ponies – Page 73 – derrickjknight

Rabbit-Proof Fence

As I dug out the trench this morning for Jackie’s protective netting, and she was planting seedlings in pots, I noticed that blossom has indeed come to the Lodge garden. By mid afternoon the sun has always moved across to the other side of the garden. Today John’s lawn mowing looked splendid in its light. The natural landscaping, presenting different sweeping levels, with a distinct slope down to the East, reminds us that the building occupies the site of an Iron Age hill fort. Unfortunately my enjoyment of the sunshine was somewhat curtailed by my spending much of the day on administration, too boring to record, most of which should have been done months ago. I just managed to get to the village shop in time to post ten letters and collect my dry cleaning.

It was still a glorious day. The slow clip-clop of the wild ponies’ hooves as they strolled down and across the road, their haunches undulating awkwardly and their heads imitating car drivers’ nodding dogs, was almost all the sound I heard. There was also the occasionally purring of the engine of a car brought to a standstill when one or all of the animals decided to take a diagonal amble. When they are headed straight for you it is still a bit disconcerting. It is best to convince yourself they are not going to bite you. A snorting I heard came from two magnificent farm horses, which must be a particular breed, now occupying a field across the road from Minstead Hall. I don’t think the ponies have the energy for blowing air through their noses. By the time I returned home, Jackie had almost completed her little garden fence.

When preparing the ground for this rabbit and deer proof structure, I was thinking of ‘Rabbit-Proof Fence’. This is a marvellous Australian film drama from 2002 directed by Philip Noyce, adapted from ‘Follow the rabbit-proof fence’, the book by Doris Pilkington Garimara. It tells the story of the author’s mother and two other dual heritage Aboriginal girls who ran away from Moore River Native Settlement situated to the north of Perth, Western Australia, where they had been forcibly placed in 1931. They knew that if they followed the 1,500 mile (2,400 km) fence it would take them to their families in their homes in Jigalong. They covered this ground in nine weeks, all the while being pursued by a white authority figure and an Aboriginal tracker.

It is some years since I saw this film, but it is not one I am likely to forget. The terribly mistaken policy that separated so many families; the cruelty to which the children were subjected; the pain of the bereft parents; and the magnificent fortitude shown by the escapees burns in one’s memory like the searing heat which they endured.

The tasteful symphony in white and cream with an intro of orange that Jackie served up for our evening meal was smoked haddock, cauliflower cheese (recipe), mashed potatoes, and carrots. Accompanied by a 2012 Bordeaux sauvignon blanc, it was followed by a delicious plum crumble.

A Damsel In Distress

Another warm day meant we could admire Jackie’s flowering violas and tagetes seedlings whilst lunching in the garden.

On 5th March I had got hopelessly lost and therefore considerably delayed when looking for Ditchend Brook en route from Godshill to Frogham. Studying the Ordnance Survey map afterwards I discovered the route of this waterway winding through the heath to the left of Roger Penny Way coming from Cadnam. When Jackie suggested a trip to Frogham this seemed the day for an expedition along the stream. She drove me to Ashley Walk car park and met me at the said village. The footpath over the heathland from that point crosses the gorse-bound brook. Eschewing a straight path that avoided the natural meanderings of the gravel bedded clear peat-coloured water, I threaded my usual way along the pony tracks sprinkled with dry droppings. The animals clearly chose to wander within easy reach of their drink.

Had I not done so I would not have noticed two, hopefully successfully hatched, duck eggs hidden in the bushes.

The stream descends gently from the height alongside Roger Penny Way to its end in a valley below. In this fairly flat area, basking in the lazy, hazy summery afternoon, lay a number of cattle including the

rare Belted Galloway, or ‘Belties’, breed , contemplating the water and hoping for shelter from the scrubby trees.

Beyond them stood many ponies. A trio of these, abandoning their observation of two mallards swimming across a still wet pool, began leading the hopeful march towards me. They were disappointed to discover I had nothing for them. These poor creatures, most of whom are displaying bony ribs, have had a hard time of it this winter.

Soon after weaving my way among the livestock, I came to the beautiful goal that had eluded me on my previous visit, the brook that I had had to cross. This time I knew not to expect a bridge.

The route from there was familiar to me. Feeling confident, from Burnt Balls and Long Bottom I walked parallel to, but lower down than, Hampton Ridge as far as Chilly Hill. At this point I checked with a cyclist that I was on the right track to turn and walk up to the ridge from where it was a gentle downhill stroll to Frogham. The young woman, who was the only person I met on this idyllic afternoon trip, confirmed I was headed in the right direction. I apologised for stopping her on an uphill stretch. ‘Don’t worry’, she replied. ‘I’ll be walking myself in a minute’. Off she pedalled around a bend. As I turned it myself I saw what she meant.

