ponies – Page 61 – derrickjknight

Do Cattle Predict Rain?

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After much overnight rain, today was humid, overcast, and drizzly.

It seemed a good morning to visit Kitchen Makers in Sway. The Culinary Queen has been managing with a less than ideal cooking area since we moved here three years ago. Of the two local outlets, there are no prizes for guessing why this one should have taken the Head Gardener’s fancy as the first to investigate. An on-site visit has been arranged.

Afterwards we took a drive through the forest where even the swathes of heather and clumps of gorse could barely enliven

the gloom.

Now, does anyone really know whether cattle can predict rain? As a townie, I grew up believing that they always lay down when it was about to rain.

It seems this is now in doubt. Whatever the truth of the matter, it was clear to us that all the ponies we peered at through the drizzle remained on their feet, whereas the cows chewed the cud in a recumbent position. Anyone wishing to examine the issue may find why do cows lie down on Google helpful. On the other hand, they may not.

This evening we dined on chicken breasts wrapped in bacon, boiled potatoes and carrots, piquant cauliflower cheese, and spinach. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Chateauneuf du Pape.

Salvaging A Squandered Sunny Afternoon

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The power cut we had experienced two evenings ago had alerted me to the fact that I did not know who supplied our electricity. And I had never, in three years, received a bill. I speculated that I may be able to surmise the reason for this. First I needed to find the correct electricity company. SSE had fixed the cut. It therefore seemed logical that they may be the suppliers. After half an hour on the telephone I learned that they were not. I asked if they could tell me who was. They couldn’t.

An energy information website gave me a number of the organisation that would be able to tell me. They couldn’t, because SSE were the relevant information organisation in our area. Never mind who they are. A further call to them gleaned the news that British Gas supplied the power. This was not an organisation that immediately sprang to mind for a house that had no gas.

Ten years ago I had taken a six months rental in a house in Bayswater. When I came to leave my final bill for both gas and electricity showed credits for direct debits on both accounts. I had not taken any out. The company, British Gas, insisted that I had. They would not tell me the bank account that they were taking the money from. I offered them my number, and those of both the owner and the agents, neither of whom had taken out the direct debit. Eventually I paid the bill, accepting the donation from a mystery donor.

Of the three hours spent on the phone dealing with this this sunny afternoon, two were spent speaking with three different representatives and listening to inharmonious music while they sought advice from their supervisors. I have been told that the vendor of this house did not cancel his direct debit. (Like me, you probably saw this coming). He is therefore entitled to a refund which I must make good. In order to continue the supply I have to agree to take responsibility for the account from 31st March 2014. My position is that I will agree the responsibility from today’s date. No amount of arguing could bring about any change. I told them to send me a bill for what they thought I should pay, and I will take it up with management on paper.

The reason I could take this no further today, is that I know that if I do not pay without agreement I will be unable to change supplier. I have made it clear that if they charge me, I will change supplier – that, of course, means that I will have to settle the account. But that is to be debated. I have stated that putting things right with a man whose direct debit has been taken monthly for more than three years is between him and them. I acknowledge that it is my fault I have overlooked the matter, but they have some responsibility for their actions. The meter, in a box outside the house, has never been read by an individual because it is Smart and doesn’t need that.

After this I needed to be whisked off into the forest in search of ponies. We didn’t spot any doing anything of interest until there was another hold-up outside Beaulieu on the way home.

Before then, we wandered on Lepe Beach. There were not many others there.

Passing the Isle of Wight were a lengthy container vessel

and some briskly blown yachts.

Past the car park a warning sign explains why

the cliffs are seriously crumbling.

There was much evidence of burrowing,

some of which seemed precariously close

to the steps up to the top,

where a rather rickety barrier now stands at the very edge.

Even the breakwaters are seriously eroded, but blend rather well with pebbles on the beach.

I had to wonder how long the trees could retain their grip.

We have often passed The Filly Inn on the Lymington side of Brockenhurst.

Today we dropped in for a drink. My pint of Starboard is placed in the bottom right of the picture.

We didn’t need to imbibe anything more with our Hordle Chinese takeaway meal.

An Early Post Box

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A couple of days ago Jackie made a new sign for The Dragon Bed, and left a photograph on my camera.

Paul and Margery made a brief visit at lunchtime in order to deliver a birthday present ordered from their last exhibition. Both were looking in fine fettle.

Afterwards, Jackie drove us around the forest.

Like many other plants this year, the heather seemed to be blooming early.

Not that the ponies noticed.

They just kept their eyes on the grass.

