Jackie and I began the day with a drive in the forest, in order to see how the thatching at East End was progressing.
A shallow stream ran over the ford at Norleywood, enhancing the beauty of the shadows on the road ahead.
A pair of donkeys breakfasted on the hedgerows opposite the house
on which the skilled roofing work had commenced.
As is their wont, one of these creatures crept, silently, up behind me to see if I had any carrots. I am mean enough to disappoint them, however, feeding them is not advised by the verderers, unless you want to catch Weill’s disease.
Jackie had driven further up the road to turn round, by which time the donkeys really had claimed the road.
The other two large lorries were still parked outside the neighbouring house. One was being loaded with soil dug out from the garden.
High above the chicken range a solitary Thelwell child’s pony also enjoyed its morning meal.
The chickens cooed and clucked around their chook house,
sharing their repast with crows,
ducks,
and pheasants, which were freer to roam.
One of the llamas sat with a silly grin on its face
as another gurned at me.
A trio of cyclists paused at the road junction to take their bearings.
They were small fry compared with those who were to limit our progress on the road to Brockenhurst.
As we approached that village, Jackie expressed the wish that they would not be going our way. No such luck.
This afternoon we continued, focussing on the rose and front gardens, preparing for an alfresco summer.
This evening we dined on shepherd’s pie topped with layers of cheddar cheese and mushrooms; crisp carrots, cauliflower, Brussels sprouts and runner beans. Jackie finished the Cotes de Gascoigne and I drank more of the shiraz.
CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. THOSE IN GROUPS ACCESS GALLERIES THAT CAN BE VIEWED FULL SIZE.
This morning’s sunshine lasted long enough
to draw me into pruning the rose garden. By the time I had finished the skies had clouded over and rain begun.
Between showers Jackie was able to plant primulas into the large window boxes on the front wall.
More camellias are in full bloom, and
all the beds are clamouring for our attention,
but we abandoned them in favour of a drive to Tanner’s Lane beach,
where the usual boat was moored on the mudflats.
A solitary yacht sailed alongside the Isle of Wight,
as a ferry boat threaded its way past The Needles.
At low tide seaweed clung to rocks and breakwaters.
Further along the coastline gnarled trees were coming into bud,
as rain-laden skies loomed over the sunlit landscape.
Egrets were among the birds feeding on the shore.
One rewarded my numerous efforts to catch it in flight.
Having left Tanner’s Lane and begun to drive along Sowley Lane it seemed as if we were on the floor of a school dance from my teens. In the undergrowth on one side of the lane were assembled a bouquet of hen pheasants.
The less fragrant cocks patrolled the opposite side.
Plucking up courage, they paraded a bit,
then slipped through the barrier to join the ladies.
Just before sunset at Milford on Sea a crane silhouetted against the skies was a reminder that the beach huts destroyed in gales a couple of years ago are being rebuilt.
We hastened to Barton on Sea and waited for a pair of figures to make their way along the clifftop so that I could include them in my shot. Following their progress I was to discover that the gentleman was pointing a camera away from the west, and photographing the Isle of Wight.
CLICK ON SMALLER, CLUSTERED, PICTURES TO ACCESS LARGER GALLERIES
On quite a misty morning, we went out for a drive in such a direction as the spirit moved us.
We crossed the Lymington River and turned right along Undershore Road, giving us an atmospheric view of the level crossing we had just passed over.
Just to the left of my vantage point, a duck led her paddle of ducklings onto the water from the muddy bank.
Originally heading for Hatchet Pond we diverted to Tanners Lane, along which was walking a blonde woman with her equally slender and elegant saluki, who were soon to join us on the beach,
where Jackie found the skull of the spirit that had led us there,
and I photographed the sun, the sea, birds overhead, the shingle, the invisible Isle of Wight, a beached boat, and a ferry.
We travelled on in the vicinity of Sowley where the obligatory pony stood hopefully in the middle of the road
and pheasants sped across a field.
Snooks Lane near Portmore led us back to Lymington and home.
