ponies – Page 72 – derrickjknight

Colt

This afternoon Jackie and I went on a house recce. Aiming for Sway Road, Bashley, we became diverted at Wootton, on the heath of which lies the horse trough previously mentioned.

Down a roughly made up road we discovered Trefusis.

For me, in particular, this timber-framed house in its tree-bound spot knocked the larger, more substantial, house in Bashley out of contention. However, having had a quick look at the wooden building and its location, we drove on to Bashley.

This was a possibly 1950s house with a great deal of room, but it did have close neighbours either side. From the agent’s pictures, we could live with the internal decor. We gave it a cursory glance and returned to Wootton Road. I had fallen for this stretch of the New Forest when I had walked along it on 27th February.

Then bright sunshine had enhanced beauty of the forest. On our outward visit today there had been no more that a feeble glimmer of sun glinting off the apples on the trees in the garden.

As we passed the numerous ponies surrounding the trough the sky cleared and the sun shone as strongly as it had on that brief interlude from a rain-filled winter and spring. As they had been then, the animals were strung out on the road near the house, and clustered on the forest verges. They looked fat and sleek and were clearly stoking themselves up for winter.

The garden of this empty house had recently received the attention of a lawn mower, but it occurred to me that one only had to open the gate in the picket fence for croppers to come and sate themselves to the owners’ advantage.

The right hand front corner post of the fence, being a tall oak complete with parasites including bracket fungus, is far older than the rest of it. The plot’s own spinney occupies the section between this tree and the house. There is, nevertheless, plenty of light around the dwelling.

Continuing past the house, we bumped and jolted down a pitted road, reflecting, as we had when visiting Ossemsley Manor, that we would need a 4X4 if we lived there. There were a number of houses, all with a great deal of land, of different periods. Some had their own, occupied, paddocks.

Colt have been building timber-framed houses with cedar shingle for almost 90 years. This find is billed as one of theirs. The oak frames are built on foundations complying with normal building standards and regulations. The firm offers advice, conversions, and refurbishment of existing buildings. There are a number of comments on the web from people who have been satisfied buyers of models from as far back as the ’60s.

Wherever we end up, especially once we have actually entered potential purchases, we will have learned a great deal, and had a lot of fun from the research.

This evening Jackie served chicken breasts slow roasted with a honey and mustard marinade and accompanied by mushroom risotto. Bread and butter pudding was to follow. She drank a 2012 Liebfraumilch; I prefered the more savoury Berberana Rioja produced the same year in a different part of Europe.

Carthage

We are currently basking in an Indian summer, so it is quite appropriate that Jackie is so proud of her Star of India clematis that, at a cost of £1.99 she rescued from Morrison’s shelves. Baby Bio, regular watering, and plentiful sunshine have done the trick.

Late this morning, I walked down to the village shop and back, for New Forest ice cream. In tubs for the freezer, of course. I wouldn’t have got very far with cones, in a temperature in the high twenties.

Blackberries in various stages of ripening now festoon the late summer hedgerows grasped by their thorny stems. We’ll probably have to pick some sometime.

Against the background thrum of the ride-on lawn mower shaving the grass of a house labelled Yew Tree, those not to be ridden-on taking care of the frontage of Bay Tree Cottage opposite, were positively silent as they cropped away.

This afternoon I finished reading Serge Lancel’s tome, ‘Carthage: A History’. The writer himself, I understand, simply called the book ‘Carthage’. To my mind it really represents a search for the great pre-Christian African city state. An endeavour to find the meeting points between archaelogical research and the classic authors’ annals. The difficulties beset by the historian working with early texts and largely vanished remains are as painstakingly confronted by Lancel, as if he himself were digging in the sand.

Carthage was completely destroyed by the Romans in 146 BC. The victors used the stones of the original city to build their new one. There wasn’t much left for the early archaeologists, who, in a less carefully regulated age, plundered the tombs. There was even less for the modern ones. Nevertheless the story is slowly being pieced together.

Although the book’s later writing demonstrates that Lancel, no doubt assisted by Antonia Nevill’s translation from the French, can write elegant prose, I found the bulk of the earlier chapters somewhat difficult to absorb. I am never entranced by figures and careful measurements which were used to explain conclusions. There were lots of these. The author is also committed to examining in detail other possible alternatives. I struggle not to skip these sections.