On the outskirts of Burley we took a pot-holed drive down Tyrell’s Lane,

where I was struck by the topiary fronting a house called Ladywell. This reflected the thatched roofing

which bears a peacock motif on top.

Next door, Tyrell’s Way’s garden sports a magnificent gunnera.

As I have occasionally mentioned, sheep are inquisitive creatures. This one in a field at the end of Tyrell’s drive, even lifted its head from its grazing at my approach.

This was in stark contrast to the low maintenance ovine mother and child occupying a garden in Furzley, who completely ignored me.

Stony Cross Plain, just north of the A31, seems to be the province of Shetland ponies,

one of which thought that a discarded tissue was not to be sniffed at.

A recumbent foal

occasionally stirred itself to stand. This creature has become accustomed to flies,

which is more than can be said for its younger cousin at Nomansland, still skipping in confusion at the irritation.

A visit to Eyeworth Pond revealed nothing of interest, except for this post box near the Royal Oak, that we had not noticed before. Shultze gunpowder factory operated near the pond from the 1860s until the early 20th century. This receptacle was erected to make the postman’s life easier, in the days before delivery vans. It was recently restored by the Forestry Commission.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s roast chicken, savoury rice, breaded mushrooms, tempura vegetables, and salad. She drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the cabernet sauvignon/tempranillo.

Mobile, cigarettes, chips, and coke

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Aaron, this Sunday, had removed two overhanging branches from a neighbours fir tree, and had dismantled an old temporary greenhouse cobbled together from panels found on our plot. Early this morning we chopped the branches into manageable chunks to fill an orange bag and, along with some of the panels, and a rather rancid bathroom cabinet left by our predecessors, removed them to Efford Recycling Centre.

This effort entitled to us to spend the rest of the morning in the forest.

We consider ourselves fortunate to have reached Beaulieu and traversed it. The ponies had other ideas. Switching from side to side of the narrow approach road, they caused the longest tailback we have ever experienced here.

One animal broke into a run when it saw that its companions had

reached the wide verge, just outside the village, where we normally see them. If you are bored with all these rear views, imagine what else i was going to do as we fell into line? Do you know that number plate off by heart yet?

Fortunately, once through Beaulieu, we were travelling in the right direction to be unhindered by a less mobile group.

After this, we set off for Calshot Castle which was open for visitors. Originally built for King Henry VIII the castle was extended and refurbished in the 18th, 19th, and 20th centuries.

The entrance door above leads to the shop where admission tickets may be bought. My first thought was to pass the young woman seated at her desk studying her mobile phone and approach the young man in the corner for tickets. Rapidly reorienting myself I purchased our admission from the young lady, who was, in fact, most engaging. In particular, she had a very tactful way of asking whether we were pensioners, and didn’t use the word once. The gentleman was wearing an R.A.F. Medical Corps uniform.

Entering a room marked ‘Cell’, I found myself in an office, upon a shelf in which was evidence of a recent decapitation.

Through the cannon turrets

I spied a paddle boarder who wouldn’t have had much chance of penetrating the defences.

We ascended steep stone steps leading

eventually to a large central room that had, in the last lustrum of the 19th century, been converted to a barracks.

Each man was allocated his own meagre space containing a metal framed and sprung bed that didn’t look too comfortable.

The room contained a coal burning stove fronting the repaired remnants of the Tudor fireplace.

A number of stone-roofed alcoves

were brightly lit by windows from which I could observe visitors watching a container vessel

and a kayaker down below.

What, I wondered, had attracted the attention of these two pointers? In the foreground of this shot lies the moat that surrounded the castle.

A corner on this level contained a garderobe. This, primarily, is a locked chamber containing dress and other stores; by extension a bed-chamber, or a privy. This was a very dark room, and the only image for which I used flash. Otherwise you would not have seen the hole, once covered by a wooden seat, which received human excreta to slide down into the depths below.

The final set of steps bore a sign warning of the uneven roof above. I was more concerned about the steps themselves.

They led to a stout iron door, one of several that stood one the gun platform up there.

Here is evidence that Jackie made it to the top.

These images of stored boats, passers by,

wooden stakes,

and a family investigating the lifeboat centre we have to suffice for mine.

Our trip ended with a brunch in the Activity Centre Café, from which I watched a ferry boat and a couple of yachts crossing the path of a car transporter;

and a family group enjoying their lunch in the sunshine.

This evening we dined on Mr Chan’s Chinese takeaway with which Jackie drank Blue Moon and I finished the Bordeaux.

By Request

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Pauline, The Contented Crafter, recently expressed an interest in seeing a photograph showing the whole length of the garden and the house. Well, this may have been possible were it not for the foliage in between. Nevertheless, I did my best to comply.

