a socially distanced conversation beside

a memorial bench to Peter and Dorothy Thomas. Our discussion was recorded by Jackie, who also photographed

walkers on the spit, the yacht club, a bird on a wire, and a pair of preening mallards.

Another dog walker approached Pennington Lane as we passed on our way to

Boldre’s Saint John the Baptist Churchyard on Church Lane.

Field horses grazed beneath the graveyard, where, above the soil, a mossy, decomposing stump gradually merged with the soil beneath which humans from days gone by engaged in the same process.

This evening we dined on toothsome roast gammon; golden creamy mashed potatoes; pure white cauliflower; and most moist ratatouille, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank Recital 2018.

Job Done

Because our neighbours are on holiday we were able to make an early start on burning branches and foliage. With the two fires approach we had made considerable progress by lunchtime.
This afternoon, I felt like a change, so Jackie drove me to Milford on Sea in order for me to investigate further the Nature Reserve Trevor had guided me to on the 13th. I had speculated that if I continued along this path instead of rejoining the coast road, it would take me to the woodland walk at the far end of Shorefield Country Park. Wonder of wonders, it did. I must be finding my bearings.
Clifford Charles memorial benchAt the entrance to the footpath stands a memorial bench to Clifford Charles. A single fresh yellow rose tied to this signals that someone still remembers the man.
Footpath alongside streamHouse reflected in lakeThe footpath through this area runs roughly alongside a stream, across which a number of bridges lead to various houses, one group of which surrounds a lake, with a warning of deep water in which they are reflected.
Some of the residences bear solar panels in their roofs. These structures are intended to reduce energy consumption from the national grid, by harvesting that of sunlight. Solar panelsI believe most of Burrowthese are supplied with the aid of a government grant, because the cost of fitting them means that it would take many years for householders to profit from their investment if they paid for them themselves.
I didn’t really see any wild life, although I heard a number of birds. I did wonder, however, what creature might have made a burrow I noticed beside an old tree stump.
Other walkers availed themselves of the footpath, including a couple with what the Red T-shirt on footpathCouple on footpathwoman called a ‘very bouncy’ terrier as she restrained him while I passed and they continued on their way in the opposite direction. Crocosmia were growing at the junction where she had heaved on an outstretched lead whilst her dog tugged on the other end.
RubbishEven in this beautiful, well-maintined spot people dump their rubbish.
Tyre swingAt two points along the stream, makeshift swings have been attached to trees, so that dangling over the water adds a little excitement to a standard childhood pleasure. As I neared Shorefield, I heard two young cyclists speculating about where they were. I was able to tell them, and was rather amused to point out to them a sign, just ahead of them, asking people not to cycle. They were rather nonplussed at this, and, I think, unconvinced by my observation that there was no sign from their direction so they could ignore this one. I do hope they didn’t push their bikes all the way back.
When I returned home by way of Shorefield, I got the fires going again. Having burned almost all the debris, I sat on a metal frame, possibly part of what, on the house inventory had been laughingly called an ‘unassembled greenhouse’, imagining I would clear up the final soggy bits of vegetation that now lined twenty yards or so of the back drive, tomorrow, The head gardener arrived and asked if she should get me a rake. None of the possible polite phrases I might have used to decline the offer seemed particularly appropriate. To be fair, Jackie did bring two rakes, and scraped up her fair share. This all went onto the fires. We then cut and pulled up many of the brambles that still flourished there, and added added those. Just before sunset the job was done.
Dinner was an interesting medley. We enjoyed brisket of beef marinaded in barbecue sauce, baked beans, and bubble and squeak with a fried egg on top. Profiteroles were for dessert. I drank a splendid Castillo San Lorenzo rioja reserva 2008, and Jackie was also impressed with her Franziskaner Weissbier which has apparently been brewed by monks in Munich since 1363. Clearly the secret of longevity.

Resting Places

My chauffeuse was gadding about with her sisters today, so I had to take myself to Lyndhurst for Prof. Lyon-Maris to check on the freezing of my wart.  I could, of course, have booked a cab, but decided to walk the four miles to the surgery via Emery Down in stages.  The first stop was the bench at The Splash.  A comparatively young man came striding across the grass.  This was Kevin, who with his wife Louise I had met briefly on February 20th.  Today they had driven past and recognised me.  We spoke for three quarters of an hour.  At one point we were surrounded by cattle.  A loud bellowing from a cow alerted us to the fact that her calf had approached us.Cattle and cyclists  She was warning either the little one or ourselves to keep off.  A string of passing cyclists caused the mother to turn her head, and the calf wandered off.  Never take your eyes off your child in public for a moment.

Soon after starting the second leg of my journey I came across a bovine kindergarten siesta. Calf kindergarten Figuratively tucked up in their little camp beds, the youngsters, like many of their human counterparts, didn’t much want to sleep.  One of their carers looked as if she could do with the rest.

As I reached the brow of the hill between Emery Down and Lyndhurst, I was grateful to the friends of Norman Sendall who had placed a bench in his memory on the forest verge.  Norman plaqueThat is where I took my second break.  While I was engrossed in my book, a car drew up and came to a standstill alongside me.  Out stepped Berry to offer me a lift home.  I had to explain that I hadn’t reached where I was going yet.