My Folio Society edition contains many detailed drawings and informative photographs. These aided my understanding of what is known about a place that was just a name to me before reading this work.

Elizabeth came to visit and share our evening meal. Jackie placed the bottle of La Patrie Cahors 2011 malbec in the sunshine. After a very short time the bottle became very hot with the wine erupting through the cork. A lengthy period in the fridge was then required. Readers who feel inclined to read ‘The Village Shop Revisited’ of 20th October last year, will discover that I am quite practiced in this method of acquiring the correct temperature.

Whilst we enjoyed Jackie’s wonderful beef stew, with a smattering of carrots, we got talking about a trip to The Hampshire Bowman. This was because they served feather blade steak, which is often used for beef stew. None of us could remember what we had eaten on our visit there. The solution was simple. Across the room on my Apple, was all the information required. Should you be interested, you can do what we did, which is look up the Renovations post. The malbec was the drink for Elizabeth and me, whilst Jackie’s was Blue Moon. Dessert was the New Forest Dairy Oriental Ginger ice cream I had bought this morning.

Anticipating The Shot

A rather splendid, slightly ageing, Petunia has finally thrust itself through the massed flora concealing the pots in which Jackie planted them. I had to stand on a chair to photograph it.

Today we took a trip to one of our favourite areas, around Sway. We were to combine a visit to Ferndene Farm Shop in Bashley with a recce of two houses, one in Pennington, the other in Hordle. Both had attracted us on the internet.

It was a spectacularly sunny day, the roads all bespeckled with light and shade wherever the sun’s rays penetrated the forest foliage. Once we left the A35 the route consisted almost entirely of winding lanes. Ponies were much in evidence, but the only actual hold-ups were caused by young women leading their mounts.

The Pennington house is the one that grabbed our interest. Wondering why such a large house with such extensive gardens would be within our price range, we thought an external viewing may provide the answer. Indeed it did. It consists of two originally adjoining cottages, their front doors onto the street, on a very busy crossroads. None of this deters us, so it has gone onto our favourites list. Mind you, this is probably due extensive autumn pruning. Having photographed the front view, with the front doors no longer in use, I wanted to take a picture showing the situation at the crossroads. Crossing over to the Wheel Inn opposite, I aimed the camera at a moment when there was no traffic in shot. Then, the eyes I had wheeling in my head spotted, along the side of the building, an approaching farm vehicle; to my left a car towing a container for New Forest Classic Cars, which my fleeting glance took to be a caravan; and to my right, a woman leading a horse, with a man in tow. This was an exciting opportunity to portray the flavour of a country crossroads. But these differently paced subjects were all required to arrive at a suitable moment. I always used to skip those IQ questions that have trains or suchlike leaving stations at different times and different speeds and asking you to estimate how long it would be before they crashed, on the grounds that they would take too much time. I leave an assessment of the result, based on the eye and immense good fortune, to your judgement.

I didn’t photograph the Hordle abode.

On our way home, on Wootton Heath, passing the trough discovered on 27th February, we noticed ponies drinking from it. Naturally Jackie had to park up and I had to wander across to photograph the animals. Unfortunately, as I approached, they peeled off, one by one, whinnying. The only decent picture I got was of a white pony lifting its head and preparing to disappear. ‘Ah, well’, I thought, ‘never mind’. As Jackie drove towards The Rising Sun in order to turn round, I noticed several more equine creatures crossing the road in the direction of the trough. We drove on ahead; I got out and ambled across the heath; and my subjects, too thirsty to worry about me, got stuck in.

The ponies were all waving their fly whisks. I felt sympathetic to these patient creatures who have nothing with which to flap the flies from their eyes, mouths, and noses.

Jessica, moving into year 2 at school in Mapperley, guided her younger sister Imogen to her reception class. The verdict this afternoon was ‘I looooove school’.

I amused myself making a small print from Louisa’s Facebook post, and fitting it into a circular 3″ diameter silver frame made in 1919, that Jackie had given me for my birthday. The picture was perfect for the frame which had been just waiting for it.