I managed to cross the road at the front of the house without either dying in a road accident or falling in the ditch on the other side.

There was no room for the corner facing the trellis in that view of the building.

I aimed in the direction of the house from as far south as was possible, beginning with the Weeping Birch Bed;

the Brick Path was next;

then the Back Drive barrier;

the Oval Path;

and the Rose Garden.

Well, at least they show glimpses of the back of the house.

Here are a couple of sightings of the roof, one from the Back Drive,

and another from the compost heaps.

Here are some aerial views from the bedroom and bathroom windows.

This one features Jackie watering, on which she spent much time. To the right of the fence is the North Breeze jungle.

Here are today’s dahlia

and some white sweet peas.

Normally Aaron takes his clippings to the dump at no extra charge. Yesterday Jackie insisted that he left them for us to deal with. The orange bags in this picture were already destined for the Effort Recycling Centre. The heaps in the foreground filled them up again after we had completed our first trip. We needed to chop them up a bit more to fit them in. We then made a second journey.

I was only a couple of days ago that Jackie was announcing that she had come away empty handed from our last few trips to Efford. That run was to be interrupted today with these two tables. The metal, glass-topped, one was for the greenhouse to be delivered tomorrow, so she may be forgiven.

We had then earned a break, so we took a trip into the forest.

Seeking shade under trees in Sandy Down a little donkey was given similar masked protection from the pesky flies to that afforded to its larger equine cousin.

Our chosen approach to Brockenhurst was somewhat congested with ponies and their foals. Can you count how many?

Eventually we found ourselves at Patrick’s Patch in Beaulieu.

This community garden has its own wildflower meadow;

colour coordinated marigolds and nasturtiums;

echinaceas in the form of shuttlecocks;

splendid Swiss chard;

a variety of sweet peas;

russet sunflowers;

and a carved rabbit.

An admirably creative collection of scarecrows are distributed throughout. This one is a revolving balloon;

and this one, having a rest from watering, has a gourd for his head.

This evening we dined at The Monkey House just outside Lymington. The service was excellent, friendly, and unobtrusive; the food excellent. We both enjoyed gammon steaks for main courses. My starter was whitebait, Jackie’s brie in breadcrumbs; my dessert Eton mess, Jackie’s crème brûlée. I drank a very good pinot noir and Jackie drank Amstel.

“Are The Ponies Fat?”

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This morning Jackie drove me to Sears Barbers in Milford on Sea, where the affable Peter cut my hair as well as usual. We then continued into the forest.

Strong overhead sunlight dappled the autumn leaves carpet of the forest floor,

giving a spectral air to fallen trees

and their ripped out roots.

Even here, on the outskirts of Brockenhurst, cans can be casually discarded.

On the crossroads in the village itself two ponies and a foal deliberated which way to turn.

I walked around them to obtain better light, and the little one sought comfort and succour from its mother.

A young North American visitor stopped to ask me the way to The New Forest. I informed him that he was in it. He wondered where he could go for a day’s hike. I gave him some suggestions, one of which was that he should buy a map in the main street to which I directed him. He then asked “Are the ponies fat? Or perhaps pregnant?”. I suggested that the one he was looking at was probably pregnant, but also explained that because we had experienced such a mild winter they had found plenty of forage and were not as thin as they often were when the weather had been severe.

As we emerged from the village we saw a large group of ponies, foals,

and cattle grazing, flopping, and vying for shelter under the spreading branches of a mature oak.

Possibly in an effort to shake off the persistent flies

some of the horses shook themselves and strode frantically across the grass.

Other ponies disrupted the traffic as they sought shade by the roadside.

On Hordle Lane as we made our way home we had the pleasure of watching two concrete mixers negotiating a safe passage before we could continue on our own. I expect the drivers knew there was a ditch on the left-hand side.

Elizabeth came to lunch and Jackie plied us with a plentiful array of cold meats, cheeses, and salads, with which I drank more of the malbec and the ladies drank sparkling water.

After this, we visited Braxton Gardens and scoffed scone cream teas.

It should come as no surprise that further sustenance later on was surplus to requirements.

Whilst we were sitting in the garden we received a telephone call from Matthew to say that he, Tess, and Poppy would be arriving later tonight so that they can be with us on my 75th birthday tomorrow.

Joints Not Yet Stiffened

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After the usual weeding and tidying in the garden, Jackie drove us out into the forest, where we eventually lunched at Hockey’s Farm in South Gorley.

We travelled via Nomansland where I communed with a disinterested group of ponies cropping the grass beside a recumbent foal.