I have not dwelt on my daily continuing wrestling with uploading my pictures. Suffice it to say that James Peacock made another visit, bringing his own Apple laptop to try that. The problems were the same, leading us both to the conclusion that the problem lies in the BT internet connection. James is to investigate the possibility of getting this improved.
This is a well researched and beautifully produced A4 size laminated paperback. In tracing the antecedents of these young men who died in WW1, the conflict that was supposed to end all wars, we learn much about the early European settlement of New Zealand. It was only in 1840 that the first British immigrants came to join the Maoris who had come from Polynesia before the 14th. century.
It was only in 1909 that the New Zealand Army was formed, yet it sent more than its fair share to join the 1914-18 conflict, and to die in foreign fields, and in the New Zealand General Hospital No. 1 in Brockenhurst. Almost as many succumbed to illness as to wounds. A proportion of the men were Maoris.
Those of European origin mostly emanated from parts of the UK, notably Scotland. We learn their civilian occupations, and those of their antecedents. As one would expect there was a preponderance of farmers and craftsmen.
The agonies of the men and of their bereaved families are apparent in their factually related stories.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious liver casserole, served with saute potatoes on a bed of peppers, leaks, garlic, and mushrooms. Dessert was cherry crumble and custard. I drank Abbot Ale.
Having spent far too many hours attempting to load today’s photographs onto WordPress, and feeling like the spider of the legend of the Scots king Robert I, I am forced to leave gaps above, which I hope to fill in due course.
explains: “It is said that in the early days of Bruce’s reign he was defeated by the English and driven into exile. He was on the run – a hunted man. He sought refuge in a small dark cave and sat and watched a little spider trying to make a web.
Time and time again the spider would fall and then climb slowly back up to try again.
If at first you don’t succeed – try, try again.
Finally, as the Bruce looked on, the spider managed to stick a strand of silk to the cave wall and began to weave a web. Robert the Bruce was inspired by the spider and went on to defeat the English at the Battle of Bannockburn.
The legend as it is now told was first published by Sir Walter Scott in ‘Tales of a Grandfather’ in 1828, more than 500 years after the Battle of Bannockburn. It is thought that Scott may have adapted a story told about Sir James Douglas.
Caves across Scotland and Ireland are said to be legendary cave of Bruce and the spider: the King’s Cave at Drumadoon on Arran; King Robert the Bruce’s Cave in Kirkpatrick Fleming near Lockerbie; Bruce’s Cave – Uamh-an-Righ, Balquhidder Glen; Bruce’s Cave on Rathlin Island…”
Early the next morning I managed to load the rest of the pictures.
It is not that unusual for readers seeking contacts or history to stumble across this blog and, through comments, to ask me for information. Yesterday there were two. One man sought a contact with Trinity (Battersea) now Trinity (Oxley) Cricket Club. I, and two others responded. A second person, a woman, wondered whether Jackie’s sister, Helen, was someone she had trained with in the 1960s. I put them in touch with each other. Such is the power of WordPress.
Today, definitely presaging Spring, was even sunnier, and warmer, than yesterday.
Here are some of the garden flowers I did not pick yesterday:
We have pretty pansies,
a vast variety of head-hanging hellebores,
several flourishing viburnums,
precocious primulas, some a little nibbled,
different camellias,
and cerise cyclamens among others.
At midday we drove to Efford Recycling Centre to dump some of our rubbish, and
as usual departed with purchases from the Sales Area, namely a charger, some toddler toys and rolls of mats for the garden shed.
We then came back to Otter Nurseries where we enjoyed mushroom soup and rolls with the discount vouchers. After this we went driveabout.
The light was so clear over the Solent that we had the sharpest view of the flanks of the Isle of Wight, The Needles, and the lighthouse, a mile and a quarter away.
Walkers were silhouetted on Hordle West Cliff Top.
Driving along Angel Lane we gatecrashed a pheasant hen party.