While we sat in the garden before our delicious dinner of Jackie’s roast lamb with all the trimmings, including roast potatoes, we had a pleasant conversation, as always, with David, staying with his mother Jean. He was out walking Nevis, their Coton de Tulear, who is considerably calmer now. Indeed, I had forgotten that he always barked at us before.

I finished the La Piedra Leon with my meal.

The Watering Hole

A little way down Running Hill there is a Forestry Commission gateway bearing a notice enjoining people to keep it clear. I had today determined on walking the two fords Q. However, noticing a little track by the side of the gate, used by dog-walkers, I once again went in search of Dave’s path. The track petered out in about the length of time it takes to empty a dog. However, I persevered. Then, to mine and their surprise, I came across three walkers approaching me through the trees. The leader of the middle-aged group carried an Ordnance Survey map, a printed route in a booklet about Minstead, and a compass. He said: ‘We seem to be following an ill-defined path’. I said they were following a non-existent path, and proceeded to offer my assistance. The booklet map must have been ‘made earlier’. They sought what I recognised as Hungerford cottage, and were way off it. However, it was merely a marker to Running Hill, because what they actually wanted was the Castle Malwood Farm underpass so they could make their way – wait for it! – to Sir Walter Tyrrell and thence back to Minstead. Now, as my readers know, if you wish to find your way to Sir Walter, I’m your man. Their map did not tell them to hug the farm’s fence, nor did it mention the stream or sandbags. I probably bewildered them with information overload, but it is not often I get to display my knowledge of the forest.

In the midst of all this, the female walker noticed I was clutching a letter I had forgotten I was meant to be posting. My inquisitors suggested I may not find a postbox in middle of the forest. Having seen them on their way I walked diagonally through the forest to Suters Cottage and picked up the Shave Wood/Football Green loop, thus ensuring I would bear the readdressed envelope to the previous tenants of our flat for another hour, before posting it outside the village shop.

As I walked along the melting tarmac I felt refreshed by the sight of the bright green backlit leaves, to which the sun gave the glow of youth.

On the way to Football Green, being in need of a comfort break, I slipped into the boscage for light relief. Framed in a gap in the trees a group of ponies on the edge of an open stretch, slowly stirred from their grazing, turned, and first ambled, then trotted off. I followed them. As their pace quickened, had I not known it was unlikely, I might have thought they were fleeing from me.

The open field hosted a much larger than usual congregation of ponies. They even seemed to be summoning a few stragglers who had stayed by the roadside. At first, grazing, then walking, trotting, cantering, and finally galloping off, tails and manes flowing in the wind, they were gone. They disappeared into the trees and were out of sight. These often catatonic eerily silent animals, their hooves thundering as if in a stampede, their voices raised in loud whinnying, were actually quite an alarming prospect.

Well, I just had to see what was up, so I made my way through the trees, bracken, and holly, to see if I could trace them. Silence had descended, so either they were a long way off or had reached wherever they were going. Had I not known better, I might have thought someone had rung the dinner bell.

Then. There they all were, many with only their backs in view, through another gap in the undergrowth. Down a trench. The trench was a fairly dried up watercourse, where they were virtually queuing up to slake their thirst. I was later to realise that this was the stream that had fed the watering hole Jessica and Imogen had found on 11th May (see post). It now seems incredible that a pony, leaping from it, had showered my grandchildren when shaking himself dry.

As I reached the top of Running Hill, a drowsy looking woman wound down the window of a car parked on the forest verge. She asked how she could get back onto the A31 after she’d had the rest she needed to prevent herself from falling asleep. There being no fear that she would make a habit of it because she was on her way back to her home in Cornwall, I told her of the short cut through our garden. Having, in my youth, fallen asleep and scraped my Hillman Imp along the side of a classic Bentley, I knew of the need to stop and rest when tired. At the age of 25 I’d had no idea one could actually drop off at the wheel.

This evening we collected our friend Sheila who was staying at Manor House Hotel in Sway and took her to what Becky has described as our new-found local, The Plough Inn at Tiptoe. Jackie and I each consumed the same food and drink as we had on 5th, except that I also managed a creme brulee and a double espresso. Sheila enjoyed plentiful and delicious scampi and sparkling water.

The Fly Whisk

We are now basking in hot, sunny, weather. To celebrate I walked the Mill Lane/Emery Down loop in sandals.

