ponies – Page 66 – derrickjknight

The Witch Hunt

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This morning Jackie drove us to Burley in search of witches.

The landscape across the moors early in the morning offered misty slate layers in the distance.

On the approach to Burley, the leaves on the trees were turning the rich colours of autumn

The car park in the village was largely occupied by ponies who had generously left a few spaces for the traffic.

One little lad in a buggy wasn’t all that sure about the attention he received.

We soon realised that we had missed the real Halloween event which had been on Saturday, two days ago. Our witch hunt was therefore fruitless. We had to settle for carved pumpkins, including the winning mouse, and ghastly ghouls sporting sheets.

Some sorceresses had abandoned their hats in the form of traffic cones that had found their way into the landscape. In the first of these two photographs the bicycle attached to the railing was probably left by a witch as she switched to here broom. In the second, Jackie converses with a garrulous goose.

Its companion practiced its contortions and they both enjoyed a good preen.

A communal field on the edge of the village contained examples of agricultural machinery and artifacts of a bygone age;

a shepherd’s hut;

and the parked up Burley Wagon Rides conveyance with a nearby pitched tent.

Trees, one with nibbled lower branches, one dead

We had been told that a herd of red deer could often be seen on the far side of the field. Like the witches, the deer had flown, but the evidence of their presence was shown by the pruned lower branches of the trees they had pruned.

A bonfire, surprisingly swarming with wasps, was being prepared for the next celebration event, namely fireworks night on the 5th of November, commemorating the failure of the Gunpowder Plot of 1605. Foiled by betrayal, this was a Catholic attempt to blow up the House of Lords and kill King James I. Instead, Guido (Guy) Fawkes was hung, drawn, and quartered. (See LordBeariofBow’s comment below). This involves taking down a hanged victim before death, cutting out living vital organs and quartering the body. It was a common punishment for treachery in those days.

Beyond the field could be seen Burley Manor Hotel. The original manor house dated from the twelfth century. In 1852 the building was demolished to make way for this Victorian replacement which has been an hotel since 1935.

Dew continued to bejewel grass and fallen leaves when we left to return home.

Charles Lane, Bagnum is just one of the sun-streaked roads that rushes towards us as we travel through the forest.

It wasn’t until, watching the 1 p.m. BBC News, I looked beyond Hugh Pym, that I realised the destination of at least one of the Burley witches.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s lovely liver and bacon casserole which was far more tender and tasty than that I had eaten yesterday at Otter Nurseries. It came with new potatoes and perfect Brussels sprouts and runner beans. Lemon and lime merangue pie was to follow. I finished the madiran.

A Dewy Morning

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Throughout the garden we have plants, such as these bidens that enliven the front entrance, that have self-seeded from tubs and hanging baskets.

It was a dewy morning in the forest when we went for a drive.

On the outskirts of Wootton, through a break in the trees, we glimpsed a string of ponies making their way along a bank which turned out to be one side of a dug out car park. Naturally, in the interests of photography, Jackie drove us into it, performing the usual slalom around waterlogged pit-holes.

I ascended the steps and mingled with the ponies, one of whom had a bit of catching up to do.

The gorse bushes wore cobweb and dewdrop strings of pearls;

and moisture lay across the moors. Gulls were forced to share the terrain with crows, dogs and their owners,

whilst riders galloped horses in the distance.

Further on, there was evidence that someone had lost a pretty scarf wrapped around a tree.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious beef stew and mashed potato, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank Gilbert & Gaillard Chateauneuf du Pape 2014. We deserved it because the iMac is still playing up, and I could only post these pictures by e-mailing them in medium size to myself and putting them into WordPress from the Windows laptop. I couldn’t load them directly onto the laptop because I had deleted them from the camera on uploading them to the Mac. Well, it had worked well yesterday.

Spectral Ponies

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This morning we brunched in a very crowded Otter Nurseries restaurant before driving to Emery Down, Bolderwood, and back home.

As with many New Forest villages, the approach to Emery Down from Swan Green is quintessentially English.

We have a row of tiny thatched cottages in which I could not stand upright, and a larger thatched house, opposite the green

flanking the uphill stretch of an undulating road, one of the warning signs of which bears the image of a pony. Level with the gate in this picture is a cattle grid. Both gate and grid are designed to keep those ponies on the far side.

The garden of the house benefits from our Indian summer;

no self-respecting one in this area, except, that is, for ours, is without its bank of nerines,

not all accompanied by pink shrub roses.

Turning left in Emery Down the forest road goes through Bolderwood. On its verges Jackie parked with her puzzle book whilst I wandered among the trees,

the leaves of which were beginning to turn rich gold and deep red.

This is also the season for mushrooms to force their way through the forest floor.

