pigeon – Page 2 – derrickjknight

Looking Up

CLICK ON IMAGES TO ENLARGE. THOSE IN GROUPS ACCESS GALLERIES THAT CAN BE VIEWED FULL SIZE.

This afternoon I printed a batch of photographs for Louisa and one in duplicate for Ian.

All these images have appeared on previous posts, but that for Ian, of his father,Peter, and stepmother, Ally, has been cropped from a group photo from 1st June last year.

The sky had cleared somewhat by then, and I wandered around the garden with my camera.

The mist had liquified forming entrancing pendants on rose hips

and stems. This one on its finely spun silver chain would grace any elegant neck (I particularly recommend two clicks on this one).

The gazebo was now fully draped by the flowering clematis Cirrhosa Balearica.

Nothing stirred the fine fringes of the weeping birch.

Looking up at these drew my attention to the well-fed plump watching pigeon in the skeletal beech.

This evening we dined on minced beef pie, sauteed peppers and mushrooms, and boiled greens, carrots, and potatoes; followed by bread and Benecol pudding and evap. I drank more of the madiran.

The Beach House

Late on this crystal crisp clear blue sky morning Ian drove Scooby and me to Marine Drive, East, Barton on Sea, whence we walked along the clifftop.

The Isle of Wight was again sporting a pastel palette,

as we joined other dog walkers, many of whom are now familiar to Ian and Scooby,

whose stance and cocked ears at one fresh encounter betrayed the slight concern that possibly brought about his first bowel-emptying session.

He exhibited no such nervousness in dashing along the steadily eroding edge.

A few other pedestrians strode down below.

There, waterborne sunlight dazzled,

as did the windows of the Beachcomber Cafe where we stopped for coffee.

This afternoon we paid another visit to The Beach House in order to introduce Ian to its exquisite ambience. Clicking on these images will reveal some of the stained glass that adorns this oak panelled building.

More of this can be seen in the Sun Room where we took our tea, coffee, and cakes, at no further cost than Costa’s.

The sunset could be enjoyed from the lounge,

the dining room,

the back room,

and the Sun Room,

where we enjoyed our refreshments whilst, through a protective glass screen we observed

The Isle of Wight,

the garden,

and silhouetted pigeons (this photograph is Becky’s).

The foyer, photographed from the first floor gallery, shows the aforementioned oak panelling that also lines all the corridors to the bedrooms.

Although the personnel were different, the service was as efficient and friendly as we had found yesterday.

For our dinner this evening, Jackie produced a superb beef casserole; cauliflower and broccoli cheese; perfect boiled new potatoes; and crisp carrots and green beans. I finished the El Sotillo, Ian drank Peroni, and Becky drank zinfandel rose.

Lymington Quay

On a wet, mild, morning, I inserted the penultimate section into the garden album, and printed the final batch of photographs.

This afternoon Jackie drove us to Lymington quay and back. She left me to find Dials Antique Clocks, recommended yesterday by Highcliff Watchmakers, while she went in search of Peacocks and baby clothes.

We were both successful. Dials has a most picturesque location at the corner of Quay Street. The clock repairer was happy to tackle a traditional clock bought by Michael for Jessica and me about 35 years ago. He didn’t do battery operated digital clocks like Mum’s carriage clock that had become so corroded that, when Elizabeth cleaned it, the contacts fell off. When I explained that it was one I had bought my mother many years ago, and bore my name as part of her identification of presents to be returned to the donor when the time comes, he changed his mind, although warned me of the cost., which is really not a factor. I have, incidentally, told Mum that I don’t any longer give her a present I wouldn’t want back at a later date.

I left the clocks at the shop and wandered back to the still water.

The only real sign of life, where the boats were all moored, was of the sea birds.

A wagtail bravely advances towards a gull.

Speaking of gulls, surely this mongrel pigeon has at least dual heritage.

Swans were busy preening,

and a pair of sleepy mallards dozed to the rippling sway of their rowing boat.

For our dinner this evening Jackie produced her delicious lamb jalfrezi, chicken tikka, onion and mushroom rice, and an onion bhaji. I drank Old Crafty Hen and The Cook chose sparkling water.

No Contest

Yesterday’s airborne avian shadow was a jackdaw perched on a TV aerial some distance away.

