Novak Djokovic – derrickjknight

A Cattle Cluster

Jackie spent much of another very hot morning watering plants; I rendered some assistance with this, but mostly concentrated on dead heading and weeding down the Back Drive.

Before lunch I posted https://derrickjknight.com/2022/07/10/tower-blocks/

Afterwards we took a forest drive.

Along Sowley Lane we followed a tricyclist approached by a motorcyclist and bicyclists whom he acknowledged.

From St Leonard’s Road, with its dry verges,

beyond browning fields we had a clear view of the Isle of Wight and yachts on the Solent.

Tails twitching, cattle clustered, probably as protection from the irritating flies, in a field along Lodge Lane. One bothersome bovine, attempting to mount others, was repeatedly rebuffed.

Sunlight dappled treelined lanes like this unnamed one, which is why vehicles often keep their lights on as they constantly drive from darkness into light, and vice versa.

Among the moorland heather, gorse, and brambles, ponies – also coping with flies in the heat which seems to have exhausted a sleeping foal, consumed their vegan lunch.

After our trip we watched the Wimbledon men’s final between Novak Djokovic and Nick Kyrgios.

Our dinner this evening was similar to yesterday’s except that the Nando’s sauce was Peri Peri Lemon and herb with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank Swartland Shiraz 2020.

Gore Tex

The promised rain arrived today. Aaron and Robin came to finish the rose garden paving, but the weather defeated them.

I took a brief amble down to Roger’s field, where he has baled up his hay. This gloomy day demonstrates the value of sunlight in photography.

There are always a few pigeon quills, fashioned in Gore Tex, scattered on the verges of Downton Lane. According to the maker’s advertising, ‘Gore–Tex is a waterproof, breathable fabric membrane and registered trademark of W. L. Gore and Associates. Invented in 1969, Gore–Tex is able to repel liquid water while allowing water vapour to pass through, and is designed to be a lightweight, waterproof fabric for all-weather use.’

In my running days I was most grateful to Mr Gore, for this clothing afforded my sweat an egress, yet kept out the rain; although it didn’t prove to be a good idea to put his product through the washing machine.

This afternoon, on TV, I watched the clash of the titans that was the Wimbledon men’s final. The first two sets occupied two hours, each going to tie breaks, and one to each player. Just after the start of the third, our rain reached SW19, and a short interval ensued, during which I wandered out into the garden, where plants, such as

day lilies

and begonias welcomed water slipping down their throats;

and every poppy kept its head down.

That was the enforced intermission that heralded a change in the momentum of the match. Djokovic ran away with the next two sets to beat Federer 3-1.

Jackie has been unwell today, so we were unable to attend Helen and Bill’s family party. Becky and Ian popped in afterwards, bringing birthday presents for each of us from themselves, from the party hosts, and from Shelley and Ron.

After this my catering task was quite simple really. All I had to do was defrost and heat up Jackie’s chicken jalfrezi, egg fried rice, and a naan, with my share of which I finished the cabernet sauvignon.

The Great Diver

As is now customary, I began the day with a meander round the garden.

This is how Jackie has refurbished the knackered decking;

and here is her sign for Elizabeth’s bed.

She has positioned stepping stones between Aaron’s paving, and added phlox to the rose garden.

In the former compost bed the dahlia Bishop of Llandaff and a yellow hollyhock now rise among foxgloves and poppies, now adopting their sculptural quality as they begin to seed.

Red hollyhocks bloom elsewhere in the garden. The seeds of this one were a gift from Margery.

Bees were busy on the Phantom Path hebe. You may need to search for this one.

Since it was men’s semi-final day at Wimbledon, I spent the afternoon on the sofa watching tennis balls travel back and forth across the TV screen. Two splendid matches were in progress. In each, one player who performed extremely well was beaten in straight sets by another who played even better. Djokovic was probably expected to beat Gasquet, but the Frenchman put up a great fight, probably playing his best tennis.

Tension was the norm in the match between Murray and the phenomenal Federer. More or less from the start, Andy Murray had his work cut out, but fought back time and again to make us think that perhaps he had a chance. Roger Federer had other ideas.