Throughout the woods can be seen shattered trunks and hollowed sawn logs from fallen trees.

At Bolderwood silent spectral ponies emerged from the shadows to graze their way across to the greener grass on the other side.

Sunlight played on the road on our return.

This evening we dined on spicy pizza and salad, followed by profiterols. I drank Basson shiraz 2014.

Pig On The Road

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Hoping for the cloud to clear we drove out to the north of the forest late this afternoon.

Between Sway and Brockenhurst a woman rode a New Forest pony. This can only be managed after skillful ‘backing’ or breaking in.

Her steed carried her past a gathering of diminutive Shetland or ‘Thelwell’ ponies, ignoring both me and the hair in their eyes as they foraged away.

Along Roger Penny Way we learned that pannage continues, as pigs scampered speedily along the verges

and across the road, snouts searching out mast.

Further along, a group of normal sized ponies grazed on a golf green, as a player prepared his putt. By the time Jackie had parked and I had walked back, a pair of brandished clubs had shooed off the interlopers who satisfied themselves with the roadside where they blended with the golden brown bracken.

We enjoyed dramatic skies across the moors. Blue skies peeped out from lighter clouds, and beams of sunlight pierced the darker ones.

At Godshill a farmer, carrying a bucket, led his little herd of cattle along the roadside;

a deep bellowing emanated from one straggler who broke into a surprisingly spritely sprint, lest it might miss out on whatever was in the container;

and a cow and calf had managed to find themselves on the wrong side of the road.

By the time we reached Abbots Well the landscape, and the cattle therein, basked in warm late sunlight;

the skies on our return home added gold and magenta hues to the darkening slate.

This evening we dined on salmon and smoked haddock fish pie studded with prawns; crunchy carrots and broccoli; and fried leeks and spinach. We both drank Louis de Camponac sauvignon blanc 2015.

Playing Disrupt The Traffic

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This afternoon Jackie drove us around the forest,

beginning with Tanners Lane where ponies, delaying our arrival at the beach, played at disrupting the traffic.

They crossed and recrossed the narrow lane in their eagerness to crop the grass

and prune the hedgerows.

When we actually arrived at the waterfront, a cyclist who had weaved his way through the horses ahead of us, was already sunning himself on the shingle;

a young lady carrying an Ordnance Survey map soon sat on a lump of concrete to take her rest.

The now familiar boat floated on the tide which was the highest we have seen it.

On the approach to St Leonards lies an apparently insignificant field that performed an important role during World War 2. Across The Solent in the background the Isle of Wight can be seen. Here Jackie reads

this explanatory sign. (I haven’t managed to enlarge this image in WordPress’s improved editing facility), so

I offer this information from the D-Day Museum website:

“Needs Oar Point, like Bisterne and Lymington airfields, was a temporary two steel track runway built in 1943. The runway was built to support the D-Day operations. On D-Day and for the next four weeks, squadrons flew sorties in support of the troops in Normandy. Additionally the Hawker Typhoon ground-attack aircraft flew from here. This provided low-level close air support to the Normandy beachhead.

During the Second World War there were twelve airfields in the New Forest, nine of which were built in wartime. Flat areas of land in this region made it suitable for creating airfields. Being situated near the south coast of the UK also made the The New Forest a useful base for aircraft operating over continental Europe.”

This evening we dined at Lymington’s Lal Quilla, where we received a very warm welcome and delicious food. My choice was Purple Tiger, which is a dish of tiger prawns, tamarind, and various other spices. We shared special fried rice, onion bahji, and a garlic naan. We both drank Kingfisher.

After The Drift

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When Aaron and Sean cleared space for the promised greenhouse, they stacked the cut branches at the end of the Back Drive.

I chopped or broke them into manageable sizes and filled two of our large orange containers with them. There is still enough for two more bags. Jackie and I took them to the dump and returned with a very large saucer for a big planter tub.

While I worked, big black bees and Small White butterflies were equally busy alongside me among the fuchsias and the verbena bonarensises in the New Bed.

From the recycling centre we went on a driveabout.

At Sway we came across a group of ponies bearing the identification marks showing that they had experienced The Drift.

When I featured this annual event, I explained that tails were clipped, collars replaced, and branding applied. This animal displays all three.

It was actually quite difficult to show the cuts on the tails because they were constantly being used as fly whisks.

Wherever the creature had rolled in the mud, it had besmirched its nice new collar;

whilst this one’s bath had obscured its brand.

We visited Milford on Sea to investigate the fortunes of Mr Pink’s Fish and Chips since its recent fire. Unfortunately it is closed until further notice.

The shingle and the rocks along the coastline were well populated, as can be seen by this shot of Hurst Point Lighthouse, the story of which can be seen here: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hurst_Point_Lighthouse

Others were bathing in the water,

seated on folding chairs,

reading newspapers, or flashing tattoos.