There she was, pushing her steed up an almost perpendicular climb. At the top she was crouched over the bike in some disarray. She looked up, her hair dangling in her eyes, and looking somewhat flushed. ‘Are you strong?’, she asked. Well, I was certainly going to be, wasn’t I? It’s not often a Knight comes across a damsel in distress. Of course, I know nothing about bikes, but I have got a bit of brawn, so long as bending of neither of my two rugby shattered finger joints is required. There was a thingy sticking out that should be flush with the frame. It seemed to be in place for casing the brake or gear cables. I had to place my palm around the sharp end of it and apply as much pressure as I could, trying not to give away the fact that I was in danger of administering the stigmata to myself. Fortunately I was able to demonstrate that I was sufficiently strong, and the young lady was able to wobble off without discomfort to her lower limb.

Jackie arrived back at the Abbot’s Well car park at the same time as I did. She had thoughtfully gone off to buy me a bottle of water, for which I was most grateful.

Today has been a day of glowing gorse and a bank of pastel primroses. On the Cadnam roundabout on the A31 cascades a bank of these latter plants that has attracted us every time we have passed them. This afternoon Jackie parked at a safe distance and I took my chances among the traffic to walk back and photograph them.

Dinner was Jackie’s chilli con carne with which I drank Piccini chianti reserva 2009 and she didn’t.

The £2.00 Pint

Yesterday I received John Green’s package of comments on what is likely to be my last Listener Crossword. They were largely positive and some complimentary. John is the very thorough checker of the entries for this, the pinnacle of crosswords. Having performed this free service for many years, John provides statistics, both personal and general, of such as numbers of entries, successful and otherwise. He describes common and individual errors, and sends his handwritten extracts from solvers’ letters to the setters. These days I am more inclined to post a blog than set a crossword.

As I watched the birds this morning, wagtails trotted across the lawns; alongside the feeder station a blackbird, preferring fresh kill, dragged an unresisting worm from the sward; and a nuthatch elbowed a couple of willow tits off its chosen breakfast dish. The two smaller birds perched on the wrought iron holders, awaiting their second sitting. A large black corvine creature strutted about for a bit, then, in cumbersome flight, lumbered, airborne, into the forest trees.

The Shave Wood loop was today’s walk. Anne’s house on the way through Minstead which I imagine has for many years been in desperate need of refurbishment, is now looking quite trim.

Although absent from the roads through the forest itself, the verges of those leading to it are rich in daises, and, seeming to have been blown from the glowing gorse bushes nearby, celandines and dandelions. Yet another fallen tree is metamorphosing into a primeval creature.

I had a pleasant conversation with a young woman riding a horse along the verge passing Hazel Hill car park. Seeing someone emerge from the only vehicle parked there and walk into the forest, I followed, thinking I might learn a footpath skirting London Minstead. It was a small family who seemed to be setting up camp. I rather hoped the pile of wood being collected was not for building a fire.

As I passed Hazel Hill Farm a cacophony of cackling and clattering emanated from the hen coop. Wondering what had caused it I peered over the fence just in time to witness a guilty looking crow winging off.

Back at Seamans Corner ponies were gathered grazing on the first fresh green grass they can have tasted for months.

Before our evening meal Jackie and I visited the Trusty for one drink each. A pint of Doom Bar (£3.95) and a small bottle of Peroni (£3.50) cost £7.45. Yes, £7.45 for two drinks. We then reminisced over the time, probably in the 1980s, when we began to wonder how long it would be before you didn’t get any change out of £2.00 for a pint of beer; and, not much later, when would £5.00 be inadequate for a round of two drinks? Unless you happen to live near a Wetherspoons the £2.00 pint is long gone. How can that chain do it?

On our return, to accompany Jackie’s succulent roast pork dinner, she drank Hoegaarden and I had Carta Rosa gran reserva 2005.

Whose Road Is It Anyway?

