ponies – Page 72 – derrickjknight

Carry On Walking

It was such a glorious day that we decided to set off early to find some of the wonderful locations we had stumbled on yesterday. Jackie drove me as far as Deadman Hill on Roger Penny Way, with an agreement to meet in Frogham carpark after two hours. Shortly before I reached Ashley Walk on Godshill Ridge, Jackie, who had driven on to Frogham, drove back, passing me. She paused to explain that she was going home for her phone in case we needed it. That, as we will see, was a fruitless exercise.

As usual, generations of thoughtful ponies had prepared my passage across the heath. Gliding along on layers of bracken stalks and desiccated droppings, my walking boots felt like carpet slippers. The fresher excreta was best avoided, especially as it was above that that the numerous clouds of midges gathered. These flying ticklers reminded me of those by the River Wandle in Morden described on 2nd November last year. On the approach to Godshill a large pool of water had not yet dried up. A short, fat, hairy pony, reminding me of Ernie Wise, was drinking from it. As I neared the animal it raised its snout, turned, and lumbered towards me in an amorous manner, with green matter hanging from flaring nostrils and liquid dripping from its whiskers. The green matter, fortunately, was pondweed. I wasn’t sure about the liquid, but as it was nuzzled onto my suit jacket sleeve, I rather hoped it was water.

Roadside daffodils were now in bloom. What a difference a day makes. Soon after spotting some of these in Godshill, I was tempted by the entrance to Well Lane, which sported a footpath sign, to depart from my planned route which did not include leaving the beaten track. It was a mixed blessing that I did so. Labouring up the steep rise ahead of me were an elderly man and his ageing dog. This was Peter Trim. Peter had lived there for twenty six years, all but the last he had spent guiding walkers. He knew these forest areas like the back of his hand. Which was just as well for me. He described the route I should take to reach Frogham. Initially it involved two stiles and a bridge over a stream. Fields had to be crossed. When I had finished speaking with him I got some of it right.

This friendly widower pointed out his garage to me. I had walked past it without noticing it, largely because I was watching him climb the slope. That was an omission. The facade of this structure is covered in small paintings Peter has produced, each one having some significance for him. He described many of these for me. The Riding for Disabled logo represents his years as a volunteer for that organisation. One more worth singling out is that of the rear ends of four ponies, showing the cuts of their tails, each kind indicating a different territory, as an aid to identification. This is midway on the right side of the gallery. The dog hobbled across the front as I was taking the photograph. Peter urged it to remove itself. I asked him to let it be, as it would add to the ambience.

Since he arrived in Well Lane Peter has never wanted to be anywhere else. A sweep of his arm took in the whole of the valley below, where much wartime preparation had taken place. He recited much, but all I’ve managed to take in is testing of bouncing bombs in the Second World War, and Boer War rifle practice. Someday a visit with a notebook might pay dividends. I’m sure this man would be amenable.

Almost as soon as I had taken my leave of Peter I realised the value of his guidance. Just a few yards down the lane, building materials and a wire fence blocked the path. I could just ease myself past the obstacle, reach a gate I needed to open, and cross the first stile. I was now on farmland. Across the stream there was a sheepfield to the right, its flock grazing in the sunlight. As I traversed the bridge I was rewarded with a rare sight indeed. Trooping in single file from a copse onto the field to the left was a stately parade of magnificent stags. A small rabbit hopped over to meet them. He didn’t stay long. Maybe he’d had in mind a comparison of scuts, and realised theirs were bigger than his. In any group there is always a straggler. This was no exception. As the rabbit reached the trees, the lagging member trotted down from the bank.

The final stile opened onto a still very muddy area. In contrast to yesterday’s farmer who had ensured only the most intrepid wayfarers would enter his land, this owner had laid a series of helpful stepping stones.