As the evening sun lowered in the West, Flo continued her bird photography.

The collared dove took its turn at the feeding tray,

until its mate dislodged it.

Settling in the weeping birch it pondered a pigeon,

practiced its trapeze act,

and eventually took to the air.

A crow was poised for launching from the chimney pots,

and a male chaffinch enjoyed the last of the sunshine.

This morning a hobbled around the garden and the back drive before Jackie drove me to the GP surgery to order a repeat prescription, which, later, we collected.

I emptied the purple plastic bucket used for collecting weeds.

Along the back drive a bee took a break on an ivy leaf.

The staff of the children’s home have cleared some of their side of the North Breeze jungle, so the magnolia is more visible,

and the camellia has now bloomed above that garden’s shed.

It will not escape my readers’ attention that our granddaughter’s bird photographs are considerably better than mine. In a vain attempt to match up, I attempted to take some this afternoon. The best I could manage was this rather scathing greenfinch:

Just after lunch, Becky accompanied Jackie to Nuffield Hospital at Chandler’s Ford, where she is to have her knee surgery. She was seen exactly on time by a very courteous consultant who described exactly what he was to do. This private hospital is very well appointed, and offers good quality, free, coffee while you wait. It is contracted to the NHS. Interestingly the free newspapers provided were The Daily Mail, The Daily Telegraph, and The Times. Becky sought in vain for The Mirror, The Sun, and The Guardian.

Soon after their return, Flo dashed into the sitting room seeking the camera. ‘Eric’, she cried, as she eagerly grasped the instrument.

Now, my regular followers will be aware that I have spent weeks aiming my lens through the kitchen window unsuccessfully trying to photograph our visiting pheasant both in focus and clear of the undergrowth. Whenever I have emerged into the garden, off Eric has lumbered, squawking.

What does Flo do?

She creeps outside, and tracks her prey all round the garden. Not only does he not disappear, but he looks her in the eye. She returns after what seems an age, her facial expression being a mix of smugness and mischief.

Seemingly reluctant to show me what she has achieved, she disappears into the kitchen and, after an expectant interval, hands me my camera.

The memory card contained some thirty-odd photographs of Eric. Here are half a dozen:

Finally, for good measure, there were included images of an ostrich, a parakeet, and a penguin:

Our granddaughter had downloaded them from the internet into her iPad, then photographed her screen.

I think you’d agree, it was no contest.

This evening more of yesterday’s superb dinner, well matured, was served by our mistress chef who, along with Becky, drank Mateus rose. Ian and I imbibed San Miguel, while Flo savoured J2O.

An Insect Hilton

Despite a hard overnight frost, our hardy little pigeon had, soon after dawn, made its way back to the access path where Jackie had originally found it. The still flightless bird was far calmer on our approach, and even watched quietly as I placed a suet ball near it. Although it continued to move up and down the path for a while, sadly, it died later in the morning.

There were still a number of branches that we had pruned in the autumn in the front garden. This morning I chopped them up and transported them to the burning pile which is now ready for combustion.

This gave me a different angle on Aaron’s work of yesterday. The new compost bins have been placed at a depth to enable Jackie to turn the car in front of them when using the back drive. To enable this manoeuvre two dead trunks need removing. Our under gardener (Aaron – that makes me the under-under gardener), has taken out one, and his process can be viewed from the second, not yet finished. The logs from these have been piled alongside the heap for burning. They will not, however, be burnt. Firstly, they are too beautiful; secondly, they will attract and nurture numerous insects upon which birds will feed; thirdly, they could provide a psychological barrier at the entrance to the drive, over which visitors to the house next door are prone to leave tracks. We already have a number of such chunks of slowly rotting wood scattered at suitable points in the garden.

This afternoon, with butterscotch tinted logs, I built an insect hotel to rival anything that Hilton has to offer.

The rain that had begun whilst I was heaping up the logs, as I finished, became a deluge that lasted well into the night. We thought that the best thing about the pigeon’s demise was that it would not have to endure that.

Later, I finished the second book of G.K. Chesterton’s Father Brown stories, ‘The Wisdom of Father Brown’.

This evening we dined at our neighbour, ‘The Royal Oak’. We were more than happy with our reasonably priced three course meals. I enjoyed whitebait; steak pie; and bread and butter pudding. Jackie’s choice was onion rings; mushroom stroganoff; and ice cream sundae. She drank Becks and I drank Ringwood’s best bitter. The service was as attentive as usual.