This evening we dined on duck breasts in plum sauce; roast new potatoes in their jackets and peppers in chillies and herbs; and crisp carrots and green beans. I finished the Fleurie.

The Drift

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On another beautiful late summer sunny day we brunched at The Boat House Café in Lymington. I chose the Full English Breakfast with tea, while Jackie selected a baked potato generously filled with prawns, accompanied by a cappuccino. The food was good and the drinks enormous, but further visits would be happier when not on a scorching hot day in the height of the holiday season.

This was the view outside the eating house. Henrietta can be seen at her strawberry stall.

On the wall against which her sign is propped, can be seen a child’s shoe and a small punnet of the fruit. I asked this lovely lady what was the story behind this display. She explained that she was trying to draw attention to the lost item of footwear. She had originally placed a strawberry inside the shoe. Never one to pass up a photo opportunity, I asked her to do it again.

She obliged. I was not surprised that someone has loved her enough to adorn her wedding finger.

The quayside was very well populated; people were occupied

boating,

crabbing,

feeding the ducks,

or just sitting.

Jackie drove right past our house afterwards and headed off to the forest in search of ponies. As far as the eye could see the sun-blest, purple heather-carpeted moorland between Sway and Brockenhurst was devoid of ponies. We wondered why. It was then that my driver saw the road signs such as:

Maybe we were going to be in luck after all. But which way? We did an about turn and turned left in the direction of Brockenhurst. In the distance a line of parked vehicles came into view. We headed for them. Eventually we came to a track under a railway bridge from which a rather frantic neighing emanated. Jackie parked on the gravelled path and I walked in the direction of the sounds. Having moved under the bridge I came upon the round-up, known as The Drift.

This was an area penned off with very stout poles. An increasingly active and vociferous mass of equine flesh and hides was contained within its confines. Spectators of all ages lined the structure, leaning or sitting on the struts.

Seeing the handlers in the pen surrounded by heavy, heaving, horseflesh, hooves thudding on the impacted soil, I wasn’t surprised to read signs saying that anyone attending The Drift did so at their own risk. When I was absorbed in taking the last photograph above, I almost backed into a pony that had been freed.

A tap on my shoulder alerted me to the fact that if I stepped backwards I would encounter a hot branding iron hanging from the tree behind me. I had noticed a fire, and walked close to the heat of it, but I had not examined it closely enough to notice that it was heating an array of such implements.

These creatures were being given an annual health check. They were rounded up; had their condition inspected; branded; and given a tail trim. Any that had problems were returned to their owners on whom it was incumbent to resolve any problems before releasing them back into the forest. Those to be branded with their owners’ initials were either new to the forest, or had been born since the last annual event. I have mentioned before that the animals’ tails are cut in a particular way specific to the area in which they roam. This is the reason for the trim.

The gentleman in this picture was one of those tasked with trimming and branding inside a smaller enclosure into which the ponies were led in manageable groups. Managing involved prodding with a stick, slapping on the rear, and only occasionally shouting. The horses made far more noise than their carers. Interestingly, those animals which had been in the forest for several years, and therefore knew the ropes, were far less alarmed than the younger ones.

They also knew that, branded, brushed, and treated to a new collar they would, like those in this shot, be set free to worry the traffic and set off under the railway bridge to Brockenhurst for a good feed.

Once a few had been cajoled into the the treatment pen, a little space opened up in the main enclosure,

until newcomers filled it.

Occasionally the seething masses would divide enough for

human handlers,

and equine captives to steal the show.

The gentleman in the purple T-shirt on the left of the first picture in this series was my informant today. Further information can be obtained from this excellent website: http://www.newforest-life.com/New-Forest-Drift.html

This evening we dined on pork spare ribs in barbecue sauce with Jackie’s savoury rice and green beans, followed by Bakewell plaits and custard. I finished the syrah.

A Rapid Change Of Light.

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Early this morning we had an avian visitor, in the form of a juvenile robin looking wistfully through the kitchen window, during intervals between frantic flapping. Jackie lifted it up and set it free, but didn’t wait for me to get in another shot.

Unbeknown to us, when we visited Lymington Quay a little later, we just missed Frances and her friends Dave and Kay who also spent some time there.

Initially oblivious of the hydraulic load-lift behind him, a young man dozed on a bench

against the backdrop of the Ship Inn,

with its lichen painted roof.

Tourists gathered around The Boat House Café,

waited for the cruises to begin,

or travelled on the ferry port train.

while more regular visitors prepared the rigging of their boats,

and a pair of kayakers set off between moored hulls.

As the quayside filled up and the hot sun rose in the sky, we set off for the cooler, less crowded, forest.

