pigeon – Page 3 – derrickjknight

The Ash And The Elm

Our slumbering over morning coffee was interrupted today by a thump on the window. This was a pigeon. Birds, of course, cannot see glass. Our would-be visitor bounced off, flapped its wings, and flew off into a fir tree, no doubt having a better view of stars than of our sitting room. The unfortunate creature’s motion was curtailed. It was taken short and passed a different one. Perhaps it was impatient to take up the new tenancy and hadn’t realised we were still in residence.

As I carried the cardboard cartons and the bulging black bags we had filled yesterday down the staircase and across the lawn to the car I was so grateful that I was no longer suffering the intense pre-and-post-op pain along the length of my left leg that had been such an impediment on each of our last two moves. I was also relieved that in our new abode we are on the ground floor.

I followed my normal route to Norman’s in Neasden.

A tearful toddler in Morden Hall Park had been stung by nettles and her carer was explaining that there were no dock leaves. These, when rubbed on the affected parts, would have lessened the albeit temporary agony.

Kindly installed by The National Trust, a fresh new welcome board provided me with a memento of my many morning meanderings.

Norman served up a delicious meal of roast guinea fowl with a piquant French white wine followed by a succulent plum flan.

On the tube I finished reading Walter de la Mare’s Peacock Pie (see 24th. August), a book of poetry designed for children yet containing much to delight the adult. With deceptively easy flowing metre and skillful use of rhyme and repetition, de la Mare’s magical imagination weaves excellent aids to slumber. One short piece, ‘Trees’. speaks of what may become our arborial history. We have largely lost our Elms and, it seems, the Ash is about to succumb to alien invaders. Next year marks the hundredth anniversary of this ever-youthful work.

Late afternoon we drove off to Minstead to unload the contents of the car, and then went on to The Firs where Danni cooked an excellent roast chicken meal which we ate with Hardy’s stamp of Australia wine.

Blonds Burn More Easily

From the garden room whilst having our morning coffee. Jackie and I watched a pigeon in the process of landing and take-off in the bay tree beside us. Apparently being a poor judge of available space and the weight-bearing capacity of a slender twig, this large, ungainly, bird flopped onto its chosen perch which was neither long nor strong enough. The result was a lot of flailing about, such as one might expect from a tightrope walker about to fall off. The twig broke, the bird fell and dropped as if it had no parachute, suddenly remembered its wings, stopped in mid descent like a cartoon character, steadied itself, and flapped off, probably looking a bit sheepish.

Jackie drove me to Cotswold in Hedge End where I at last bought some Wellington boots. Still reluctant to encounter much mud again I decided to follow a road. We travelled to Blackwater car park on the Rhinefield ornamental drive where Jackie left me and went off to the deer sanctuary car park at Bolderwood in order to meet me after I had walked there. I walked roughly parallel to the road, sometimes on dryish gravel paths, sometimes on more soggy terrain. It was a beautiful, crisp day.

At one point I heard a rhythmic clatter approaching from round a bend. As I looked up, four ponies came careering round the corner headed straight for me on the path. Their leader was a splendid white beast, bearing down on me with nostrils flaring. It had got quite close before I realised it was not likely to lead its companions to one side of me, whereupon I deftly stepped aside, feeling like an ace matador, and watched the animals canter off into the forest. Pondering on discretion being the better part of valour, especially when faced with stampeding ungulates, I heard a further clattering approaching from the same direction, this time on the opposite side of the road. I watched four more ponies rush by from a safe distance. In truth, far more frightening were the two groups of racing cyclists who followed soon after, possibly breaking the speed limit of 40 mph. I suspect they had spooked the horses.

As I neared my goal I watched a small boy repeatedly throwing his Woody (the character from Toy Story) into a tree. There were no conkers or nuts which could serve as a target, so I was rather puzzled as to the nature of his game. When Woody eventually stayed in the tree, the answer became clear. The boy’s mother had to lift him up so he could shake the branches vigorously until his toy descended. Naturally this had me thinking of socks and rugby boots (see post of 10th October), the story of which I told the boy’s Mum.