Back home in Minstead the coal tits on their feeder made up for the elusiveness of the small birds in Sigoules. After a morning spent preparing my papers for Philip, my accountant, I took a later than usual ford loop walk. Upper drive was looking resplendent in the mid-afternoon sun. The deciduous trees, not yet in leaf, displayed their shapely naked limbs. Elsewhere, hedgerows and other, smaller, trees were producing young, yellow-green, budding leaves. Daffodils still thrust their way through thorny hedges. Susan Hill, in ‘The Magic Apple Tree’, her record of a year in the country which I began reading yesterday, calls spring a ‘yellow season’. After the masses of dandelions, marigolds, and buttercups in and around Sigoules, and now us, too, being treated to its awakening, I see what she means. On this very pleasant afternoon there were even a few brief April showers.

A car that sped past me on the very narrow road to the ford, barely wide enough for a pony to straddle it, came to a sudden halt around the next bend. Hearing its approach I had stepped smartly to the side. No such courtesy was offered by the seven or eight ponies that idly blocked the road. They ambled up and down and from side to side investigating possible fodder. The driver just had to wait. Also waiting, in a side road, was a tourist driver who wasn’t sure what to do. I gave him the benefit of my vast, all of five months, experience, and helped him and his passengers on their way. Mind you, I was very wary about passing the rear end, by which was all the space that was available, of the first horse. Having negotiated this back passage safely, I arrived, after walking up from the ford, at what passes for the main road through the village.

Susan Hill speaks of cattle being sent into Buttercup Field at the beginning of May, having been sheltered for the winter. Obviously, in the New Forest the freedom to roam comes a bit earlier. This was brought home to me as I started up the hill through Minstead. A strange lowing sound from behind me alerted me to the fact that I was being followed up the road. Indeed, the only sense I could make of the increasingly agitated, closer and closer, mooing was that the tagged cow wanted me out of the way. I soon realised that it was keen to join its companions who had taken possession of the road and more or less covered Seamans Corner. At a rough estimate half the bovine population of the New Forest now blocked the roads and stripped what was left of the foliage. As I approached the Corner, apart from the odd cow occupying the usual headless stance, pausing only to plop their own recycled fodder offerings, they were all following me up the road. It was just a wee bit disconcerting. I must admit that I did occasionally take a sneaky look to make sure there was no pizzle in sight. Had I seen one, I’m not sure what I would have done. Watching tradesmen negotiating these natural obstacles I often wonder how their time-sheets are affected.

Jackie produced her usual excellent arabbiata with mixed pasta for our evening meal. I had cherry pie for afters. Jackie drank Peroni while I had some Marques de Montino reserva rioja 2007.

Printing Mottisfont Trout

Spring continues to be thrust aside by its hoary old relative. Why winter has been unable to enjoy an easy third age on the lecture circuit is a mystery to us all, except perhaps Michael Fish, the weatherman who infamously dismissed reports of the Great Storm of 1987. A solitary daffodil manages to defy the cold and to brighten the shrubbery opposite our dining area. Its companion probably isn’t going to make it.

Just as cold today, at least the wind had dropped. There was not much sign of life until I met the sheep as I walked the first ford ampersand. A couple of bedraggled, head-drooping, forlorn looking ponies jerked their slow way up the centre of the road through the village. A young woman relaxed aboard her pony at the end of a ride. The occasional car went by. Apart from the rider, the only other person I spoke to was a driver on my return journey who stopped and asked the way to the Study Centre. I trust Judith will be as impressed as I was by the detailed accuracy of my stunning directions.

Imagining being reliant on sheep for your day’s excitement should give the reader a better flavour of the day than yet more attempts of mine to find different ways of describing miserable weather. As I approached the sheep field in Newtown I was greeted by a very loud bleating chorus. This was emanating from the hedge through which it was just possible to see the vociferous ovine occupants. On turning a corner and drawing up alongside a five barred gate I felt like a London bus driver arriving at Morden bus station soon after school going home time. The parent sheep were already waiting at the gate baaing their heads off. It was then I saw the lambs. These small animals leapt, gambolled, pushed and shoved each other, and squirmed their way in front of the adults, determined to get to the head of the queue. The parents’ hubbub followed me as I continued on my way.