Near the farm holiday cottages at the top of the lane, in addition to the usual crop of ponies, two young donkeys grazed in a field. Even from a distance I could tell they were asses because their ears were clearly elongated.

The millpond’s streams are now less full and the lake, for that is what it is, now bears irises and waterlilies.

Many of the roads and lanes around Minstead have barely enough room for one vehicle. Passing tends to be a pretty dodgy affair. Whether driving or walking you have to take care not to be persuaded into a ditch. The road leading to Emery Down on today’s route is particularly narrow. Despite signs indicating that there are passing places, some cars are forced to back up quite a long way. All the roads were very busy today. At one point a car meeting two others and a motorbike head on took the better part of valour and went into reverse. As there was no way a pedestrian could thread himself through there, I could only ‘stand and stare’. Well, I now have plenty of time for that.

There is far more concern for those on foot as one enters Emery Down. Especially as there is also a blind bend near the village hall, the sign warning drivers what they may encounter is really rather necessary.

Whisking and flicking at flies, mares’ tails were much in evidence today. (Anyone who cares to humour me may wish to read yesterday’s post to glean a full appreciation of that sentence. It will, after all, be my birthday very soon after this ramble is posted.)

Jackie hoped to retain her resolution to be rather mean with the birds today. Except for the two near the feeding station, her myriad of hanging baskets are now chock full of gorgeous flowers. The exceptions are suffering from a surfeit of guano. They have required mucking out, which means they have been shorn of clumps that had the misfortune to lie under the avian post-prandial evacuations. The miscreants were punished by being sent out into the forest to forage for a day.

Later this afternoon I began reading my friend Michael Kindred’s book ‘Once Upon a Game’.

For dinner Jackie served up Dandy and Beano style pork and leak sausage and mash with which she drank Roc Saint Vincent sauvignon blanc Bordeaux 2011. I finished the Maipo red and began a Cimarosa shiraz cabernet sauvignon of the same year.

Later Mat and Oddie turned up to eat the last of the sausages and a tin of Butcher’s.

Sir William Harcourt

This morning I finished H.C.G. Matthew’s contribution to The Oxford History that I had continued yesterday evening by the glow of the outside lighting. I went on to start reading Kenneth O. Morgan’s piece, ‘The Twentieth Century’.

Last night it had been warm enough to sit outside in shirtsleeves, and to marvel at the sight of the building, looking like, as I described in an adolescent poem, ‘cardboard cut-out houses glued on an inky sky’. A bejewelled necklace was Jackie’s solar lighting draped over the box hedge.

This morning I walked the London Minstead/Bull Lane/Football Green loop. Watching the usual group of ponies chomping away at Seamans Corner I noticed that they vary their diet with clover and buttercups.

On my return, the light tan coloured creature with the white blaze that, having no concept of personal space, had so scared the life out of Becky last Christmas day, looking much sleeker than the bedraggled animal it was then, approached me in its usual deliberate manner. I wasn’t able to upload her video from her Facebook page, but if you are a friend of hers I recommend you watch it with your volume turned up (25.12.12). Tee hee.

In London Minstead, using the gentle tones of the man I had heard talking to his donkey in Sigoules on 17th May, a resident was attending to his horse’s shoe.

The camera obscura affect noted yesterday works on tarmac too. This time my shot was in focus.

We have William Ewart Gladstone’s Chancellor of the Exchequer to thank for the beautiful place in which we live. The lawyer and Liberal politician had the house built in 1880 and became Chancellor in 1886. In this post Sir William Harcourt was responsible for the introduction of death duties as they are today. At that time the Liberals, a different party than the one we recognise, were seeking measures to increase taxation in a more acceptable way than income tax. The modern bereaved inheritors may have a view on that.

The great Victorian Prime Minister planted a sequoia in the garden during one of his visits here. That tree now stands above the others which crowd the land beyond our rhododendron hedges, in an area that now merges with the forest. It is so tall it has become a local landmark.

Jackie was back home this evening, and we dined on the last of the chicken curry, this time garnished with fresh coriander direct from one of the garden pots. She drank her customary Hoegaarden, and I opened bottle number 010166 of the Terres de Galets. We were more than somewhat distracted at the beginning of our meal by a very noisy hornet that seemed unable to find its way out of an open window. It is a strange phenomenon that flying insects can find their way into houses through no gap at all, but cannot locate any mode of egress.

