Still Confined To The Passenger Seat

As we sat in a queue at the Brockenhurst level crossing this morning I photographed the dry grasses alongside.

We were on our way to Streets, the shop which has everything. Jackie took this location photograph, whilst I

focussed on the windows when we parked outside it.

My more able bodied Chauffeuse also photographed the fungus decorating the oak tree shown above because that required a disembarkation.

Jackie was able to buy wasp foam and wasp powder; and surgical spirit, which may flummox our American readers as it did most of the staff of Streets until one said “isn’t that what they call rubbing alcohol?” “Yes”, replied Jackie who had begun by Googling “rubbing alcohol”, which had been what Dillon had requested.

Our now sparse open tracts of land, normally occupied by grazing ponies, are left empty, except for this one on the edge of Beachern Wood which hosts

just one mare and foal perhaps taking a chance on being able later to

squeeze among the others already clustered for shelter among the trees.

Others, like these in The Coppice at Brockenhurst, find individual shade.

Beside Beachern Wood ancient banks of high hedgerows enjoy diffused light.

On our way towards Wilverley a determined troop of ponies advanced, perhaps in search of their own refuge.

This afternoon I read another couple of chapters of Naipaul.

We dined this evening on Jackie’s well-filled beef pie; crisp fried potatoes; firm carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli, with meaty gravy. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegarden; I drank more of the Bordeaux; Flo and Dillon drank water.

From The Passenger Seat

This morning Jackie and I drove to The Oakhaven Hospice Trust furniture warehouse on the Ampress industrial estate in order to offer for collection a Chinese oak cabinet which is now surplus to our requirements.

I took the opportunity to photograph the parched condition of the surrounding verges.

The now golden moorland around Brockenhurst was tinged with purple heather, yellowing bracken, and early autumnal trees.

The usual ponies had deserted the arid Longslade Bottom

for such sheltered spots as they could find among the lanes

and the dappled woodland.

Plants were drying along the verges of Hordle Lane and

Christchurch Road at the point at which it runs alongside our house, the front garage trellis of which has been saved from suffering a similar fate by Flo and Dillon’s valiant irrigation.

With the exception of the first and last all these photographs were produced from the front passenger seat.

This evening we dined on pizza and fresh salad with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden, Flo and Dillon drank Ribena, and I drank Ch√Ęteau La Mauberte Bordeaux 2020.