One of the adults came close to nudging the infant of its chosen patch of sward.

As it snoozed, the little one rested its heavy muzzle on the firm ground.

Eventually even that became too much and the creature collapsed, prone and sprawling. You very rarely see the older animals lying down, for they all sleep standing up. Not so the youngsters whose joints have not yet stiffened.

As we neared the village of Hale, domesticated horses in a field along Tethering Lane wore the fly masks and ear muffs I have mentioned before. These lucky animals are thus offered protection from pestilential flies. As so often, crows peck around what the horses leave behind.

The small village of Hale has a public green surrounded by thatched houses and a school, some pupils of which were engaged in hearty sports as we arrived. I thought it politic not to photograph the proceedings.

The road through the village also divides the grounds of Hale Park. On one side we see the drive to Hale House;

on the other an avenue of trees extending into the distance. The approach is splendid enough now, but what an impressive coach drive would have been enjoyed in its eighteenth century heyday. There is no public access, so we rely on Wikipedia for the following information:

‘Hale House

Hale House was built by Thomas Archer, Groom Porter to Queen Anne, and Baroque architect, who bought the manor of Halesometime after 1712.^[1] He demolished an Elizbethan mansion which had been designed by John Webb for the Penruddock family.^[2]^[3] The house was designed and built by Archer around 1715.^[3] It was remodelled around 1792 by the architect Henry Holland.^[3] Other alterations were made in the early and late 19th century.^[4]

The house has two storeys and seven bay-windows at the front.^[5]^[3] It has cement rendered walls, a portico with pediment and Corinthian columns, and a slate roof.^[5] The service wings flank the house but are detached.^[5] They also are of two storeys, with cement rendered walls and slate roofs.^[5]

It is now a Grade I listed building.^[4] The house is in private ownership and is not open to the public.

Hale Park

The grounds were laid out from about 1715 by Thomas Archer.^[6] During the 19th century and early 20th century the grounds were simplified and new features were added to the gardens.^[6]

The park includes a circular pool surrounded by yew hedging and topiary shapes.^[6] There is a Ha ha towards the south.^[6] The park contains a number of copses, and lodges including the South Lodge which has a Doric portico.^[6] Tree avenues cross the park, including a lime avenue which runs north east to Hatchett Lodge, and extends beyond park.^[6] The Mount is possibly from the 17th-century house and is enclosed by hedging.^[6]

At one time there was an ice house in the park.’

Further on, outside Woodgreen, as I emerged from the car to home in on another equine mother and child, I noticed that another photographer had the same idea.

Possibly slightly alarmed by the attention the baby sought a top up from a comforting nipple,

after which it tottered away,

twitching its tail and tossing its head this way and that in an attempt to repel flies.

Then, like its pony cousin, it sunk to the ground,

stilled its tail, supported its head, and settled down to sleep.

After our substantial lunches, fish fingers and baked beans sufficed for dinner this evening. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Fleurie.

Shade

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In order to use the services of the Post Office whilst Jackie was visiting the Birchfield Dental Practice, this morning I parcelled up some items the Australian branch of the family had left behind; wrote a cheque for the water bill in Sigoules; and packed up the various documents required for my tax return. I then posted everything.

Afterwards, Jackie took us on a drive through the forest.

The unfortunate ponies struggled to find relief from the overhead sun, and clustered where they could under trees offering inadequate cover.

Tormented by flies, one of this group scratched against the tree trunks;

the others just bore their discomfort in silence. The beastly insects crawled over these wretched creatures’ eyes, noses, and mouths.

We could at least benefit from the car’s air conditioning, and choose to venture into shady lanes, three of which are featured for Jill’s benefit.

The domesticated horses enjoyed better shade,

even when grazing.

Outside the shop at Pilley one string of ponies queued for the phone box

While others kept down the grass in front of the houses. This smaller animal, despite its leopard skin coat, was bullied by one of the larger ones when it ventured away from the gate.

Foals are becoming big enough for their mothers to leave them to their own devices. One white mare attempted to escape the attentions of her little one, who was having none of it, and, on spindly legs, quickly trotted after her.

The little ones are still learning to tolerate flies, and twitch about in vain.

The lonely male just went to sleep.

Sadly, juvenile tails are no use as fly whisks,

so our little limpet clung to Mum,

keeping within the sweep of hers.

We visited Tanners Lane on our way home. Despite the low tide, the appearance of water, against the backcloth of the Isle of Wight, gave the illusion of coolness.

Two women and children searching among the shallows, skirted

a rowing boat

chained to the stony shore.