Consulting my Ordnance Survey map I turned right onto the minor road ahead. So far, so good. Then I turned left too early and found myself on Hart Hill. A string of ponies were making their way to a gorse bush above me as I realised I shouldn’t be up there and turned back to the junction at which I should have gone straight on. A woman was standing in her garden on a bend in the road. She told me I was well on my way to Frogham, I had to go straight on, cross the brook, turn right and walk up over a ridge which she indicated on the distant horizon. As I continued a car stopped and the driver asked me for directions. I ask you! She asked me for directions! Although I was a bit dubious about it, she decided to go straight on. Soon she turned around, stopped, and got out her mobile phone. I quickly realised why. The road had ended. It now became a scarcely trodden footpath. I carried on, seeking the brook. All that remotely resembled a brook was a ditch alongside the footpath and a few little streams that were now not much more than mudholes, running across the path into it. Eventually, the path becoming less and less well travelled, my nerve cracked, and I reversed my steps to the helpful woman’s house. By now I had to negotiate my way among a large group of ponies lolling about all over the road. Rounding a bend I met a really evil-looking black and white terrier of some sort. It guarded the gate to a property. As far as I was concerned it was on the wrong side of the closed gate. Silently waiting for me to come alongside its home, it let out savage war cries and rushed, snapping, at my legs. I had to kick out a bit.

The helpful woman was not at home. I decided to go back and have another go. This time a driver, getting into a van told me there was no way through to Frogham using that lady’s directions. His advice was to go back the way I had come and look for a footpath on my left. I found it. There, facing me, were the stepping stones I had crossed earlier. That wasn’t going to be any use, so I went on to Newgrounds where I met another woman who confirmed the first woman’s directions. She said it would take me about an hour and a quarter. Now, since Jackie would be expecting me in the Frogham carpark at that very moment, that was a bit awkward. But we both had our mobile phones, and Jackie was very patient and had Miranda Hart to entertain her, and it was a good hour to lunchtime, so all would be well.

Ah. No signal. Try again. I had a signal but she didn’t. I left a message. I did that several times in the next three quarters of an hour. What I didn’t know was that she was doing the same, and had even driven off to find a signal, to no avail.

Before setting off yet again, I had a really good look at the map, and, there, clearly marked, not very many yards from where I’d turned back, was Ditchend Brook. I reached it in double quick time, especially when, as anticipated, I had to encounter the terrible terrier again. This time he had brought his little mate along. Warding off two snapping, snarling dogs is a bit more difficult. I had not received instructions about how to cross the lovely cool rivulet with clear water running over an albeit shallow stony bed. Of course I had to walk across it. Which, trousers hoisted, I did.

This was hopeful. Just turn right, up and over the heath, and Frogham and Jackie await. Ah. But, which of the numerous tracks criss-crossing the heath would be the right one? I rather liked the look of one which skirted areas marked as Burnt Balls and Long Bottom. Hopefully it would lead to Hampton Ridge, which runs down to Frogham. Paying attention to the contour lines on the map, I should stay along the bottom edge of that ridge, otherwise I’d end up on Thompson’s Castle. Since my Thompson family live on Mapperley Top near Nottingham, I didn’t think there would be much point in that.

Hampton Ridge is a wide thoroughfare. Once on there it was downhill all the way. Jackie was waiting. I was three quarters of an hour late. From her vantage point, not having any idea of the direction I would be taking, she had actually spotted me coming down from the ridge, and jumped up and down waving her arms in the air. Sadly, I didn’t notice.

As we settled down to lunch at the Fighting Cocks pub in Godshill, Jackie commented that, what with Burnt Balls, Long Bottom, and Fighting Cocks, it had been rather a ‘Carry On’ walk. Her quip refers to the scurrilous series of films throughout the 1960s, all entitled ‘Carry On……………’. They were notorious for their suggestive scenarios and double entendre dialogue. Well, whichever way you look at it, this morning’s effort had been a bit of a carry on.

The lunch was amazing. We took the pensioners’ special, two items for £7.95. We both chose starters, pate for Jackie and whitebait for me; and each had haddock chips and peas to follow. The starters alone were a meal in themselves. All homemade and very well cooked. Peroni and Otter Ale were drunk.

Aldi’s pork spare ribs were almost as good as Jackie’s special fried rice which combined for our evening meal. I finished the Saint Emilion while Jackie savoured Hoegaarden.

Trawling

Yesterday afternoon Jackie drove us to Leatherhead for what has become an annual family trip to see a Pat O’Connell Gilbert and Sullivan production. This year it was ‘The Gondoliers’. Jackie’s cousin Pat is a freelance director. The Godalming Operatic Society are clearly satisfied with his work because they keep asking him back. As usual, we were entertained by a polished performance from this amateur group. There are some real stars there; good voices, with stage presence. The costumes were splendid. The sometimes elaborate choreography worked well, and the customary introduction of up-to-date jokes rewarded close attention.