It was a hot and humid day, so it was just as well I arrived with an hour to spare to sit on the weatherbeaten seat beside the Youth Club in a corner of the carpark, and dry out before stripping off for the doctor. Seat outside Youth Club Forget the benches in the High Street.  They were all occupied by dripping ice cream cones clutched by visitors of all ages.

The professor had a third go at freezing the stubborn wart, and, while he held me captive, gave me a pneumonia vaccination.

Lyndhurst was its usual bottleneck, so The Swan at Emery Down, to which I walked to await a taxi, became my final resting place, where I enjoyed a pint of Doom Bar.Pint at The Swan  On seeing me photograph the beverage in context, a young woman asked, incredulously: ‘Are you taking a picture of your pint of beer?’  When I replied in the affirmative, her small daughter asked me: ‘Are you drunk?’.  Feigning incensement, I pointed to the glass and indicated how little I had yet consumed.  The taxi arrived much earlier than anticipated, so I had to down the rest in a hurry.

Before preparing my scrambled eggs on toast garnished with rather soft radishes, I once again admired Jackie’s planting, the like of which had regularly earned her plaudits from Merton In Bloom. Tagetes and snapdragons As I was about to dish up, the head gardener, who I had expected to eat out with her siblings, arrived home and added fish fingers to the menu.

No Dinner

Today having dawned crisp and clear, I circumperambulated Cannon Hill Common, my companions, as in Telegraph Woods yesterday, being magpies and squirrels scuttling about.

In Maycross Avenue a new set of paving was about to replace a front garden. Pavement markings 10.12 The pavement was disturbed and carried a series of markings the like of which I have often seen in cities.  I imagine they are alerting paviours to utility pipes that must be preserved.  The exact colour scheme escapes me.  Perhaps white or blue for water, and red for electricity.  Next time I see the road up I will check.  That won’t be long.

Three, silent, unexcited, and rather beautiful dogs waited in Cannon Hill Lane.  When their proud owner emerged from the Mini-Market he informed me that they were not huskies, but the larger Alaska Malamuts.

I was just in time to see caterers providing ducks with the last crumbs of their breakfast.

Four years after his death, Mr. Marshall’s memorial bench bore its usual vase of fresh flowers, roses this time, augmented by a container of cyclamen which should survive the winter.

As I returned down Cannon Hill Lane, a young boy, cycling up and down the pavement, had me wondering whether it was half-term.  I don’t think so.

Back in Links Avenue I struggled to get my head into crossword clueing mode.  Jackie has told me that, under the Minstead regime, as she, who will be retired, will be in charge of the kitchen, I will get no dinner until I have written a clue.  Maybe I should take a leaf out of my friends Maggie and Mike Kindred’s book and work steadily through the morning, but as I start my day with a ramble I can’t see that happening.

This evening I did have some dinner, on three counts; the first is that I cooked the sausage and gammon casserole I took from the fridge this morning; the second is that I made very good headway with the clues; and the third is that the new regime hasn’t started yet.  With our meal Jackie drank Hoegaarden, whilst I enjoyed Muriel, which, I hasten to add, is a superb 2007 reserve rioja purchased in the co-op, and well recommended.

A Pikey

Keypoint paviers 9.12

Taking my normal route to Cannon Hill Common; with the exception of entering it through Joseph Hood recreation ground alongside; I paused in Maycross Avenue to chat to Keyline paviers.  Proud of their work, the man in charge told me how, with a membrane and a layer of concrete, they eradicated the weeds which I had seen a homeowner in another garden killing off, during a period of several days, earlier in the year.  This carport is there for good.

In the recreation ground, the grass was experiencing what is probably the final cut of the season.

As usual, alongside the lake, the vase attached to Allan William Marshall’s memorial bench was full of fresh flowers; ducks were being fed; and fishing was in progress.

Another grand oak had lost a limb, segments of which now encircle the tree, ensuring that there will be no need to manufacture benches in that part of the common for a long time to come.  Squirrels were racing up trees getting in supplies for the winter.

Walking back along the lake I chatted with Jordan and his friends.  Having the occasional difficulty with his line, there was great excitement when this boy was thought to have caught another fish.  His first catch, swimming around, as if in a goldfish  bowl, in a large orange bucket, was being gleefully inspected by his two friends.  There was some banter about who might be scared to touch the slippery scales.  The young lady, whose shiny patent leather handbag lay alongside other containers on the bank, was convinced the catch was ‘a pikey’.  The young angler was not so sure.  Having explained what I was doing, I had no need to worry about whether they knew what a website was.  Jordan’s male friend pulled out his Blackberry so I could enter the address in it.  I was somewhat relieved it was the same as my own mobile device, otherwise I probably wouldn’t have been able to do so.  His companion told him he just had to e-mail it to Jordan and he would have it too.  Looking back over the years spanning today and my junior exploits described in my post of 30th. May, expanded in Chris’s comment on that of the next day, the advance in children’s equipment and communication skills was mind-boggling.