Righting The Beetle

Impersonating a man with a great deal of local knowledge as I walked through Minstead this morning to pick up my route through the two underpasses turning at the Sir Walter Tyrrell pub, there was only one visitor I was unable to direct. One of two, that is. Just a 50% success rate. Not very impressive really.

The bracken on the other side of the A31 has almost obscured some of the tracks I took last time I trod a diagonal to Rufus Stone (see post of 19th November last year). However, my friends will be relieved to learn that I was unerring in my direction. Maybe they won’t. Had I erred they may have had a laugh.

Some of the fallen trees have degraded enough to be flaking and blending well with last year’s autumn leaves.

The forest was very quiet today. Just two sounds interrupted my silence. The first was a sudden neighing. This is very unusual. Ponies don’t usually waste that much energy. I turned to see four of them making their way to the Rufus Stone car park, where they no doubt hoped to perform some scam on eager tourists. I could have told them that the visitors hadn’t arrived yet. A little later, a scuttling in the crispness underfoot, had me turning to spy a scut scooting through the undergrowth. It was the tail of either a small deer or a very large rabbit.

Fallen forest giants blocked the pathways and lent their own prehistoric ambience to the wooded landscape.

A primeval swamp creature metamorphosed into a moss-covered stump and its roots.

I’m sure there is a name for the step-thingies that climbers inset into sheer rock faces so that they may scale them. Bracket fungi on a dead tree looked to me to be the prehistoric climber’s version of these.

It is sometimes amazing what one finds in the forest. Today’s gem was a pair of inappropriate footwear. I speculated about who may have left them. Had it been an eighteenth century beau? Had it been Sybil Leek, whose story was told on 22nd of this month? If so, where was her pointed hat? Or was it one of the young women who had participated in the orgy mentioned on 22nd May? And why were they placed so neatly?

Soon after finding these, I heard siren song, and was tempted by glimpses of diaphanous material wafting across a comparatively open space, to investigate. This led me into very boggy terrain in which I expected to be stranded. Never having been daft enough to venture into a quagmire before moving to Minstead, I had not seen this white fabric before, and looked it up on Google when I got home. It was, of course, bog cotton.

Back on dry ground, I found a pair of sloughed wings.

As I clambered up the gravel path from the Malwood Farm underpass, I encountered a small stag beetle struggling across the stones. This took me back to the long hot summers of my childhood in the dry and dusty suburbs of Raynes Park and Wimbledon. There may, of course, have only been one such summer, but, as we know, anything that happens once in a child’s life is magnified in later life into a regular occurrence.

However often it was, a regular sight was a, usually much larger, (but then it would be to a child, wouldn’t it?) beetle lying on its back, its legs twitching away. Chris and I, like all other boys, kind and generous to all living creatures, always put these insects out of their misery and back onto their feet. This required a certain amount of nerve, and a lever. After all, we were not going to put our fingers near those grasping claws. If we were eating an ice lolly at the time there was no problem. We just had to watch the squirming animal while we finished our refreshment, and we then had a ready-made implement or two. If not, we had to search out a twig. These were not in plentiful supply in our streets. Or a used match. There were loads of them, but they were a bit short, which meant fingers near the grabbers. It was okay if we shifted the beetle through 180 degrees first time. It would then stagger to its feet and make off sharpish. If, however, we applied to much force, the poor creature went through 360 degrees and the procedure had to be repeated. Probably we should have carried forceps around with us. I do hope the beetles were eternally grateful.

Tonight we dined on a superb mixed grill casserole with twice cooked swede and potato mash and virgin cauliflower. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I began Terres de Galets bottle number 010165.

Raq

Jackie is now providing morning coffee for Brown Brothers Builders, who are painting the downpipes. I am not sure whether or not Gladys is doing the one o’clock tea (see post of 4th June). I will soon expect a queue of tradespeople offering their services.

The atmosphere was dull, warm, and humid as I walked the Football Green/Bull Lane loop. Cattle and ponies on the Green were settling down for the promised storm.