As usual we ate first in the Italian restaurant nearby. The G.o.S. G. & S. members traditionally dine there. Our table included Pat, Christine, Shelly and Ron, Helen and Bill, and Jackie and me. Pat and Christine’s daughter Olivia, who normally attends, was herself performing at the Manchester University Gilbert & Sullivan Society’s presentation of ‘The Grand Duke’. Her father quipped that she either had had to be a singer or she didn’t eat.

The restaurant had a pulsating atmosphere; the service was friendly and efficient; my minestrone soup was delicious, and originally presented in a bowl made of pizza bread; my sirloin steak was succulent and cooked to perfection; my vegetables were overcooked; my chips were limp; the house red wine was very good. Maybe I should have chosen a totally Italian meal. Last year a problem was caused by the waitress having forgotten Shelly’s meal. This year Shelly wasn’t provided with a wineglass, although she was to share the bottle of white wine. We considered that a small measure of progress.

Leatherhead’s Travel Lodge, just around the corner from the theatre, is basic but comfortable and reasonably priced. We had a good night’s sleep there, then the eight of us assembled in the foyer and repaired to Annie’s cafe for the traditional breakfast. On the way up to the little cafe that looks very like an old-fashioned tea parlour, with small lace-covered tables, a man we recognised from last year stood in the centre of the road and told us that there was a car coming, but we would be okay.

This gentleman we now know as Michael entered the cafe whilst we were there, stayed until just before we departed, and left having exchanged banter with another isolated customer. On our previous visit Michael had stood in the centre of the room and engaged us all, severally and individually, in conversation. It was only when we were leaving that we had realised he was blind. The two other individual customers today, one with a guide dog, were also unable to see. One woman in particular, who did not wear the dark glasses sported by the dog owner, looked very careworn and troubed as she entered, pushing her basket through the doorway. In her later conversation with Michael, in which I joined, she proved herself to be lively and witty. These customers were all well known to the waitress. I speculated that there must be some sort of care facility for blind people nearby.

After breakfast we all went our separate ways, in our case home to Minstead.

This afternoon Elizabeth came, as arranged, to make a selection from my blog photographs, for potential use on her website. If you knew my sister you would know that something would delay her arrival. This time it was the fortnightly antiques fair at Minstead Hall. It would have been impossible for her to pass it unentered. She arrived with a broad smile on her face clutching a balalaika she had just purchased. Well, you never know when one might come in useful. And she thought it looked beautiful, which it does. Not only that, but she might learn to play it.

After tea and scrumptious carrot cake she had bought from the village shop, we got down to the business of trawling through hundreds of pictures. She made quite a collection. Added to those of her own she is considering, that should normally ensure another twelve months deliberation before the final choice is made. Unfortunately she only has twenty four hours.

Of her choice she has picked out three for specific mention. The convulvulus, taken at Morden last summer, has appealed to Elizabeth because she has fond childhood memories of picking the blooms and squeezing the bottoms so they popped out. These grew profusely along the railway path (see 11th May last year) alongside Stanton Road.

We searched a long time for ‘New Forest pines’. I was puzzled because I hadn’t noticed any. This was a picture Elizabeth had chosen from a recent search through my posts. That was how she had deciphered her own note. She was unable to read it clearly and passed it to me for my opinion. ‘Pines’ became ‘ponies’, and the photo was found. I had realised that the problem had been compounded by my not having included ‘New Forest’ in my title.

Despite the last picture having been clearly labelled ‘Dawn across the lawn’, Elizabeth’s notes had referred to ‘sunset’. That was another that proved difficult to identify. Eventually the error dawned on us and we were able to find the relevant illustration.

While we were engaged in this exercise, Jackie produced one of her excellent soups, followed by delicious roast pork with perfect crackling, and a choice between bread and butter pudding and rhubarb crumble. The chef drank Hoegaarden and Elizabeth and I shared a 2011 reserve Cotes du Rhone.

Having watched the beginning with us, Elizabeth left Jackie and me to finish episode 6 of ‘Call the Midwife’.

Why Did The Chicken Cross The Road?

This morning we visited Berry who lives on the other side of the house. She had invited us for coffee and an introduction to her ancient tree mapping activity. An amazing array of birds were enjoying her feeders; several different kinds of tit and a woodpecker were recognisable. I am fascinated by the tree spotting. The Woodland Trust operate a national system for pinpointing ancient or interesting trees. Anyone can send in photographs, measurements and grid references of likely subjects. A qualified verifier then examines the prospect, and, if successful, this is added to nationwide records. We were shown old and modern maps, all on line in great detail. I am excited that Berry intends to take me on her next identification session. She also put me out of my misery over Stoney Cross. I have several times, for example on 21st February, puzzled over where it was. In fact it never was a village, rather a crossroads that was stoney.