Hi, folks.

Hoping to avoid the rush hour traffic Jackie and I set off for The Firs earlier than usual, to be met by a snarl-up at the far end of Hillcross Avenue.  This had been caused by another taxi breaking down (see 26th. September).  This time, actually on the roundabout.  We got through this quite quickly, but the journey still took almost two hours.

Jackie, Elizabeth, Danni and I ate at the Eastern Nights.  Eventually.  Jackie drank Bangla, I had Cobra, and the other two shared a bottle of Cote du Rone.  Eventually.  The food was as wonderful as ever.  Eventually.  As we waited for an hour and a half for our meals we became aware that the two staff out front, both working their socks off, both very pleasant, yet rushed off their feet, were prioritising the takeaway service.  The phone was going all the time, and one or the other of them was rushing to answer it and take the order.  People who came into the restaurant for takeaway meals long after us, were being presented with their food long before us. I had decided I would speak to them about this the next time we went in on a quiet night, but after this length of time I had had enough.  I went up to the bar and leant on it waiting for one of the men to come.  At that moment, out from the kitchen came our hot-plates.  As our waiter left those on the table and approached me, I had a quick rethink.  I asked him for another pint of Cobra.  It still seemed best to speak quietly about the problems at another time.  The others all agreed.

Walking In The Rain

Tree fungus 7.12 (2)

Well, I thought this would be an original title for the summer of 2012.  Yesterday’s sunshine  proved to be an aberration.  This morning we were back to normal, pouring rain.  As I needed to go into Morden to present yesterday’s wine stained raiment to the dry cleaners and to pay in some cheques I continued on to Morden Hall Park.  Only the cleaners could possibly be called dry.  At Bill’s birthday party (15th. July post) the younger ladies were claiming that, although their long term recollections may be impressive, the older gentlemen’s short term memories were shot.  Perhaps that is why I start my blogging as soon as I get back from my walks.

For a few days now, I have been intrigued by a set of tankers bearing the name ‘A Better Service’ stationed outside the park.  Since their pumps were snaking into the streams of Morden Hall and I didn’t think any more water was needed, I asked what the team were doing.  Apparently the various connecting rivulets get rather stagnant unless they are oxygenated.  The pumps were therefore circulating the water.  Note the umbrellas.

A jogger smilingly agreed when I observed that it was ‘perfect weather for it’.  I remembered how refreshing it was to be cooled and hydrated by falling rain when running marathons.  Rather more surprisingly, a team of volunteers armed with cutters and saws, engaged in clearing the banks, struggling with the sodden foliage, were of the same opinion.

A coot noisily warned me off its chicks and a heron stalked the streams.  A tiring golden retriever persisted in chasing a small black poodle around in circles.  This rather upset a watching toddler, who needn’t have worried because the larger dog was never going to catch his prey.  It did, however, present a moving obstacle on the rather congested path.

At a gate leading from the rose garden to one of the sodden waterside footpaths I stood aside for an intrepid troop of retirees sporting various assorted rainwear, and umbrellas lowered to form offensive or defensive weapons.  The gentleman bringing up the rear asked his female companion: ‘Have you been retired long?’  ‘Five years, but I’ve never been married,’ was her reply.  I suppose everything has to start somewhere, and no longer does a woman have to wait for the man to make the first move.

It has been a good year for slugs and fungi.

A forlorn fuchsia reminded us that Fred ‘Tosh’ Madden had not been forgotten.

A couple of abandoned supermarket baskets were nestling in the undergrowth, and someone had discarded a sandal.  My saturated pair screeched on the communal wooden staircase back at Links Avenue.

This evening’s gourmet meal consisted of Derrick’s succulent gammon and pork sausages casserole, followed by strawberries, helped down by Roc de Chevaliers Bordeaux 2010.  The Cumberland sausages came from Sainsbury’s, as did the wine.  Lidl provided the gammon, onions, and mushrooms  for the casserole; and the crisp, crunchy carrots which accompanied it.  Other vegetables included Sainsburys’ weird shaped Anya potatoes, the sprouting buds on which had to be removed before serving; and cauliflower (a bit passe) from Wimbledon Village’s Bayley and Sage.  Garlic paste to add flavour to the sauce was bought in one of the halal shops in Morden.  The bay leaf was from Tesco and the thyme from goodness knows where.

We have a fridge stocked up with salad ingredients virtually given away by a poor man who was selling his produce in the waterlogged Hillier’s Garden Centre car park on Saturday.  He said he had been doing really well until eleven o’clock when the rains came. Now he had to give multiples of everything otherwise he’d have to take it home.  This latter statement didn’t come from him.  I just know that’s how it goes.  I’ve often thought that a very hard way to make a living.  However, he remained most cheerful, and also sold us, at a fraction of their true value, the piquant strawberries we ate this evening.  They were bathed in Sainsburys’ ‘LIGHT’ evaporated milk.  If I knew how to print those last four words upside down I would do so.  This is because the tin from which it was delicately served was punctured at the bottom and I had to put my ear to my placemat to be certain what I was pouring.