At East Boldre an imperious boxer dog occupied his own personal observation platform. (See comments from arlingwoman and 10000hoursleft below. The dog is an Old English Mastiff)

Cyclists enjoyed their track around the Ladycross Estate near Brockenhurst

where dappled sunlight played on the woodland trees,

and Jackie saw a dinosaur emerging from a dried up bog.

In this weather, ponies tend to shelter under trees, utilising their fly whisks.

It seems they have learned that those in white clothing need less shade.

Even before we arrived home, we could see mist rolling in from the sea. I didn’t need to suggest we went and had a look at it. My Driver just turned away from the house and made straight for the coast, where

the Isle of Wight was invisible,

and a light pall lay over those on the beach.

This afternoon we received a delightful surprise when the three people we hadn’t known had been at the quay arrived for a visit. We spent an enjoyable few hours together, naturally involving highly satisfying admiration of the garden.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s splendid chicken jalfrezi and savoury rice.

Not a bad day, really.

P.S. Barrie Haynes put the following additional information about the lifting device on my Facebook page: ‘As an amendment to that, the heavy duty ones (as in this case) do use oil when going down. It is released through a small orifice, thus making the tail lift go down slowly and safely with a heavy load and taking the stain of up to a couple of tons off the operating mechanism. So you were right after all Derrick it’s Mechanical (two big chains) Electrical (separate battery on lorry) and Hydraulic (for safety). For anybody reading this, never use a tail lift on a hired vehicle unless you are happy you know exactly how to do it. They can remove fingers!’

The Headbutt

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Here is a lace cap hydrangea in our front garden.

This morning, Jackie drove us to Eyeworth Pond and back. This lies beyond the Royal Oak at Fritham.

A group of friendly teenagers perched on a bank.

Behind them was a carpet of waterlilies.

The group were very happy to have their photograph taken. I gave them the blog details and said they were welcome to take copies. (I hope you enjoy them, folks.)

There was not as much avian activity here as there had been during nest-building time, but I did manage to catch

blue tits,

a chaffinch,

and a duck steering her two ducklings around the pond.

Someone had left birdseed on a gatepost. This was quite handy for photography.

The chaffinch stepped so gingerly on the gravel that it reminded me of

Becky at Iwade in August 1972.

As I concentrated on the ungainly chaffinch a clattering behind me alerted me to a fast-moving string of ponies passing along the path.

After a while they returned. One, in the foreground here, laid claim to a clump of bracken.

Others who dared approach were given the evil eye, squeaked, and backed off. Just as I was about to focus on its gentle orb, the bravest was given a resounding headbutt by the creature with the mouthful of ferns. The assailant really batted the victim. There was a resounding crack, the hopeful horse staggered off, and I was relieved not to have been noticed.

This evening we dined on Mr Pink’s fish and chips, pickled gherkins and pickled onions. I finished the Côtes du Rhône.

‘We’re On Holiday’

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Jackie has planted one or two roses on the back drive. Given that they cost £1.49 each at Poundstretcher this one is inappropriately named ‘Dearest’ yet it has surprised us with its powerful, yet delicate, scent.

After a sniff round the garden, my Lady drove me on a circuitous route to Hatchet Pond and back.

Glimpsing a large reflective pool through trees at the bottom of Pilley Hill, I asked to be disembarked in order to investigate.

This was the larger building turned upside down;

and this another.

Cattle obligingly clambered down to the pool to drink.

They, too, were reflected.

Around the next bend ponies and their foals were keeping residents’ grass in order.

At Hatchet Pond we found that the cygnets are growing up,

but remain uncertain what to do with their legs.

There were many visitors to the water on this, the hottest day of the year so far.

Swans, gulls, and ducks, of course, live there.

Cattle drank and bathed.

I was not the only photographer.

Two brothers and their elegant little sister were also enjoying a paddle.

The father and boys played ducks and drakes, and were joined by mother and daughter with whom I had been chatting.

The delightful little girl announced that they were on holiday.

On the far side of the pond a donkey and her foal were snuggling among the shrubs,

and grazing ponies flanked an appropriate warning sign.

Incidentally I have often been asked about ownership of the forest’s free-roaming animals. Although they are free to roam they are owned by commoners with grazing rights. This explains the collars and tags usually seen around necks, or, in the case of cattle, pinned on their ears.

Much watering of plants was required this afternoon.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious sausage casserole, creamy mashed potato and swede, and perfect runner beans. This was followed by Tesco’s sublime strawberry trifle which we would have eaten with Jessie and Guru on Saturday had I not somewhat redistributed its constituents by dropping it (with its lid on) on the floor. Jackie drank her Hoegaarden and Bavaria mix, while I drank Gilbert & Gaillard Les 3 Couronnes Côtes du Rhône 2014