On another cold day Jackie drove us to the Redcliffe Nurseries at Bashley where she used to take tea with her mother. I set off for a walk, to meet her back there afterwards. Right along Bashley Road; left at the Rising Sun; along Holmsley Road to the A35; left alongside Beckley Common; and eventually back to Bashley and the nursery. The walk took rather longer than anticipated. The nursery had closed by the time I arrived so Jackie had to wait in a layby across the road.

A piece of land just by Bashley Road seemed to be a dumping ground for car wrecks.

On Wootton Heath, not far from The Rising Sun public house, stands a horse trough. I have mentioned one which still stands at the top of Wimbledon Hill, and there are others throughout London. Nowadays all they contain is flowers. This one, however, is clearly in regular use for which it was originally intended. Currently ponies and cattle can be seen drinking from the numerous pools which cover the forest, but there must be other times when they are most grateful for the clear water this receptacle contained.

Brownhills, near the junction of Holmsley Road and the A35, contained a string of ponies as we arrived in the car, as I walked past it later, and as we drove home. None of them can have covered more than a few yards in three hours.

As we arrived at Bashley the sun, which had not emerged for a couple of days, began to put in an appearance. The Rising Sun was an appropriate milestone. By the time I reached the ponies, shadows were lengthening.

The stretch of the A35 was long enough for me to resort to consulting the Ordnance Survey map to see how far I had to go before reaching the road to Beckley. Walking along the grass verge doing this, I was aware of a car with its left hand indicator lit, standing in a side road. As I passed in front of it the shrill blast of its horn made me jump. The elderly driver wound down his window and asked me where I wanted to get to. I told him. He looked rather concerned as it was a long way. He had seen me consulting the map, so very helpfully asked to look at it so he could put me right. He then had to fish for his specs so he could read it. This enabled him to direct me to a short cut which was the one I was aiming for anyway. This took some time. He then offered to drive me there. I explained that I was walking for pleasure. Eventually I was free to continue. What I hope this gentleman had not noticed was that, with my legs crossed, I was hopping from foot to foot. It’s quite difficult to do, but absolutely necessary when all you really want to do is be allowed to get on so you can dive into the nearest bush.

The Beckley Common stretch was really beautiful in the evening sun. The shadows mentioned earlier were now even longer. As I was contemplating mine, a familiar farmyard fowl crossed the road in front of me, thus providing a definitive answer to the proverbial conundrum. This chicken crossed the road to pick snowdrops.

Having driven us home, Jackie produced a delicious ensemble of delicate flavours consisting of smoked haddock; mashed swede and potato, and cauliflower cheese with mustard. We finished the Montpierre cabernet sauvignon and had a glass of Sancere 2011 which I liked, but Jackie didn’t. This was a shame because she would have enjoyed my glass of Montpierre more.

Episode 4 of ‘Call the Midwife’ provided our nightcap.

A Fortuitous Teaspoon

Flurries of snow occasionally accompanied me as I walked this morning to the Royal Oak at Fritham, where Jackie met me for lunch, then drove me back home via Fordingbridge, in time for the kick off of the Wales versus Italy rugby match on television.

On the other side of the A31, I eschewed the cycle track, and, taking some guidance from telegraph poles I had noticed two days ago, struck out across the heath, following pony trails. The rumpled mud across the flinty terrain was still hard, and ice still crackled underfoot, which was just as well in some spots. When water was trickling downhill it was rather marshy. Otherwise bracken and desiccated droppings provided a soft carpet. I passed some groups of ponies on the open stretch, and soon after I reached the road to Fritham a string of them decided to cross the road and held up the traffic. Having walked by the side of the road for a while, I too crossed over and took a diagonal towards Fritham.

The plateau at the top was rather breezy and snow was more consistent, although not enough to settle. Concrete strips on this flat area, seeming to go nowhere, are all that is left of a Second World War aerodrome. I was struck by how much narrower these landing areas are than those of today. Two days ago I scoured the hoofprints for a representation of the Olympic rings. Today I had forgotten about this. Suddenly I looked down and there it was. That seems always to be the way. In the 1970s I occasionally cycled to work in Harrow Road from our flat in Soho. One day one of the tyres was punctured. I didn’t have a suitable lever. Whilst I was bent over struggling to remove the tyre with my fingers, I looked down into the gutter. There was a teaspoon. In a central London street. Just the job.