This afternoon I tackled the last of the challenges my new computer has set me. I connected the Canon Pro 900 printer to the iMac. Lo and behold, the software download was done automatically in about two minutes and I made an A3 print in a jiffy. The setup is now pretty well complete. The whole kit has to be confined to a fairly small space in our massive sitting room. Mac sits on the desk. The small Epson printer lies underneath on a ledge alongside the A4 printing paper, and the Epson V750 Pro scanner is perched on a small Sainsbury’s wine rack on its side on top of a little filing cabinet. There is no room in this arrangement for the enormous A3+ printer. Jackie, of course, came up with the ideal solution. This very heavy piece of equipment nestles in a laundry bag within a plastic box on wheels. All this stands at the bottom of her wardrobe. When I need the printer I open the wardrobe; pull out the box on wheels; open the box; lift out the laundry bag by its handles; carry it from bedroom to sitting room, where the kitchen trolley waits to double as a stand; place the printer on the trolley; and finally attach the plug in place in the trailing socket on the desk and put the cable into a USB port. I really think Heath Robinson, a superb draftsman famous for his drawings of complex and complicated contraptions for simple tasks, would have envied my lady her inventiveness. Not, I hasten to add, that there is anything ridiculous about Jackie’s simplification of my set up.

Today’s test print was of trout taken at Mottisfont on 7th September last year.

This evening we took a trip to Imperial China in Lyndhurst, where we enjoyed the usual excellent meal, and both drank TsingTao beer.

Post On A Till Roll

When she learned through on-line Scrabble chat that I walk every day regardless of the weather, my friend June suggested that I must be mad. This would be a view shared by the head of Bromley’s Probation service during the 1980s. One of my freelance contracts was to facilitate a support group for senior probation officers. During one particularly bad winter, possibly 1986/7, I was due to take a session one morning when the snow lay thick upon the ground. Traffic was in chaos. Trains were suffering from ‘the wrong kind of snow’. But I had my running shoes. Provided I was careful, and sometimes ran off piste, I could cross London quite quickly. On this occasion I arrived in Bromley, on time, having run from Gracedale Road in Furzedown, SW17. I was the only group member in attendance. The manager didn’t want to pay me, because she thought it a bit out of order to have turned up on a day like that. However, I had a contract which I had wished to honour. After some negotiation I received half my fee, which seemed a compromise I would have to accept.

This morning we had been promised heavy rain making its way from Southampton. A cock crew as I set off early down Running Hill in an effort to beat the blast. The Met Office must have been in touch with the sheep on the road up to Furzey Gardens because they had sought shelter from the open field. Further on, our neighbour Bill was walking his two Old English sheepdogs which he said were shorn when the sheep were shorn.

A solitary equestrian rider passed me on the heath beside the waterlogged cycle track. And the end of this I took the road towards Fritham and turned off left to a sign marked Linwood which I made my goal.

Before the turn-off I noticed, strewn at irregular intervals, oranges on the right side of the road. My puzzlement increased as I continued along the road, until, on the left hand side I discovered a further crop that had been ditched. The teeth marks on one of the discarded ones suggested this was a variation of the popular Halloween pastime involving apples and a tub of water.

The clopping of coconut shells by a cinematographic sound effects man on the road behind me signalled the extremely rare sight of galloping ponies. They had possibly been attracted by the arrival of a mini coachload of ramblers, whose lack of proffered goodies probably disappointed them and brought them to a standstill. Their more cynical companions who hadn’t bothered to cross the road, merely glanced up and continued cropping the heath.

It was my nostrils on the Linwood road, that alerted me to the controlled burning that culls the bracken.

I turned right at a road junction to which a gang of Hampshire council workmen were working their way replenishing the grit on the verges, in an attempt to stem the tide, thus reducing the numerous rock pools. Having walked past and through some deep enough to harbour crabs, I was able to tell them what they were in for. They were going need a few more lorry loads.

The storm struck just as I reached the Red Shoot pub at Linwood. I got pretty wet seeking a phone signal in order to ring Jackie, tell her where I was, and, since I was expecting her to drive me home, invite her to lunch. She also had to bring my wallet. The hospitality of the staff at this excellent establishment extended to offering to start me a tab so I could have a drink whilst I was waiting. They also lent me a couple of lengths of till roll and a biro with which to amuse myself writing notes for this post.

Roast chicken was our evening accompaniment to the last of the burgundy for me and the Latitude 35 degrees S for Jackie.

That’s What Wellies Are For

David and Jen also gave us wine and stilton for Christmas this year. It was therefore appropriate that their box should take the tie overflow (see yesterday’s post). But who wears ties these days?

Once again we were waterlogged. Knowing, when I set out to walk the Emery Down loop via Mill Lane, that I would encounter an otherwise impassable road and some pretty soggy footpaths, I wore my Wellington boots. These, as we shall see, came in handy.

Sporting yellow-rimmed dark glasses, Audrey was gamely trying to ensure that her ponies, Primrose and Champion, enjoyed a feed of dry hay. When I passed them on my return, a little over two hours later, Primrose was stuffing the last of it inside her. Champion, who was now showing little interest was probably already stuffed.

