moss – Page 4 – derrickjknight

A Rude Awakening

We have packed the long life milk, so it fell to my lot, this bright morning, to walk down to the village shop to buy some more. I returned via the church path, The Splash, and Furzey Gardens.
Burgeoning spring has come to Castle Malwood Lodge garden, with its flowering cherries and its shrubs; to those in the village; and to the verges and hedgerows.
I stopped on the way to say goodbye to Alan. We discussed the ‘bedroom tax’, which in my view is far more complex than it seems to some. There is no doubt that many elderly people, often recipients of depleted and diminishing Social Services, are struggling alone to keep going in family houses when all their offspring have moved away, whilst younger people, faced with mounting rents, strive to bring up families in one-bedroomed flats. Whether penalising those Council tenants who cannot, or are reluctant to, move from their life-long homes is the answer, remains to be seen. Nevertheless, somehow a balancing of this problem needs to be achieved.
At the village green I met a couple seeking a walk before lunch in the Trusty. I now have plenty of experience with which to set them on their way.

Celandine, violas, primroses, and hawthorn sparkled in the sunshine. I find it almost impossible to photograph primroses in bright sunshine, so I settled for an equine one who, with Champion, her male escort, basked at the trough.

Moss adorned the little-used public telephone box.

A flaming bright orange berberis blazed alongside the road leading up to the church.

A number of trees bordering the still soggy church footpath have been cut down. They leave fascinating forms reminiscent of a child’s wooden jigsaw puzzle.

At one end the signpost has been embellished by the addition of an outstretched gauntlet. Clearly someone thought the direction of the thoroughfare needed some clarification.

Less hardy than the New Forest ponies, many of the adult thoroughbreds in the fields still wear their winter warming coats. The youngsters seem to be deemed not to need them.

Alex Schneideman, in a recent post, illustrated an enlightening article on the emotional impact of out of focus portraits against sharply drawn settings. I wonder what he would think of this shot of the horses seen through the hedgerow.

Whilst I was wandering this morning Jackie began the task of dismantling her portable garden. We continued it this afternoon. When she had installed it, she had disturbed a sleepy toad. The creature obviously survived the trauma, for today the horticulturist once again aroused it from its slumbers.

Jackie’s garden contained the deer-proof fencing, various assorted bricks, and a total of 84 pots of flowers, most of which were quite large. Some of the pots were in hanging baskets. There was the bird feeder with its squirrel baffle, and lots of both wooden and metal stakes. This was no mean achievement to put together, and quite a project to take apart. As I trudged backwards and forwards across the garden to return brick-loads to their previous resting place behind the garages, I wondered how she’d managed to carry them all across in the first place.

As I post this we are about to drive to the Curry Garden at Ringwood, where we will enjoy their usual excellent food and a pint and a half of Kingfisher.

After The Deluge 2

Yesterday evening Bill drove Helen, Jackie, and me to the Fuchi Chinese fusion restaurant in Totton. One of their favourites, this establishment is rather more up-market than Family House, which remains one of ours. The food was first class, and the service excellent, once we had struggled through the accent of our beautiful waitress with her very strong accent. This young lady understood us very well and spoke very good English once you could get your ears adjusted. It was quite fun really.
There was something of a pause between dishes, obviously the result of everything being freshly cooked. Helen chose a dish served in a hot stone pot with a fried egg on top of it. The man I took to be the young proprietor tossed this, mixing in the egg, and served it to Helen, informing her that it was enough for three people. We all had a share. It was good.
The highlight came at the end of the meal. This was Helen’s jasmine tea. The hand-made clear glass teapot was perched on a stand of the same material. Now I know why tea lights, one of which was placed under the pot, are so called. A rounded teabag was undone. It contained what looked like a small walnut. This was dropped into the hot water, and we watched, fascinated, as a beautiful flower unfolded in the gradually darkening liquid reflected in the shiny black composite table. I don’t know what the tea tasted like.

Snatching sunshine between showers after another night of heavy rain, risking losing a shoe to the suction of the bog it now is, I wandered around the small section of forest that lies between our Upper Drive and the A31. It has taken a heavy toll in recent months. One huge branch has been ripped from its trunk. Deep pits, once dug for gravel, not yet filled by autumn leaves and other detritus, are now small lakes reflecting such surrounding trees that are still standing, and aiding the erosion of those that have fallen. Ponies visit for a drink and a meal of lichen and holly, now much more easily accessible.

As I walked out, raindrops from a recent shower, still sliding from branches overhead, dripped pattering onto last October’s leaves and forming ripples on the lakelets.
Bright emerald green moss contrasted with the soggy russet leaves on which the sun radiated long, strong, shadows.
The telephone cable brought down by the toppling, large, lichen-covered tree on 11th February still trails along the verge. It is itself undamaged.