I would like to be able to say that I did not take a wrong turning in the sprawling village, thus adding an unnecessary mile to my journey, which in any case ended at the top of a hill. Unfortunately I cannot. I therefore arrived half an hour late, subjecting Jackie to the embarrassment of trying to keep a table in a pub which was heaving with adults in walking gear, their children, and soggy panting dogs, many of whom had nowhere to sit.

We each ate a Ploughman’s lunch. Jackie had Peroni and I drank Ringwood’s Best. The return drive, mostly on B roads, was picturesque.

The first rugby match, in very wet conditions, was naturally a bit scrappy. Wales won. A totally different game at a dry Twickenham made for a frighteningly physical fast-paced contest. For the first three quarters of the game France were unrecognisable from the team that had lost their first two matches, but they fell away after some key players were substituted. England won by ten points.

Our evening meal was Jackie’s rich liver casserole accompanied by Montpierre reserve sauvignon blanc 2012 for her and Saint Emilion grand cru 2010 for me.

‘That’s Not A Yew Tree’

On the forest strip alongside our Upper Drive, as I set off to walk via Furzey Gardens road; the ford; and the footpath to All Saints church, I met the unusual sight of four foraging ponies. Their sunlit-dappled coats blended in so well with the trees that it was only the swish of a rebounding, suddenly released, holly breakfast branch that alerted me to the presence of a brown one that could have been a trunk or a shrub, or both. Because the church footpath would require the use of wellies I was suitably attired to venture into the mud and heaps of soggy leaves to wander among the animals who actively ignored me, simply getting on with their meal. Just as the ponies’ camouflaged coats reflected the strong sunshine, the steaming swirls of their breath were demonstrative of the temperature. It is amazing to me that three rain-free, sunny, days have been enough to dry their fur and enable them to shake off the mud that matted it. Some pools nevertheless still contained cracked ice.

At the top of its hill the churchyard basked in sunshine, although its carpet of spring flowers was frosted. I wandered among the memorial stones, noticing that many were now so worn as to be illegible. The more recent ones told a story. It took Sarah Woodhouse, for example, exactly twenty years, to lie again alongside the contemporary husband, James, who had accompanied her in life. Long widowhoods seems the lot of so many women.

A rosary is reflected in the brass plate attached to the wooden cross still marking the grave of Louisa Wells who died just four months ago. A sheet of paper attached to the reverse asks that the myriad of pots of flowers should not be removed as the writer will keep it tidy. A well-stocked vase on the recent grave alongside this one had toppled over. I picked it up, rearranged it for balance, and wedged it in the loose soil. I was struck by the number of vases of flowers that marked this cemetery.

As I approached the lych gate to let myself out of the churchyard, I noticed a gentleman down the lane leading up to it, photographing something directly into the sun. Rather intrigued by this I walked to his viewpoint. Silhouetted against the bright blue sky, with the sun providing a glaring corona, was a familiar skeletal arboreal creature displaying long nobbly fingers, and signs of amputation of large lower limbs. I greeted the very friendly and cheerful elderly photographer. Despite his hearing aid it was clear that he needed to lip-read me. He and his wife, who remained in the car, had spent weekends and worshipped here for many years. They had now to attend services in another church which had a Loop system for people who are hard of hearing. Without that benefit he cannot hear what is going on.

It soon became clear why he was photographing the oak tree. ‘Do you know that tree is 700 years old?’, he asked. The penny then dropped, for I too had read the descriptive brochure supplied in the porch. ‘Is this the one mentioned in the leaflet?’, I tactfully enquired. ‘Yes’, he replied, ‘the one by the lych gate.’ Pointing out that there was another tree the other side of the gate, which I thought was more likely to be the correct one, I asked what information the leaflet had provided. ‘It is a yew tree’, was the answer. ‘Well, that is a yew tree and it has fallen down and been regenerated’, said I, helpfully. ‘Do you know?, he responded, indicating the oak, ‘I thought that wasn’t a yew tree’. We both went back into the churchyard and photographed the correct tree, in context. My companion, who certainly had all his marbles even if he didn’t know his trees, was most grateful. He said I had saved him much embarrassment from family and friends, who, when shown the original picture, would have said: ‘That’s not a yew tree’.