The ground dappled with the woodland sunlight took me back to July 1967. It was in a wood in Sussex that Michael and I had stopped off for a play en route to Brighton where, the summer after Vivien died, I planned a bed-and -breakfast tour of the south coast with our son. The photograph I took of that scene could well have been captioned ‘Where’s Michael?’. After our break we travelled on to Brighton to find a bed and breakfast establishment. Of course we had to spend some time on the beach first. Although the weather was hot and humid the sky was completely overcast, so I thought a short time would be safe enough. Not so. After 50 minutes Michael was covered in blisters which required dressing in a hospital casualty department. The nurse there was very understanding and gentle in her explanation to this rather daft Dad that the sun can penetrate cloud cover and blonds burn more easily than people with dark hair. That was the end of our holiday. Michael was safer whilst I was able to receive the benefit of advice from Veronica Rivett, my future mother-in-law, with whom we then stayed.

This evening’s meal consisted of Jackie’s flavoursome Cottage pie followed by Sainsbury’s berry fruits trifle with Fitou for Eizabeth and me and Hoegaarden for the cook.

I Didn’t Get Lost

It was very murky in the New Forest today when I took the Fritham walk from the AA book. Rain drizzled all day. Jackie drove me there and went off to do her own thing whilst I did mine. She had been indicating in good time that she wanted to leave the A31 via a slip-road on her left, when another car came zooming up on her inside making it impossible for her to leave the major road at that point. She was forced to go on to the next opportunity.

Soon after leaving Fritham, ‘a hidden hamlet’, I ventured into Eyeworth Wood, which presented the townie with another woodcraft lesson. The half-mile long path was even more difficult than those I had taken last week. There were no dry sections at all. The mud had even stronger suction, and several fallen branches had to be negotiated. At least the direction was clear, although I was forced into the bracken at times in search of surer footing. Each of my shoes, at different times, was sucked into the muddy maw of the quagmire. It was here I met a couple sporting green wellies. They told me that was what I needed. I’m clearly going to have to get a pair. Before I do this again.

I came to ‘a tree-studded heath, with far-reaching views’. On a different day this was probably an accurate description. Today, visibility was about 500 yards. Thereafter I was required to ‘walk through a shallow valley to a car park at Telegraph Hill’. The bottom of the valley was a pool deep enough to wash some of the mud off my shoes. The only animals I saw were a few cattle near the car park. Ponies and deer were keeping well out of the way. A long, wide, path through heathland leading south past a tumulus to Ashley Cross was virtually all large pools, some of which harboured pond weed. I gave up trying to avoid them, contenting myself with the knowledge that my feet were dry and my shoes getting washed. It is amazing that my feet felt dry, for I had got my socks very soggy and muddy when I lost my shoes. I bought the socks with the walking shoes. They bear the legend ‘Smart Wool’. They certainly are pretty clever. As soon as I returned to The Firs I took off my shoes and socks and proceeded to wring out my muddy socks which still had pieces of holly adhering to them, before inserting them into the washing machine. When she was told the story of the shoes Elizabeth called me a stick in the mud.

In the last section through the forest trees were being felled, the logs being piled up around Gorley Bushes. As I watched the men in the trees working with their power tools I thought of those ancestors of theirs, in the early centuries after Henry VIII had the forest planted, who, with only manual equipment felled and dressed this timber for the building of ships for the defence of the realm. Trees then were even trained to grow in the right shapes for specific parts of the ships. It took a long time to build a ship in early times.

Rather like the Bolton Marathon (posted 11th. August), the last stretch of this walk is uphill. Having ascended the slope I arrived back at the Royal Oak pub forty minutes ahead of the allocated time for the walk. The fact that, for the first time, I didn’t extend both distance and time in an AA walk, is because I didn’t get lost. I tracked Jackie down in the pub and we returned to The Firs for a left-overs lunch. As we drove out of Fritham four bedraggled donkeys filed miserably past the car.