Back at home, shortly before sunset, sand-clouds gathered over Christchurch Road. This time buildings, shrubs, and trees provided the silhouettes.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s chicken tikka biriani; vegetable pakoras and samosas; salad; and delicious cauliflower bhaji that would have graced any Indian kitchen. The cook drank Hoegaarden and the satisfied customer drank Kingfisher.
Although The Needles lighthouse fog warning could still be heard, last night’s mist eventually cleared from Downton to reveal a splendid warm and sunny day, on the morning of which my garden meandering revealed:
a forsythia,
and, now budding, the azalea transported from Sutherland Place.
Cherry blossom can now me seen emerging from the North Breeze brambles,
which are choking that abandoned garden’s greenhouse,
and, ‘imitating the action of the [triffids]’, again sending their tentacles across our makeshift fence. This afternoon I cut them back.
This afternoon Jackie drove us around the North of the forest. On this balmy day we knew we would see the usual animals wandering on the roads and through the villages. Ponies chomped grass on the green and by the stream at Ibsley where an ice cream van was doing a good trade. A boy paddled in the water sucking on his ice cream while his parents sat on a rock eating theirs. I didn’t think it politic to photograph them. This area had been waterlogged when we brought Flo there for a photo session last year.
On the banks of the stream the dappled sunlight enhanced the strawberry ripple of a grey pony, and another looked as if its dye had run into the gently flowing ruddied water.
Donkeys abounded in North Gorley. One, sleepily, lay in the road for a good hour or so, only lifting its head when a car sped past. It pricked up its long ears and raised its nose quite suddenly, but dropped it slowly to the ground once the danger was past. It seemed to know exactly how far to let it fall before coming to rest. At no time did it move the rest of its body, any more than did the grey/white one on the grass outside The Royal Oak pub. These two animals were treating their different heated surfaces as electric blankets.
Perched on top of the thatch of Cobweb Cottage in Hyde, were two pheasants. Jackie thought there would be no chance of their flying away at the sight of the camera, so I might get a decent shot in. Perhaps the person who fitted the weather vane was a cricket fan.
It was on the approach to this village that encounters with the fauna became, to varying degrees, disconcerting. Having been attracted by the long shadows cast by the donkeys as they grazed beneath the trees, I emerged from the car, camera at the ready. But they were onto me. Almost literally. One in particular advanced at a steady, silent pace, merging its shadow into mine. Backing away didn’t help, so I settled for
another grazing,
and two of its companions necking.
I gave up and returned to the car. No sooner had I sat in the passenger seat and closed the door than my more attentive acquaintance pushed its head through the open window, poised its muzzle inches from my crotched started moving it up and down. I felt particularly uneasy, not to say queasy, until I realised that my persistent suitor was scratching its neck on the window frame. That is what caused the rhythmic movement and the flaring of the nostrils. There was nothing for it but to use it as a photo opportunity.
When Jackie asked me if I had taken any shots that showed the animal in the context of having penetrated into the car, I replied that I couldn’t get far enough away to have anything in the frame but the asses head. It was like photographing Shakespeare’s Bottom from centre stage.
I am sure that the donkeys themselves are harmless. But what they carry is not. These creatures bear the ticks that give humans Lyme disease when they bite them. A visit to Google will provide details of this unpleasant affliction. I did rather hope that my amorous friend wasn’t dislodging its ticks into our car.
This evening Jackie and I dined on her superb sausage casserole, mashed potato, cauliflower and broccoli. I finished the rioja and my lady abstained.
P.S. Becky has pointed out that three of Jackie’s fingers on the steering wheel are reflected in the donkey’s eye.
On a clear, bright, finger-tingling morning, I reprised the woodland walk I had taken two days ago. Becky had walked this route yesterday with Scooby who had been very excited to find himself in the midst of a pheasant shoot. As they entered the woods a flurry of feathers in ungainly flight soared above the trees and gunshots punctuated the stillness. This caused our daughter a certain amount of consternation until she met a gentleman who advised her not to worry because he would just radio on ahead and ‘tell them to stop’ until she had reached the top field. This would appear to explain why trees my so many footpaths off the main one bore signs proclaiming ‘Private. Keep Out’. I had no such drama this quiet, still, morning, although I did have to step aside for a couple of 4X4s, one containing children, and another a keen looking dog that looked as if it might have been used for retrieving game.