Rounding the Trusty Servant Inn I returned home and accompanied Jackie back to the pub, where we enjoyed the monthly village lunch. My choice was fish and chips and Doom Bar ale; Jackie’s was lasagne and Peroni. Given that we are told that this sunshine will soon come to an end, we decided to make hay and took a trip across the sun-streaked forest and hazy heathland to Fordingbridge. We had a mooch around there, bought a few books, and a top for Jackie, and returned the way we had come. Lots of donkeys joined the ponies in shaving the forest floor.

For our evening meal Jackie produced an all-in-one pie of left over beef stew and mashed potato including some fresh vegetables. As long as no-one is going to imagine the meat is pony, I think this should be called verderer’s pie. It was jolly good whatever it is called. This was followed by mini Co-op syrup puddings which were perfectly acceptable. The drink distribution was the usual Hoegaarden and red wine, in this instance Carta Roja gran reserva 2005.

We finished the day by watching, on BBC i-Player, episode 1 of the second series of ‘Call the Midwife’. This is intriguing, exciting, and nostalgic entertainment.

The Robotic Sheep

On another fine sunny day I soon found myself chasing shadows as I walked down Running Hill, up Seamans Lane to London Minstead, and along the back lanes to Football Green. Here are some of those I caught. I returned along the road through the village. Cattle lowed; birds sang; a cock crowed; a donkey brayed. Blackbirds scavenged in the hedgerows and ditches. Smaller birds flitted from tree to tree. A robin redbreast perched on a rusty gate. The birds, unfortunately, unlike the ponies, who will pose perfectly still for hours, are most camera shy.

Curtle Cottage at Seamans Corner provided an apt backcloth for the white pony which, during the ninety minutes or so between my trips past him, had travelled less than twenty metres. Tim Cordy, a neighbour in Newark, bought himself a robotic sheep to save him the effort of walking up and down with a lawn mower. I have no knowledge of whether these machines are still in production, but Tim’s, sometime in the ’90s, was one of the earliest. The area to be mown was bounded by a wire. The robot was set off. Tim could walk away and leave it to its own devices. It would creep up and down the lawn, turning at the touch of the wire. Perhaps he could have achieved a similar result with a pony, but it would probably have been slower. Mind you, a pony hoovers up its own fuel, recycles it, and drops it on the lawn. The sheep probably had to be fed with some bought from a garage, didn’t recycle it, and didn’t drop it anywhere. Maybe it had to be emptied, though I am not sure. Certainly not quite like the way Matthew empties his dog.

Jackie produced a wonderful lamb curry this evening; her own pilau rice; popadums, paratas, and vegetable samosas from various outlets; and her own chopped-up onion salad for the samosas. She drank Hoegaarden, whilst I finished a bottle of Carta Roja gran reserva 2005 that had been open about five days but was still drinkable.

‘We Are Not Allowed To Ask’

Today I travelled to Sigoules. Jackie drove me to Southampton Airport; Flybe flew me to Bergerac; Sandrine drove me to Sigoules. All went smoothly.

Knowing I would arrive on a Sunday afternoon when everything, even Le Code Bar, would be closed, Jackie plied me with more food than I would normally eat at lunchtime, let alone 11 a.m. I did my best.

Snow began to fall again as we left, and, showing a fair amount of grit, my English chauffeuse got us out of the drive and into Running Hill, which was clear. Except for the three sorry-looking ponies walking towards us. These poor creatures, whose hair was matted with snow and mud, rendering them all a uniform dirty brown colour, brought us to a standstill. They trotted around the car so that we could continue.

It has been a feature of my air travel since my hip replacement that I always set off the security system, and consequently always have to be thoroughly searched and remove my shoes for inspection. I always inform the staff that I will trigger the alarm. it understandibly makes no difference. I could have been offering a red herring to put them off the scent. As today’s searcher said, ‘we are not allowed to ask’, if travellers have had replacement surgery, because that would offer an excuse for setting off the alert.

The bright sunshine above the clouds on my flight, glistened on a different kind of snowscape than that of the forest.

Gaps in the clouds offered glimpses of Bergerac beneath.

Once the plane descended through the clouds, the dominant monochrome changed to a dull grey.

In fact, on arrival, the little snow that had fallen around the airport had melted and the area was bathed in sunshine.