For the last few days we have been puzzled by telltale heaps of pigeon feathers on the lawn. We had attributed these to raiding foxes. We were wrong. Jackie witnessed the demise of one this afternoon. The poor unsuspecting bird was, as usual, foraging for pickings under the bird feeders; for seeds dropped by lighter, more agile avians who could perch above. Suddenly, ‘thwack’, in the flash of an eye a predator struck. As Jackie moved to see what was happening, the sparrowhawk made off with its prey. It reminded me of a crow in Morden Park a couple of days ago which had fled its comrades with a large white object in its beak. Later, as we set off for Sainsburys to return the party glasses, we saw a squirrel scaling a telegraph pole at the end of Beacon Road with a biscuit held in its jaws.

From Sainsburys we proceeded to Jessops where it had been my intention to get the staff to show me how to read how many photographs I had left on my memory card, and, if necessary, to buy another. The camera seized up in the shop and has to be returned to Canon for investigation and repair. I was most upset. Fortunately Elizabeth has an earlier model and has lent it to me for the two to three weeks it will take for mine to be returned to me.

This evening we took Danni and her mother to see the building Danni had found for us and to dine in the Trusty Servant. Danni regrets giving us the flat, thinking she should have kept it for herself. We all enjoyed our meals. Jackie drank Budweiser and the rest of us shared two different red wines.

Moving The Eucalyptus

I’m happy to say Jessops sorted out my computer problem, so I was able to add photographs to yesterday’s post. We then drove back to The Firs, arriving just after midday. The Three Graces, first mentioned on 11th. September, is, in fact, a bird bath. When we arrived, a pigeon was drinking from it.

In the first stage of preparing compost bins to replace the heap we have at the moment, Jackie and I moved the trunk of a deceased eucalyptus tree. This had originally been carried from one side of the garden to the other by two strong young tree surgeons. We now wanted it in yet another corner in order to make space to build the bins. As this was rather a complicated procedure for a couple with 134 years between them, it may be helpful for it to be outlined. The most simple method is, of course, to borrow a chain saw and massacre it. Unfortunately the lady of the manor wishes to make a garden feature of what is an attractive, if extremely heavy, piece of timber. Woodlice are already enjoying it, and it would be very unkind to disturb them more than is necessary. So, what you do is obtain a sack barrow. That was the easiest bit, because Elizabeth bought a strong antique one quite recently. You push this under the middle section of the trunk and gradually lever it into position. Then you find you can move neither it nor its load. Then you get Jackie to think about it. She suggests one person positioned with the barrow at one end, as shown in the diagram, with two people at the other end to lift it so it can be gradually swung round until it is facing in the right direction. Unfortunately we didn’t have two people at the relevant end, so I got the job. Well I couldn’t lumber Jackie, could I? Once pointing in the right direction you stagger along, a few feet at a time, until the person without the barrow yells ‘drop it’. If your ground is uneven, the barrow is bringing up the rear, and the person at the front is the stronger, you may have to switch places for a while in order to make the wheels go round. It may need a push uphill. This is repeated as often as necessary until you have the tree somewhere near what you hope will be its final resting place. Then the swinging round manoeuvre described earlier is repeated in order to refine the positioning. If your tree trunk is not exactly straight it is apt to swivel of its own accord, which can become rather awkward. It is then likely to fall off the sack barrow end. If the opposite end is higher and you have been forced to drop it in the process and can’t get out of the way in time it may potentially strike you a nasty blow. If this does happen and you are forced either to leap about or double up in pain, it is advisable to inform your partner, as soon as possible, that it is only your thigh which has been hit. This whole process is best tried before you do your backs in by sitting on bench seats at The Globe Theatre, as described yesterday.

Jackie and I shared an early meal in Eastern Nights before I went off with Paul for a drink at The Hampshire Bowman in Dundridge, near Bishops Waltham. This is an old style pub serving real ale which is accessed along one of those country roads where it is impossible to pass oncoming traffic without using one of the passing bays at its side. It is also known as the dog pub, because it appears to contain more dogs than people. I had to share an upholstered bench seat with a lurcher that kept stretching its legs in its sleep, thrusting them into my thigh as it did so. It has a very friendly atmosphere.