I had originally planned a different route but was diverted by two collies racing in pursuit of I didn’t know what. As I neared them I noticed John Edward Bartlett, otherwise known as Jeb, throwing something. On closer inspection it proved to be a slingshot used to launch a rubber ball. The dogs clearly enjoyed the game. When the ball landed inside the roped off area, the smaller animal waited for permission to retrieve it, nipped through the gate, and gathered it up. I am thinking of submitting my photograph for a Spot the Ball competition.

G. Bramwell Evens, Romany of the BBC, broadcast nature programmes in the 1930s and ’40s. He also wrote numerous books. His dog was a spaniel whose name caught the attention of my first brother-in-law, Bernard Murray who, in the 1960s, as a young teenager, named his pet after Romany’s companion.

Jeb described himself as head gardener of Malwood Lodge. He was happy for me to photograph his activity and offered the names of his collies, ‘for [my] records’. He had acquired the smaller dog first, and had always wanted to name a dog after Romany’s. He hadn’t told me the story of the name when I demonstrated that I knew how to spell it. He stopped me relating it, so he could do so himself. The name was Raq. Obviously being a man after my own heart he could not resist calling the second one Ruin.

When I was introduced to Soay sheep on 29th May, I had been told their lambs were black. This was very clear today.

A shopping trip to Ringwood was followed by a diversion to Bransgore to have another look at the outside of 93 Burley Road (see 14th June post). It’s still there. Back at our flat we sat outside for a drink before our meal. The temperature today has been 23c and we did not receive the expected rain. Jackie’s hanging baskets are now full of colour. Unfortunately they are all clustered on the lawn outside the back door because of Brown Brothers’ work on the house. We also pondered about the little brown circular patches in the grass. Probably nothing to do with the builders. My guess is that they represent the toilet facilities for a small bitch who is brought out at 6 a.m. each morning to be emptied. They are rather like those Paddy left on occasion on the Lindum House lawn.

Jackie made a delicious chili con carne (recipe) for our dinner. I enjoyed it with Maipo reserva merlot 2012, while she drank Hoegaarden.

Aviemore

Beside many cattle grids are placed small pedestrian gates, for ease of crossing. Most people seem to either drive or walk over the grids. Mat’s little Jack Russell, Oddie, simply trips across them. Flo’s Scooby, on the other hand, managed to slip and hurt his foot on one. Our lower drive gate is so seldom used that the latch grows moss.

Today’s walk, starting by crossing the grid, was to Fritham where Jackie met me at The Royal Oak for a ploughman’s lunch and a pint of beer, and drove me back afterwards.

The sheep in the field alongside Furzey Gardens road were looking very shaggy this morning. All but one unfortunate, who appeared to be masquerading as the sheepdog in the Specsavers advertisement, and consequently retained straggly bits of fleece. Or maybe the shepherd, having somewhat unsuccessfully sheered just one, had decided to have his eyes tested.

There were still some boggy patches across the heath on the North side of the A31. So maybe sandals wasn’t a good idea. But the ponies usually find a way through, and they know it is much more fun to ford a gravelly stream than to squelch through a soggy quagmire. At one point I disturbed a dear little doe who scutted away from the gorse bushes before I had seen her. Had she just lain doggo I would have missed her altogether. But then, she didn’t know that.

Taking a short cut across the heath near Fritham, and hearing the drone of a single propeller airplane, I looked aloft in time to see it disappear into the fleecy clouds. Possibly the plane confused me, for it was soon after that that I realised the short cut wasn’t. This required the unnecessary circumperambulation of several farms and contributed to my being slightly late for our rendezvous. Had I not taken this minor diversion I possibly would not have met the smallest foal I have ever see. He will no doubt grow up to be a Thelwell pony like his Mum. A little later I was rather chuffed to be able unerringly to direct a car driver to the pub.

With less than a mile to go I found my way barred. A cow had adopted the standard New Forest stance of head in hedge. She stirred herself sufficiently to extract her tagged ears and fix me with a stony stare. This necessitated a little rear negotiation on my part. I shifted a bit sharpish as she twitched her tail and tap-danced her back legs. She may have also moved her front legs, but I wasn’t looking at those.