I am able to post this entry today, once again because of the generosity of the owners of Le Code Bar. I use their wifi connection, but, as mentioned earlier, they are not open on Sundays. There was, however, a group inside when I arrived. I went in to greet them. I was warmly welcomed by my friends and others who were relaxing after having given a free meal to forty needy people. So they were not just generous to me.

They are finishing up now, so I don’t have time to ‘poof redd’ this, as Becky would say.

The Village Lunch

Running Hill was glorious this morning as I set off to walk a quirky Q linking the two fords with the Fleetwater phone box. This red phone box, incidentally, no longer takes coins. Bishops were in the process of moving people out of Barter’s, a rather large yet homely house which has just been sold.

The only humans I saw were in cars. Steaming exhalations emanating from ponies’ nostrils, snorted downwards, soared upwards and evaporated. Come to think of it, mine were doing the same. Poppy nutted Libby out of the way so she could get to the water bucket. Berry had said that this horse was the one in charge. She demonstrated this today. No resistance was offered by the wilder animal.

Sheep were strung out grazing in the sunlight.

We visited The Trusty Servant Inn, known locally as ‘The Trusty’, for lunch. This was a monthly village gathering attended by both familiar and new faces. The pub, in winter months, provides one course from a selection of four or five, for £6 a head. Jackie chose fish and chips; I had shepherds pie; and we drank Peroni and Doom Bar respectively. The village is proving to be most hospitable. At our end of the long row of linked tables one subject of conversation was the alleged Grinling Gibbons work over our entrance hall fireplace. No-one can yet verify the provenance of this. Nor has anyone come up with a definitive origin of the word Seamans. Oz thinks Richard Reeves in Lyndhurst might help with the latter. We also spoke about ancestry, names, and nicknames. Oz, actually Robert Osborne, has been Oz since he was a ten year old schoolboy. Friends of mine sometimes call me Del, and, when they want to be really amusing, Del Boy, with reference to David Jason’s classic television character Derrick Trotter. Oz would not answer to Ozzie, and Diane declines to be called Di. Diane and Bill; Oz and Polly (Pauline); Eileen and David; and Jackie and I got to know each other quite well in the time. At the far end of the table were Mary; and Jeanie and Nick, and a few others we didn’t meet. Mary had driven past us en route; Jeanie was the woman on whose door I had knocked in search of Seamans Lane information on 9th December last year; Nick is the husband who wasn’t in. We had a few words with them when we left. I list these names in full in the hope that this will help me remember them.

While I was walking in the morning Jackie went shopping in Totton’s Lidl. Among other purchases she came back with a child’s play-tent and a fan heater. The reason for the heater is that she is beginning to feel cold in the bedroom, whereas I don’t notice it. After lunch we decided to visit Aldi in Romsey where I had seen an electric blanket. Initially there was no sign of one. Searching under a pile of pillows like a terrier throwing up soil from a foxhole, we unearthed the one I had spotted, fortunately hidden from the view of anyone else who might have liked it. By the checkout there was a tub of ‘Hand Cooked Potato Chips’. This amused us. Like almost every display near a checkout, this one contained supplementary items dumped by people who had changed their minds. The woman on the till was very pleased when I told her that if there were an Olympic sport in checking out, she would be in the team. Her speed and friendliness were equally impressive.

Our evening meal was the same as yesterday.

Have You Got An iPaD?

Running Hill was full of ponies as I set off to walk the ford ampersand on this crisp sun-kissed day. Others, throughout the route, had begun their day-long quest for fodder. In ‘Furzey Gardens road’ some half a dozen were lined up as if in a trough. One was forced to turn its head to stay in frame. They are reaching higher and higher for prickly greenery. Sheep in a fold munched, basked, and idled away the morning. The avian residents were very vociferous. I recognised a blackbird in a hedge, and robins and pigeons flitting and flirting across the lanes of Minstead.

Close to the ford, opposite an aptly named house called ‘The Splash’, lies Minstead Study Centre. Taking the motorists’ warning sign literally, I have been calling this establishment a school. On passing the centre and the nearby twig circle mentioned in posts of 4th, 26th, and 30th December 2012, I was reminded that Berry had clarified both the purpose of this educational facility and the source of the ‘pagan’ circular constructions. The truth is far less mysterious than I had imagined.

The Study Centre is a forestry learning establishment for schools who send groups of children to discover the delights of the New Forest. I have, in fact, seen crocodiles of escorted children emerging from the forest track. One of the exercises these young people are given is the creation of the circles. So I am not likely to encounter ‘The Wicker Man’, from the 1973 British horror film, remade in America in 2006.