The pool that was Lyndhurst Road at the point at which I had once, un-wellied, turned back, was full to spraying. Some vehicles slowed down to a snail’s pace, others went tearing through showering all about them. I wonder whether a snail could actually have made it through.

As I neared the highest part of Mill Lane, a trail of bobbing antlers glided silently past, just beneath the brow of the hillside slope. On the far side of the field they gathered into seminar formation. I became quite excited when, changing my angle of vision, I realised that the course facilitator of this stag party was the legendary white one. I rather blew it when I got a bit too close and they elegantly pranced off with the poise of Kate Moss on the catwalk.

Walking past the Mill Pool I encountered a young man pushing a wheelbarrow down the muddy track towards me. Once I had realised that this was not Robert (see 17th February), I carried on a conversation with Barry, who had been given the night off by his wife. Barry was not surprised that the brief respite we had had from the rain ended as we stopped to speak. You see, his wheelbarrow contained his fishing gear and his tent, so, of course it was bound to rain. There must be worse ways of spending a night, but offhand I can’t think of one.

As I neared Emery Down I rather rashly took a diversion onto a footpath. Well, if truth be told, I needed a pee, and reckoned no-one else would be daft enough to venture onto it on such a day. There I saw a sign which gave me some insight into the farmer’s perspective on the availability of ramblers’ footpaths controversy.

Throughout my walk I found myself seeking out the puddles on the road, so that I could walk through them and clean off some of the mud from the more cloying footpaths. I began to feel like a three year old trying out his new footwear and stamping in the pools sending up his equivalent of the car spray mentioned earlier. Many a time have I offered a remonstrating parent the opinion that ‘that’s what wellies are for’.

On my return I decanted a few more items into the garage, then rang the Apple Help Line. This required two calls of approximately an hour’s duration, one of which required me to spend some time listening to music which I completely failed to categorise. I expect it is up to the minute. I was guided to downloading the relevant software. James and Joseph, the two young advisers could not have been more helpful. Unfortunately the problem, even after half an hour’s downloading, remains. I expect I will have to talk to Epson, who make the scanner. Another day.

This evening we both ate more delicious Chilli con carne; I drank more zinfandel, and Jackie abstained.

A-Hunting We Will Go

Sam and Holly brought Malachi and Orlaith to see us today. Mal was straight into the garden, through the rhododendrons, and exploring the forest, before his parents had paused for breath.

Orlaith, having herself been fed, lay contentedly on the floor while the rest of us partook of a splendid Jackie vegetable soup. After this all except Jackie went on foot on a pony hunt. We walked the London Minstead, Bull Lane, Football Green loop. Walking Malachi is like walking a dog, in the sense that, because he is constantly running backwards and forwards he covers twice the distance we do. He did actually perch on his father’s shoulders for the last twenty minutes. Since Sam already had a sleeping baby sister strapped to him, he had quite a load on for the last uphill stretch.

Malachi enjoyed any sights of horses, even the jacketed farm type. He climbed on gates for this pleasure. When I led the family down Bull Lane so they could see cattle in a farmyard, my grandson showed far more interest in a stream running outside it. He made believe catching fish, and his mother caught a real piece of treasure. Lying on the gravelly bottom Holly found a penny bearing the head of young Victoria, so thick and unworn as to suggest it had been there for a very long time.

Until we reached Football Green we saw no ponies. That area made up for the absence elsewhere. We squelched through the mud and streams still lying on this open space, so that we could observe the creatures and Malachi could photograph them. The picture of the ponies below was taken by this little chap who is not four until Saturday.

On our return a further hunt took place. This was for Easter Eggs. Malachi was very excited every time he found one of his fourteen eggs, and wouldn’t eat any until he had his whole collection arrayed before him. Jackie’s photographic clues idea was very successful. Holly accompanied him around the house, helping him identify the objects in the pictures, whilst Sam sat with Orlaith.

Having already experienced an early Easter, Mal then enjoyed an early birthday celebration. The actual day is Saturday, but we gave him our presents today. The dinosaur card and book went down well, as did the Lego petrol tanker.

The next treat was an early dinner of Jackie’s smoked haddock and cauliflower cheese combination, followed by blackberry and apple crumble with cream, custard, and/or green jelly. Sam drank Marston’s Double Drop and the rest of us – not including the children – shared a bottle of Roc Saint Vincent sauvignon blanc 2011.

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’.