A WRAF Beauty

Early this morning Jackie discovered an ailing bird which may be a baby pigeon. She made it a little hospital bed, complete with water and a suet ball.

By the end of the afternoon our little friend was struggling around the garden, unable to fly, because its tail-feathers were shredded.

Aaron continued his work on the back drive. Acute observers will notice that the IKEA wardrobe sections have been once again recycled. A comparison between these two photographs, from the beginning and the end of his day, demonstrate what Aaron Parris can do as A.P. Maintenance.

Feeling reasonably recovered from the virus, on this bright, crisp, day, as crows filled the skies above the brassica field, I took a very gentle amble along the woodland walk. My right knee didn’t like it much.

The path remained pretty muddy, especially down by the fast-flowing stream, where, to reach the footbridge, I still needed to teeter on the fallen logs.

Beyond the bridge the footpath inclines quite steeply and is consequently much drier. Sunlight picked its way through the bracken, the trees, and the fallen leaves. Bright green lichen and and mosses glowed in the clear light.My post ‘A Statuesque Beauty’ featured an image of Jackie’s mother standing with her lifelong friend Sheila. Upon Sheila’s death in a nursing home, her daughter Margaret retrieved a small framed photograph from her bedside table. This is a signed photo of my late mother-in-law, Veronica Rivett. Margaret sent the picture to Helen. This copy is destined for Jackie’s other sister Shelly. I was, of course, engaged to make two more prints, one for each of the other sisters. Jackie brought it back from yesterday’s sororal meeting, and I worked on it today.

Apart from a small tear, the effect of which I was able to remove, this picture, which could have been of a film star of the day, is in pristine condition. It is inscribed July 1942, which, by coincidence, was the month of my birth. There is no prize for discovering the location of the tear.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s luscious lamb jalfrezi (recipe) and savoury rice (recipe) accompanied by supermarket samosas and onion bajis left over from Christmas. Her choice of beverage was Hoegaarden, whilst I finished the bordeaux.

A Rose For Retirement

Early this morning Jackie resumed a task she had first undertaken more than forty years ago. She cut my hair, thus putting Donna-Marie out of business. Its colour was rather different first time round. The dark bit must be a trick of the light.
After this I placed the beach stones between the slabs in yesterday’s path. There were still not quite enough, and they put those found in the garden somewhat into the shade, so we will probably need a few more, even after I picked up some interesting pieces of flint on my later walk, and inserted them in place on my return.
During a break, Jackie has managed to identify two of the plants that had us beaten. The first is the white flower, libertia, depicted on 28th April; the second had been identified by Tess, but we couldn’t remember the name of the hebe salicifolia koromiko. Like our daughter in law, and so many of our garden treasures, these are both natives of New Zealand.
The day’s major joint task was to start on clearing the kitchen garden in preparation for its transformation into a rose bower. Largely hidden beneath the greenery lie treacherously uneven criss-crossing paths in all sorts of material, mostly brick, stone, and concrete, covering ancient layers of gravel. Any speculation about the evolution of this ankle-twisting surface would be fruitless. This, we have decided, will be the one area where we abandon what we find previously laid down, level it all off, and start from scratch with a sheet of squared paper.
I have begun piling up the paving, apart from the concrete slabs Jackie has snaffled to build a wall with which to restrain the compost.
Jackie has planted up what was the rather barren shady bed opposite the pale blue Ace Reclaim bench. The red rose in the container beneath the Gardman arch was given to her by her work colleagues when she retired from Merton Social Services Department two years ago. It has survived several moves, including overwintering at Shelly and Ron’s.
Later this afternoon, I walked down to Shorefield stream and back. The field opposite the entrance to the Country Park has a fine crop of mare’s tails. The New Forest Tour bus stops at the zebra crossing leading down to the chalets beyond the stream.
I had been hoping to photograph some coots today, but there were none in evidence. I did, however, watch a pigeon doing a high-wire act, and a male small tortoiseshell butterfly sunning itself on a buddleia. Our butterflies, like this male Red Admiral prefer basking on our paving stones to perching on our version of that plant.
We dined on refreshing salad again this evening, followed by strawberries and evap (for the uninitiated this is a family term for evaporated milk) on a bed of Tesco’s raspberry twirl cheesecake. The cheesecake was reduced in price because it was pushing its sell-by date; the evap was reduced in fat content, because it is less likely to fatten the consumer. I drank more of the French cotes du Rhone and Jackie her Belgian beer (Hoegaarden in case you’ve forgotten).