Helen and Bill visited us this afternoon and much reminiscing was indulged in. Helen’s tale of once winning a brace of pheasants was rather pertinent. She had been somewhat alarmed when her prize arrived, feathers and all. Like the rest of us, she had no idea what to do with them. Help from an expert in their preparation for the table had to be sought. This in turn reminded me of pheasants I have tasted before, particularly at the farmhouse home of Jessica’s brother Nigel and sister-in-law Judy. There we had been warned to watch out for pellets. If you weren’t careful, you found them with your teeth.
So colourful had been a brace of these birds hanging outside a general store in Beaulieu during a visit in November last year that I had heard a woman asking her male companion ‘are they real?
Before the Poulner in-laws’ visit, I had accompanied Ian and Scooby on the reverse Hordle Cliff top walk. Scooby had had a wonderful time on the shingle where, belying his twelve years, he had romped with a three year old of a similar breed. He later tried to mount a much larger dog, but we’ll draw a veil over that.
This evening it fell upon the Hordle Chinese Takeaway to provide our dinner. The colour and consistency of the plum sauce had me remembering cod liver oil and malt. This was a vitamin and health-giving preparation administered to sickly children when I first went to school in the 1940s. Those pupils who had the good fortune to be ill or undernourished were, on a daily basis, given a full, gooey, spoonful of this, I thought, wonderful stuff. We knew it was wonderful because sometimes those of us who were not ailing cajoled other boys into giving us a taste. We really thought it would have been worth catching something nasty for. I seem to remember Chris did manage to qualify for a short period, but I never did.
The sinus pain that has been unrelentingly situated around my right eye for a fortnight showed some sign of shifting and lessening this morning. I have not taken Ibuprofen for 24 hours and the antibiotics have run their course.
After lunch Jackie drove us out to Beaulieu, around which we wandered. We were immediately captivated by Patrick’s Patch, the welcome sign of which explains it:
We were struck by the quality of the produce and the preparation for winter. There is a link with Fairweather’s Garden Centre across the road, which had an extensive and unusual collection of Christmas items, some of which we purchased.
Cottages in the picturesque streets date back to at least the seventeenth century. Parked cars do, however, bring one sharply into consciousness of the twenty first.
One shop appears to sell nothing but Teddy Bears. Good quality gifts and groceries are in abundance. It was amusing to see, outside the Village Shop, a bucket and spade, hula hoops, and beach balls holding their own with a display of more seasonal logs.
The splendid plumage of the ‘locally shot pheasants’ hanging across the shop’s frontage could not be dimmed in death. A woman passing asked her male companion: ‘Are they real?’. ‘Of course’, he replied with a measure of disdain. I didn’t think it politic to mention that I had been wondering the same thing.
There is a mill pond at this end of the tidal Beaulieu River on which stands Buckler’s Hard which we visited with Sam and Malachi on 12th January. If you can avoid the trees and buildings you can get a good view of the thirteenth century Cistercian abbey.
Across the river someone was having a bonfire. A gull kept its distance from the smoke.
We drove back across the heathland, diverting to shop at the Old Milton Lidl. This took us past The Old Post House which, we were now delighted to see, advertises itself as with ‘Sale Agreed’.
Jackie stopped the car along the road through the heath, so we could again admire the effects of the lowering sun. As I stepped out onto the plain I came across a warning sign alerting me to the fact that this area had been designated for military training during the First World War, and that there was ongoing work to remove ‘unexploded ordnance’ which meant we should watch out.
Our evening meal was cottage pie followed by rice pudding, jam, and custard. The final touch was offered in jest, in recognition of my Lower Marsh lunches with Terry Taylor in the 1960s. I jumped at it. Jackie finished the sauvignon blanc. I began Ron’s Lussac Saint-Emilion 2011. Both these wines were very good.