We learned that Novak Djokovic, a great slider on the tennis court, has engaged Boris Becker as his coach. Between the two matches, we were treated to highlights of the seventeen year old Becker’s first Wimbledon competition, in which he dived and slid all over the place, to become the first unseeded winner of the tournament. I can believe it was thirty years ago I watched that amazing final.

I am not sure who took this amazing photograph, but it appears on Turnstile and Fashion website, advertising the player’s shoes.

After the second match, I helped Jackie plant yesterday’s purchases. This morning she bought a white lace-cap hydrangea for the shady corner by the orange shed. When I hit more concrete and rubble whilst digging the whole, I put the job off for another day, and Jackie stood the plant in a bucket of water.

This evening we dined on succulent roast pork with crisp crackling, boiled potatoes, and cabbage, carrots, and runner beans, followed by profiteroles. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I opened a bottle of Louis de Camponac cabernet sauvignon 2014.

A Dog’s Life

After opening a range of presents this, my seventy first birthday, morning I went on a long walk with Matthew and Oddie. Elizabeth and Louisa at different points telephoned with greetings, so I was a little distracted from guiding Matthew on the walk. The result was that we walked up to Stoney Cross where a gentleman asked for directions to Emery Down. Not being exactly sure whether he could drive to Forest Road without going onto the A31, and subsequently finding he couldn’t, I decided we would try to find a route that I felt sure must exist. Walking through three five-barred gates and passing directly in front of Little Chef, we did indeed find the way, and walked along the road to Lyndhurst before turning left onto the bridleway which joined the bridle path with which I am familiar; then on down to the first ford and back to the bottle bank by Minstead Hall.

There are lovely meadow flowers blooming alongside the A31 in the vicinity of Little Chef. Another driver, seeking directions to that eating place went on ahead of us along the rough tracks through the gateways. He and his teenaged passengers had been decanted into the restaurant by the time we arrived there.

It was along Forest Road that our brave little Oddie began to remind us that he is the equivalent in dog years of a 98 year old human. He flagged a bit, and was clearly thirsty. So was I actually, but I wasn’t going to drink the water I led him to. If desperate, I might have tried the clear water from the ford for which I was aiming, but certainly not the muddy, midge spawning pool we came across en route. Oddie was happy though. And, in the ford, he had a second supply.

Matthew had to carry him pretty much the rest of the way, otherwise watching him limping stiffly along was much too painful. This reminded me of a dog at the other end of life also struggling on the roads. Like Oddie, our Newark pet, Paddy, was also a rescue dog. Paddy, ostensibly Sam’s collie/labrador cross, was really Jessica’s familiar. She was rescued from the rescue centre’s necessary cull of puppies not chosen for adoption, by the family selection committee. When she was just a few weeks old, we took her for a walk in Stapleford Woods. After a while she began whimpering and we realised that her baby paws had not been toughened enough for tarmac.

When we eventually arrived at the bottle bank today we should have had another eighteen minutes or so to go. However, I knew Jackie planned a drive down to this refuse dump; Oddie couldn’t walk any more; Matthew was a bit tired of carrying him; I, of course, was fighting fit and raring to go, but thinking it might be quite nice for the others to have a lift back in the car, I rang Jackie and suggested she brought the bottles down and took us home in the car. I can hear you pointing out that I could have walked back on my own, had I wanted to, but that would have been rather churlish, wouldn’t it?

Matthew had predicted that Oddie would collapse when we got back, and have a good sleep. He omitted to mention the obvious, which was where the little terrier would lie. Where else, but in my chair?

Between Matthew’s departure and the arrival of Becky, Flo, and Ian, Jackie and I watched history being made on the tennis court. Andy Murray defeated Novak Djokovic of Serbia to become the first male British player to win Wimbledon since Fred Perry in 1936.

This evening Ian took us all out to a restaurant of my choice. It had to be the recently discovered Plough at Tiptoe. Three of us had crispy haddock, chips, and peas. Becky enjoyed the tagliatelle as much as Jackie had done a couple of days ago; and Ian rated his roast beef, lamb, and chicken dinner the best he had eaten. Ian and I ploughed through enormous bowls of excellent apple and raspberry crumble with custard, and the others scoffed delicious berry creme brulees. Doom Bar, Fosters, Kronenberg, Diet Coke, Becks, and Apple juice were drunk. all in all, a splendid event.