Water

This morning Jackie cooked a superb sausage casserole (recipe) lunchtime meal for our friend Norman. Crisp vegetables and amazingly smooth mashed potato supplemented the dish. Dessert was an excellent plum, greengage, and apple crumble. Jackie drank sparkling water while our visitor and I shared a bottle of La Croix des Papes Chateuneuf du Pape 2012. Norman had travelled in reverse my usual fortnightly journey from his home in Preston Road, to visit us. We collected him from New Milton Station in the car.
After coffee Jackie drove us to have a look at the sea and the Isle of Wight before taking him back to the station for his return. Our octogenarian friend of more than thirty years, dating from when he had been my Deputy in Westminster Social Services Department, had, in his youth, lived in Southampton and had circumnavigated the Romans’ Vectis on many an occasion. As I have mentioned before, he is writing a book about passenger ships plying the Bay of Naples. He loves travelling on the water.

The problem with having potted plants and hanging baskets wherever Jackie can find to place them, even perched on the walls at the front, is that, especially on this, the hottest day of the year so far, they need constant watering. My task this evening, was to irrigate those at the front of the house. There are water butts all around the building, collecting the life-giving liquid from the guttering. It was just my luck that the one in the front garden should be empty. That meant I had to traipse round the side of the house to fill my can from one at the back. Still, Jackie had already watered far more at the back.
Afterwards, as we sat on the patio, with our books, and drinking sparkling water, we were visited by the timid pigeon that comes nightly to drink from the minuscule lily pond that began life as a household water tank.

So shy is the bird that as I reached for my camera it flew away, but had left its mark on one of the convex leaves as it sucked up the water cupped in a concave one.
The novel I finished reading this evening was ‘December’ by Elizabeth H. Winthrop. Once I got over my irritation at the continual use of the historical present used by the writer, I was gripped by this book. Winthrop has a keen eye for detail and an insightful approach to her characters. The story concerns Isabelle, locked into a self-imposed silence, and her parents’ struggles to encourage her to speak. The eleven year old child is, herself, unable to break out of the prison in which she is trapped. Her parents feel guilty and helpless, and their nerves are stretched to the limit. Psychotherapists cannot help. Eventually the girl is freed by a shock. The author’s understanding of the condition is sound and plausibly represented.

New Forest Safari

Today was very warm. The morning 13.5 tog cloud duvet of slate grey tinged with pigeon-pink slowly made way for a clear lapis lazuli sky that ultimately faded to a blue-rinse tint above a salmon-pink horizon.

It was a perfect day for a drive through the glorious New Forest on a prospective abode safari. After delivering some prints and cards to Elizabeth for the forthcoming weekend’s exhibition, that is how Jackie and I spent the afternoon. Dappled sunlight was all around us. Ponies, cattle, pigs, and donkeys foraged as if to stock up for the winter. The rounded bellies will, we know, by next spring, be furrowed by the protruding ribs.

We covered the four corners of the forest as we examined the outside of properties in Exbury, Burton, and Bransgore.

First was Magnolia Cottage in Exbury, little more than a hamlet on the road to Lepe which featured on 14th February. The cottage was an interesting, apparently former estate, semi with a garden that seemed to back onto a gated field. On a lane in the heart of the forest, the location was superb. Exbury’s village shop was now residential accommodation. A pair of ancient petrol pumps still stood where there must have been a garage around the middle of the last century. One where a staff member would fill your tank and take your cash in person.

The decoy bird perched on the top of the thatch of The Old Farmhouse in Burton turned out to be a real live pigeon, with a breast of the aforementioned pink hue. This was our next visit. There was a lot of house for your money here, but it was on a busy road, and rather hemmed in by new buildings. It had the bonus of a bus stop boasting an hourly service right outside the door. Perhaps new owners would need to feed the pigeon in recognition of its services in deterring prospective thatch thieves. That would be an additional expense to be taken into consideration.