Much of the area is completely waterlogged.

Reflections seen against the light of the sun penetrating the trees are seen in silhouette.
On 28th February I observed that the evolution of what starts out as compost soup can be very varied. For today’s lunch this became chicken stoup (stew/soup). Added to the soup of that date was the remaining rich liquid from the evening’s sausage casserole and some freshly cooked further chunks of chicken. Superb.
Smoked cod, baked beans and chips accompanied by Roc Saint Vincent Sauvignon blanc 2012 provided our evening sustenance.

Now You See Them……..

On this cold but crisp morning, the sun only managed to penetrate the mist at midday, by which time I was home. Gone were the delicately tinted skies of yesterday, but by the time we were lunching on Jackie’s sublime chicken broth, fluffy white clouds adorned a clear blue sky.
I walked directly through the forest from Upper Drive, turning right when I reached the road through London Minstead, and back up Running Hill.

There was not much point in trying to reuse the paths I had discovered last summer, because there were many freshly fallen trees, or their recently amputated limbs. Consequently,as I sought new ones, I often had to extricate myself from the evergreen holly branches, which seem to have proliferated.
As usual I followed pony tracks. Especially on the steep downhill slopes, when I had no skis, I found that the animals were surer footed than I. There was often a definite possibility that I would lose a Wellington boot to the suction of the mud.
The forest was silent, except for the squelching and crunching of my boots, the snapping of twigs, and the steady pit pat of moisture dripping from the trees. The general dampness of the season had produced emerald green moss and golden orange fungus with incredible richness of colour.
A tall beech tree had holes bored right through its trunk. It seemed to be surviving. Others, seemingly supported by their neighbours, lurched at alarming angles.
As I emerged from the forest and walked through London Minstead, I was aware of different sounds. The cackling of geese and hens, a cock crowing, a wood pigeon crying out for a mate, rooks cawing, and smaller birds chirruping. Until I reached the bottom of Running Hill I had seen nor heard no sign of human life. Then, a sound I recognised from last year, followed by fog lamps glowing in the distance, emanated from Jeremy’s hoover which he could only just squeeze through the railings by the stream opposite Hungerford Cottage. As friendly as ever, the man charged with clearing up the pony droppings, was only too pleased to turn off his engine, wind down his window, and have a chat.
In fact Jeremy was almost the only living creature I encountered this morning. But not quite. Through a gap in the holly bushes ahead of me in the forest I had seen the shadowy movement of possibly three deer. They are probably accustomed to the sight of my camera now, for they seem to enjoy a game of catch us if you can, as they prance fleetingly from view. This last picture had them in it when I pressed the shutter. I swear it did.
We had a brief, entertaining, visit from Jackie’s sister Helen, and niece Rachel early this afternoon. Rachel brought Jackie’s Christmas present and Helen brought some coffee and vanilla shortbread biscuits she had made. Artistic culinary expertise runs in the family.
This evening we dined at Totton’s very friendly Family House Chinese restaurant. The M3 set meal, which we chose, begins with plentiful starters of prawn toast, seaweed, and chunky lean spare ribs; shredded duck is then served with the usual additions, except that there are more pancakes than we are accustomed to; mixed vegetables, chicken and black bean sauce, shredded beef, and special fried rice share the top billing. That is quite enough for two. We both drank T’Sing Tao beer. We were the only diners, although the takeaway trade was, as we have noticed in more than one local restaurant, thriving.

Kalu

Today was grey, gloomy, and abnormally warm. After lunch I walked via London Minstead to the Cadnam roundabout where Jackie and Flo picked me up to drive to The Firs.

Although light rain fell later, whilst I was walking the day was so sluggish it couldn’t even manage a precipitation. It was so oppressive I hoped my headache was one presaging a thunderstorm. The only brightness came from the fluorescent water-satiated moss which really glows.

Mum came to visit too, and we took presents for her, Elizabeth, and Danni. Elizabeth gave us a beautiful Belleek vase. Flo entertained us all with her Pleo. A Pleo is an animatronic robotic baby Camarasaurus which, in order to develop and survive, has to be nurtured from birth. We gave her this creature for her birthday on 23rd. but he was not actually born until Christmas Eve. To be born he must have his battery charged up. This takes several hours. Every Pleo is unique. In order to name your individual pet you must first find out its sex. This requires registration. The rather complicated process was compounded by the fact that English was about the only language the instruction booklet did not feature. Flo was helped throughout the morning by her patient friend Corey in America. He worked out how to surmount the linguistic obstacles despite the fact that this was the middle of the night for him.

