Early on a morning of sunshine and showers Jackie drove us into the forest to take advantage of the dramatic light.
Encouraged by my undulating walk yesterday I was tempted to disembark at the top of
Holmsley Passage
and walk down the much steeper slope. At first I kept to the tarmac because of the muddy and pitted state of the nibbled edges. The road was quite busy so this didn’t seem to be a well advised procedure.
I therefore climbed the bank and threaded my way along the pony track.
The landscapes, rich in gorse and last year’s bracken, with still skeletal trees standing against the
fluid clouds bleeding across broad sheets of blue watercolour paper.
As I turned the bend leading down to the modern building on the left I saw what Jackie was up to. She had been tracking my descent from the
outset on the road surface (you will need to biggify this one to spot me),
and progressing along the verge.
From this point I photographed trees on the other side of the hill,
and after reaching the car, a couple of grazing ponies.
Jackie photographed a mobile signal mast masquerading as a spiky tree.
Yesterday’s pair of work trousers became rather muddy. I had therefore put them in the laundry basket and taken a clean pair for today.
On any other day this might have been a sensible move.
Today, unfortunately, I chose to stop at the junction between Gorley Road and
Snails Lane in order to photograph
the flooded road.
As I stepped backwards across the soggy surface of the lane in order to ensure that the Flood sign appeared in the picture I trod on a loose rock that slid backwards taking me with it.
There is a moment in a fall when it is politic to stop resisting and let yourself fall gracefully. That is how I found myself seated in moist gravelly mire with gritty bits in it, As I began to turn over, wondering just how I would manage to heave myself to my feet, a small van came spraying through the flood. This seemed to be the moment to remain stationary and present an aged and infirm front.
The friendly young driver wound down his window, asked whether we needed help, and upon receiving an affirmative response, leaped from his cab. He and Jackie each took an arm and hoisted me upright.
By now Mrs Knight was regretting that her panic had prevented her from photographing the moment. She made up for it with this shot of
my rear and the offending rock;
and these of my jacket
and trousers.
My head, it seems, was in need of the attentions of “The Horse Whisperer”.There’s not much that can be done about my second row forward’s cauliflower ear.
We weren’t that far from Hockey’s Farm Shop. I cleaned up as best I could with the cold water in their loo. Naturally we had to reward both them and ourselves by brunching there. I sat on a hessian shopping bag in order to avoid making their seats soggy. After a good meal we returned home where I changed my trousers.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy pasta arrabbiata with which she drank more of the Sauvignon Blanc, and I finished the Cabernet-Carmenere.