After Burton, we set off East to Bransgore, where the location of Pinetree Cottage answered the question as to way this was comparatively affordable. Another splendid looking thatched residence, it is situated on a very busy corner opposite The Crown public house. Neither of these factors would particularly put us off. It looks a contender.

Our itinerary complete, and it not being quite opening time for Curry Garden in Ringwood, we repaired to The renowned London Tavern in Poulner where we sampled Ringwood Best and Kronenburg while we waited. Jackie impressed the locals by her knowledge of Mrs Brown’s Boys.

Finally we enjoyed the usual top quality of the Curry Garden meals; a discussion with the manager about Bangladeshi, Pakistani, and Indian cooking; and Kingfisher beer. By the time we were travelling back along the A31, the forest trees were silhouetted against the still cloudless sky.

A Splendid Occasion

Today completes a blogging year. As is appropriate for this particular one, it rained throughout in Minstead, although not in London.

Jackie was pleased to be able to drive Gladys and Dave to Southampton Parkway with us. Their trip to Edinburgh happily coincided with my London visits to Norman and Carol.

I took my usual walk from Waterloo to Green Park where I boarded my Jubilee Line train to Neasden.

I don’t normally plan a photograph or manipulate the image to change it. I picture what I see and crop if suitable. At almost any time of the day or night in central London, a helicopter will be seen hovering overhead or making a dash to a hospital. Today one was hovering apparently motionless high above the Thames. After I’d photographed it, I realised the potential for setting the flying machine against the London Eye. Walking on to that feature of the skyline, I raised the camera and pressed the shutter. Faster than the movement of my finger was the flight of the pigeon that stole the shot. Serendipity indeed.

The London Dungeon exhibition first opened in Tooley Street near Guy’s hospital some time in the 1970s. It is a series of waxworks tableaux representing historic horrific happenings in the capital. When Matthew and Becky were still quite young I took them there to see it. No way would they be persuaded to enter. These horrors are now housed in part of the old County Hall, alongside the river. For years I have been under the misapprehension that it was such as the body that lies at the top of the steps outside the new premises that deterred our children. Not a bit of it. ‘It was the rats’, was the explanation Becky recently gave me. Given that Matthew soon kept them as pets, I was rather surprised by this.

At eleven o’clock this morning Westminster Bridge was marginally easier than usual to traverse half way across. After this point it was far more populated than ever. Every race and nationality in the world must have been represented. Whitehall was cordoned off. The only way to cross it was via the public subway at Westminster tube station. The reason for the helicopter became apparent when police cars blocked the entrance to the Houses of Parliament car park. Every few feet along the approaching streets stood a police officer facing rows of crash barriers. Crowds of people packed the thoroughfare, cameras hopefully raised at arms lengths above the throngs. There seemed to me no chance of any point and shoot device snatching a reasonable image of the horse guards and ceremonial coaches glinting in the occasional sunshine. I focussed on the crowds through which I was elbowing my way, thankful that I could see over most of the heads. I had stumbled upon the State Opening of Parliament.

Having reached the comparative sedateness of St. James’s Park, my way across The Mall was again blocked. The band I had heard getting nearer as I crossed the park turned out to be a military one. The crash barriers and police protecting the musicians were supplemented the length of this famous street by guardsmen in their splendid uniforms. There was one pedestrian route across, reminiscent of Birdcage Walk during the London Marathon (see 25th September last year). Every so often one of the guards would present his rifle and march back and forth across the pathway, eventually returning to his place and shouldering arms. Pedestrians had to hang fire while this went on. The whole route from Admiralty Arch to Buckingham Palace was a sight to behold.

At the entrance to Green Park itself, a pair of golden arches suggested that McDonalds was now sponsoring this national treasure.

Walking through Brent’s Church Road market, I felt I was in a different city.

Norman produced a roast pork dinner followed by apple strudel, accompanied by a fine Italian red wine. I then took my usual route to Carol’s, and afterwards the amazingly frequent 507 bus to Waterloo and the train back to Southampton for Jackie to drive me home.

The two way train journey was sufficient for me to devour Jack London’s excellent story ‘The Call of the Wild’, in the Folio society edition, superbly illustrated by Abigail Rorer. It is the savage yet tender tale of Buck, a phenomenal dog who eventually obeys the call.