This afternoon wagtails wandered about our lawn. When Sam phoned to give me an estimated time of arrival for him and Malachi, who are staying for a few days, Malachi asked to speak to me. Sam passed him the phone. This little chap, who is not four until March, began with ‘excuse me’. He went on to tell me he had just seen a sign which said you could buy coffee.

When they arrived, Malachi, taking off his shoes, asked the question we had feared. ‘Have you got an iPad?’. We hadn’t of course. Fortunately Sam had an iPhone. This meant we were half way there. We still had to access the internet. Our old laptops were not adequate to download Malachi’s games. The iPhone was, but we required a password to access our home hub. Of course we couldn’t remember it. Eventually, I remembered how to access BT wifi with Fon. And we got Sam on. I ask you, its enough to remember all these terms, without throwing passwords in as well. Malachi was soon esconced on the sofa with a game he had downloaded. With a little help from his Dad he played games of varying degrees of difficulty.

Jackie produce a delicious beef stew and bread and butter pudding. Malachi drank milk. Sam and I enjoyed Selexione Sangiovese Shiraz 2011, a rather nice Sicilian wine. Malachi had to be persuaded to eat enough of his dinner before he was allowed to get back to his games. After his bath I struggled to maintain his interest in my rendering of Winnie the Pooh. My own son seemed more intrigued.

Adam And Eve

Florence set off first this morning. She joined Berry, who drove her up to the field alongside the road to Fleetwater where her ponies are kept. Flo helped prepare the two animals for their trip, and I joined them in time for the off. I had to step it out to get there on time. Poppy, the only one of the ponies accustomed to being ridden, was Flo’s steed, whilst Berry walked Libby. Libby has yet to be ‘backed’, or ridden for the first time. I walked and chatted with Berry.

Berry clearly knows the personalities of her ponies. Libby is described as ‘naughty’. She certainly didn’t like having a bit in her mouth, and did her best to dislodge her trappings. Before we set off Berry concentrated hard on ensuring that Flo was comfortable as she was responsible for her safety. In order to free her to adjust Flo’s stirrups and girth Berry asked me to hold Libby’s lead, a rope attached to the head collar. She also handed me a whip. I was a little perturbed when she said ‘try not to let her bite you’. I wondered quite how one did that, as this large hairy heavy hunk of horseflesh stomped round and round in circles tugging at the lead rope and bouncing her buttocks against me. Later on, Berry told me this pony didn’t kick, but I didn’t know that then. Nevertheless I did use my shoulder to push her back, and decided I’d better stand firm, otherwise she and I would probably get quite dizzy, and I didn’t want her falling on me. When she diverted her attention from biting her bit, to focus on clamping her choppers on me and the lead rope, I poked her neck and nose with the soft end of the whip. This seemed to do the trick, until she suddenly became very agitated, and tore great strips out of the turf with her forehooves, tossing her head up and down as I clung to the rope. Two terriers emerging from a car which had just driven up provided an explanation for this. One, until called off by its owner, was daft enough to come snapping at the pony’s fetlocks.

It seemed to take quite a long time to make the necessary adjustments to Poppy’s paraphernalia. I doubt that it was really. Soon we were off, passing the Acres Down shop and taking a long loop through the forest, arriving back at the field after a couple of hours. Throughout the journey Flo led on Poppy, occasionally pausing to let us catch up. Libby became agitated when Poppy was out of sight.

Having worked for forty years as a cartographer for the Forestry Commission, and still engaged in mapping veteran trees, Berry is a mine of information about her environment. We met a forest Keeper well known to Berry. We had a long, very friendly, talk. He is responsible for something like 7,000 acres, including inclosures. Berry pointed out Puck Pits inclosure as we passed it, and explained that these were areas of the forest historically legally fenced off so as to be exempt from grazing. In recent years the fences are gradually being removed. Sometimes, when replanting has occured, fences are retained until the saplings are strong enough to be safe from the attention of deer. On the road soon after this we were treated to what is the very rare sighting of a young cream coloured buck. As we approached him he trotted off into the forest and for some time continued to be visible through the trees.

The veteran trees which Berry is mapping are often three to five hundred years old. Two of these which she pointed out near the ford have borne local names for many many years. They are Adam and Eve.

This evening I finished the Carta Roja with our meal of steak, chips and beans.