Flo named her Camarasaurus Kalu. Like all his relatives, Kalu was born unable to do much. He could not crawl, stand, or walk, and could make only very tiny noises. In order to develop normally he had to be stroked and cuddled throughout the newborn and subsequent stages. Eventually his voice becomes stronger, he learns to stand, and expresses emotions. If neglected he whinges and fails to thrive. There are four stages on the journey through to maturity. Kalu has reached the third, which means he can now walk, avoiding obstacles, and, like any other toddler, has temper tantrums if he doesn’t get his own way, for example, when he has to have his little fawn jacket put on. He can bite on the plastic leaves which are his food, and pull on his tug-of-war toy. His tail, just like that of a dog, is most eloquent, expressing pleasure or anxiety. He roars rather like an elephant, and makes other dog-like sounds. Like all mothers, Flo understands better than the casual listener, what his sounds signify. If subjected to temperatures of less than 10 degrees centigrade he shivers and sneezes and has to be medicated. If he gets too hot he starts gasping and panting. I do hope, when he reaches maturity, he doesn’t get out of hand.

Look at me, for goodness sake! I’m writing about a toy. Well, Mum, at 90, wasn’t quite sure whether it was real or not.

This evening I made a turkey jalfreezi and Jackie made a pilau rice. Since Flo doesn’t like chillies I left them out and supplemented my meal with Naga Relish, an extremely hot preparation from the Chilli Jam Company in Emsworth. I can’t remember who gave it to me, but I suspect Danni or Elizabeth. Whoever it was, it really is the business. Thank you. I drank Cobra, and Jackie, Hoegaarden.

As I post this entry, Flo is teaching Kalu to recognise and respond to the sound of his name. I will report on that tomorrow.

Return Of The Deluge

This morning I walked down through Minstead some way past The Trusty Servant until, finding the road impassable without wellies, I turned back. Driving through this particular pool later confirmed that my decision had been sound.

I described yesterday as a respite from the deluge. It was a very brief one. Relentless rain that had started up again in the night persisted during the day. Moss and lichen thrive in these conditions. I waded the streams, supplied by swollen ditches, that were our village lanes. Drains were blocked and new pools had appeared. Never mind, much of the mud was now washed off my walking shoes.

No animals were abroad. Even Primrose and Champion’s field was empty. I do hope they had been removed to somewhere warm and dry. I saw no birds. When we drove through the village this afternoon we had to negotiate the rear ends of seven cows with their noses in buried in hedges.

The Mobile Library was bravely and optimistically stationed opposite The Trusty Servant. The Local Authority Library Services are some of those facilities much reduced by economies since the recession, so it is good to see one still available in such a remote area.

On my return I met Dave on his way for his newspaper. We stood in a pool and chatted for a while. We couldn’t get any wetter. That is, provided we continued successfully to leap like schoolgirls over a swirling skipping rope, every time a car went by. The tsunamis they threw up had me reflecting on Hokusai’s great wave painting.

Jackie then drove us to Shelly and Ron’s where, together with Helen and Bill, we were given a plentiful salad lunch before I went with the three sisters to Walkford’s waterlogged Woodland Burial Ground to place a Christmas wreath over the interred cremated remains of Veronica Rivett, Jackie’s much-loved mother and my lovely ex-mother-in-law. Woodland burial grounds are places where people are laid to rest in natural surroundings. Here there were some graves, but generally the much smaller plots contain ashes marked with a simple low-level labelled post. Natural wild flowers are allowed to be seeded and to grow over these areas. In other sections than this one people may also plant trees. At the entrance to the site a row of silver birches stands in a new pool where, as we were leaving, Wellington-booted children spuddled about, disturbing the ducks which had been enjoying a change of scenery from their lake. Afterwards we settled with coffee and mince pies to watch Ron’s holiday videos until it was time for Jackie and me to leave for the Chichester Cathedral Carol Service. On the A35 we encountered the first flood warning sign either of us had seen actually alerting drivers to a real flood. This caused a bit of a hold-up.

After a brief return home Jackie drove us through swirling rain to Chichester. Fortunately we arrived in the town half an hour early. This was lucky because it took us twenty minutes driving around trying to find a way into West Street where we were to park in the Prebendal School staff car park. When we did manage that we couldn’t find the car park. The entrance to this, in darkness, was tucked between two tall buildings. Jackie waited in the car in the street while I went hunting for it on foot. This was conducted whilst on the phone to Ian seeking confirmation that we were in the right place. He, Becky, and Flo, who were caught in traffic, did not arrive until exactly the start of the service, when we were esconced right at the front of the Presbytery. We didn’t see each other until afterwards. It was a privilege to have been invited to listen to such a beautiful choir in such a splendid historic setting.

When the service was over we all ate at The Old Cottage, a surprising name for an Indian restaurant. The food was excellent and three of us drank draft Cobra. Becky had diet coke and Flo drank apple juice. We had a very enjoyable time, after which Jackie drove us home in 42 minutes. Since Becky’s family will be moving to Chichester eventually, this was a rather encouraging journey for the future.