This is the last house on the lane.

We had seen dog roses in the hedgerows at Boldre;

Those on Tanners Lane mingled with blackberry blossom among which Small Heath butterflies flitted. There are two in this picture.

Our evening meal consisted of cold meats, hard-boiled egg, salad, and cheeses.

Now we are going to drink beer on the patio.

Road Blocks

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This morning Jackie drove us with our friends Jessie and Claire out into the forest. Unfortunately this took rather longer than anticipated because even the narrow lanes suffered under the burden of far more traffic than usual. Our environment was the venue for a major cycling event, and there was extensive parking in the vicinities of the hostelries.

No sooner had we escaped the first batch of cyclists than a string of ponies stretched across the road at Mockbeggar,

where cattle took some shelter from the heat beneath shady trees,

and almost every other donkey seemed burdened by pregnancy.

We waited for a quad car to pass in order to turn into Hockey’s Farm at South Gorley,

where I was not the only person with the idea of photographing

recently shorn alpacas;

extremely smelly little pigs;

and geese

sharing a pen with splendid chickens.

The geese enjoyed a bath in the far left-hand corner. They would duck and dive, then, shaking themselves dry, leave the pool and join their companions.

We then partook of traditional cream teas from the shop. While I had busied myself in the farmyard, Jessie had purchased various meat items which resulted in a certain amount of unwanted attention from a visiting dog.

Fortunately the animal’s head was turned by the offer of a very fresh bone.

Our next obstacle on the road came in the form of a foal, escorted by its pony mother, having a scratch on Roger Penny Way.

The route along the A337 into Lyndhurst was so packed with unmoving traffic that we took a diversion via Minstead through Emery Down. As you can see, this did not prove to be a good idea.

Having eventually threaded our way through this blockage we took the road through Bolderwood and immediately encountered a dappled pony with no inclination to move.

I had resolved not to feature the swarms of cyclists, but they and their marshals did impede our entrance onto the A35 and potential freedom of the road.

The next pony and foal did allow us passing space.

We were soon back home, where Jackie fed us all on superb roast lamb, mint sauce, sage and onion stuffing, roast potatoes, cauliflower cheese, carrots and runner beans. We finished up with Claire’s first class mints. Jackie drank an excellent Sainsbury’s Chablis 2015 provided by Jessie, and I finished the merlot. The others had a long journey back to London and left soon after 6 p.m.

Wagons Ho!

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Beginning with roseraie de l’Hay, Jackie and I continued our work in the Rose Garden by bashing stakes into the ground and tying the stems to them. Brambles are very sneaky when they send their deep roots down beside roses. The worst of these, masquerading as the rose, had to be dug out with a trowel and great care.

Rosa gallica, here fronted by Laura Ford, also needed a lengthy stake;

shorter ones sufficed for Lady Emma Hamilton and Festive Jewel.

Laura Ford, standing between roseraie de l’Hay and rosa gallica,

had produced a rambling sport which we needed to remove from its cultivated host. New varieties are produced by grafting onto the wild rose stock. A tendency to revert to the original produces what is called a sport. This dog rose looks wonderful when flung over a hedgerow, but rather detracted from our plantings.

It probably envied Ballerina her gleeful dance celebrating her freedom to roam.

This afternoon we transported two large orange bags of garden clippings to the Efford Recycling Centre, then went for a drive in the forest.

Sometimes we do find ourselves admiring cyclists who tackle the slopes with such splendid effort.

Here was another at Burley, climbing the hill above The Queen’s Head.

Walkers were also doing well with this.

We, on the other hand, were enjoying a drink in the front garden of the pub. Katherine Parr was the sixth wife of King Henry VIII, and the only one to survive him. It is, we think, her portrait that adorns the inn sign. (See Lord Beeri’s comments below. He is right to put the finger on Lady Jane Gray)

Strike out the first two guesses. Becky, in her comment below, has come up with the definitive answer, from https://www.royalcollection.org.uk/collection/404444/elizabeth-i-when-a-princess.

From this point we noticed the dragon on the roof of A Coven of Witches, thus combining the two myths upon which the prosperity of this village is built.

Even the Art Shop has a scary window.

We had stopped here because we could see that a Burley Wagon Ride was about to get under way.

On the approach to the car park, a tree was cut down some years ago. Someone obviously carved the name of the village into the stump. Only three and a half letters remain.

No forest drive would be complete without at least one pony mooning in the middle of the road.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s deliscious chiken tikka, mushroom and onion rice topped with an omelette, and onion bahjis She drank Peroni and I drank Isla Negra merlot 2016.