It is just possible that my ‘poof redders’ may be tempted to inform me that you won’t find either ‘scutting’ or ‘circumperambulation’ in a dictionary. As far as ‘scutting’ is concerned it seemed to me to be a perfectly good way of describing the bobbing of a deer’s scut, or rear end, as it romps away. And why not describe a circular walk as a ‘circumperambulation’? After all, sailors get away with circumnavigation. I’m hoping the Oxford Dictionary scouts spotted that one when I first used it on 20th July last year.

This afternoon, having slumped a bit after our lunch, we stirred ourselves to visit a National Gardens Scheme open garden in Bartley. We were so pleased we did because we could not have anticipated the breathtaking display that greeted us in this comparatively small establishment in a village street.

Having been planted with expert knowledge and care it is clear that this garden has been planned for all-year-round colour, with an eye for texture and shape. So varied is the fare that I could identify only a fraction of the menu. Trees have been carefully pruned; when one plant is over for the year, up pops its neighbour, like the poppy by the pond; variegated leaf adds to the palette; and all kinds of artefact are used as containers. Butler sinks are filled with succulents and alpines. One of these lies atop an old mangle. Mata Hari lounges in a corner by the stream that flows through the bottom of the back garden. A chair has faced the front garden pond long enough to harbour plentiful lichen. Almost every tree or trellis has a resident clematis or other climber. Raised beds have been constructed for vegetables.

A tasteful, artistic, and skilled hand has planned the optimum use of the whole plot, a modest one that can be viewed on an epic scale. I remember my surprise when I first saw the originals of some of William Blake’s engravings and realised how small were these monumental works. Aviemore is not dissimilar.

I could go on and on about this home of Sandy and Alex Robinson and their eldest son, Gavin. Perhaps the attached photographs may be more eloquent.

Helen and Bill’s champagne, Etienne Dumont 2012, was a slightly incongruous, but nevertheless delightful, accompaniment to our evening meal of fish and chips, mushy peas, pickled onions, gherkins, sliced bread and butter, and tomato sauce.

‘Follow Grandpa. He Knows The Forest’

Bench The day was changeable, but better than predicted.

This was a relief, for Louisa, Errol, Jessica, and Imogen came for the weekend.

As soon as they arrived the two girls were into their princess dresses (see post of 16th February).

Then they were off to explore the garden, which would not have been possible had we had the predicted rain.

After lunch I took the family on a pony hunt. Louisa drove us to Football Green where we parked because fortunately the area was full of ponies. This was a result, which was more than could be said for Manchester City who were beaten by lowly Wigan Athletic in the F.A. Cup Final match that took place later. Perhaps incongruously, there was a cricket match going on there.

The streams and fallen trees held the interest longer than the ponies, possibly because of a brief moment of excitement. Jessica decided to closer investigate a pony chomping away at the bank of a stream by the roadside. As she approached, the animal leapt up the bank with a thud and shook itself dry. We then wandered into the forest in search of good climbing trees, of which there were a considerable number. Yet another use was found for fallen trunks and their knobbly branches. With a certain amount of help, Jessica and Imogen were adept climbers. At one point my younger granddaughter decided she had something in her Wellie, so she sat down on the fallen steed and shook it out. Sometimes she had to be helped down. Readers of my last few posts in particular may be amused at the quote of the day. When it came to return to the road, Louisa said: ‘Follow Grandpa. He knows the forest’.

Back home we had an albeit belated Easter Egg hunt. This created great excitement. Imogen doesn’t like chocolate, so she gives her spoils to her sister. It is evidence that she prefers the search to the result that when it was all over she insisted the little eggs should be hidden again. And again…and again.

Then it was time to settle down to drawing, at which both the children are very talented. Jessica made one for me and took it away to add some rather significant detail. There had to be raindrops if there was a rainbow and sun.

Before bed, blowing bubbles and an adventure in our young neighbour Eleanor’s den, by the bench in the corner, were enjoyed.

The children dined rather earlier than the adults, who waited until after the bedtime stories read by their mother. The stories continued while the grown-ups ate Jackie’s cottage pie followed by rice pudding and/or profiteroles. We were entertained by hilarious giggling from their bedroom while Jessica read to Imogen. Louisa and I drank Oyster Bay merlot 2011; Jackie and Errol drank Stella; the children’s hi-jinks had nothing to do with alcohol.