Unrequited Love?

Today’s tramp was terribly tiresome. Having often noticed, on my usual Colliers Wood walk that the Wandle trail allegedly continues on to Wandsworth, I decided to take that path as the first stage of my journey to Waterloo to meet Tony. Crossing Colliers Wood High Street, the signs led me on a meandering route, the first mile or so through uninteresting side streets populated by rather ugly modernish housing. Eventually the road crossed the Wandle and I could pick up the trail. This was a dismal and windswept winding wander on a dull and windy day. I have no idea of the distance travelled, because, with very few exceptions, each milestone gave the same number of miles.

The tangled undergrowth everywhere bore evidence that summer is almost over. Weeds were brown and parched. Buddleia was similarly dry, colourless, and scorched. Blackberries were almost completely ripe. Nettles and brambles were rampant, and convulvulus choked everything in its grasp. An occasional fluttering butterfly and one hardy honeysuckle bravely brightened the withered Wandsworth stretch of the river. Paths were often overgrown. Birds, if there were any, were silent. All that could be heard was the wind whistling through the trees, except when that was drowned out by the roar and clanking of industrial machinery. An Irishman and his dog, making their way painfully along the narrow path, stepped aside, risking being stung, because, the man said: ‘you are quicker than me’. As I passed, and thanked him, I pointed to the ancient Labrador and commented: ‘you are being held up’. ‘Yes, me legs are holding me up’, he replied.

After a while I found myself in Earlsfield, where I encountered the first long straight road. Magdalen Road, SW18, is an uphill stretch bounded for most of its left hand length by Wandsworth Cemetery. Even the cyclist who brushed past me on the pavement was using his lowest gear. Consequently his legs were going like the clappers, but his speed was slow. A notice outside the cemetery seemed to bear a zombie warning. This put me in mind of Stanley Spencer’s memorable painting, ‘Resurrection in Cookham Churchyard’.

An effort had been made to brighten up the heavy, sombre, facade of Wandsworth Prison. It didn’t really work for me. From Wandsworth Common I made my way to Clapham Junction where I boarded a train, reflecting that I could have done so at Earlsfield.

As I sat on a bench in Waterloo Station, eating a pasty whilst waiting for Tony, a pigeon at my feet adopted the posture of a hopeful dog. It had a great deal of trouble swallowing the one piece of crust I did drop. Rather like a dog with a long stick held crossways in its jaws, the bird tried twisting its neck and rapidly opening and shutting its beak. This didn’t work. When It tried using a claw it almost toppled over. In an effort to avoid a young woman’s feet it flew off. I didn’t notice the crumb drop. It may be stuggling still. The young purple-haired man sitting next to me sucked his thumb continually as he studied his mobile phone. And he’d already eaten a Macdonald’s. At long last he found someone to talk to. He explained that he had just had to spend a week in the same bedroom as a girl without being able to touch her. He didn’t mention whether that was 24/7 or just the nights. His listener could not possibly have any idea of how hard that was. Perhaps that’s why he needed a dummy. Once he’d finished speaking, the thumb went back in the mouth, until he was joined by two other equally colourful young gentlemen. Hugs all round ensued. I am now beginning to realise where sitcom scriptwriters source their material.

The Paralympic Games traffic was really hotting up. Brightly clad marshals were adept at identifying those who needed direction, and providing the necessary service. Transport police were in strong but largely discreet evidence. Except for the two, carrying automatice rifles, who were cheerily chatting to customers on the concourse. Mostly elderly ladies who didn’t seem to be terrorists in disguise.

Tony and I, as usual spent an hour or so in the Archduke bar underneath the railway arches.

Our evening meal tonight was an array of salad, after which we had stewed plums, courtesy of Geoff of the Tardis, with Dream Topping. Jackie wishes the world to know that the Dream Topping was bought in error. It should have been custard, which also bears the name Birds, and comes in a red and yellow packet. I finished of the Vina Araya, while Jackie had a Hoegaarden