ponies – Page 74 – derrickjknight

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.

New Forest Pagans

Today I walked the ford ampersand, with a slight diversion to the village shop on the way home. I was alerted by a clinking coming from beside Minstead Hall. This emanated from the local bottle bank which hitherto we had been unable to find. I spoke to a man emptying his bottles into it. He pointed out that the area wasn’t very tidy. He wouldn’t tidy that up but he did tidy the forest. He only goes into the forest because of his dog, but always brings litter back with him. If every dog-walker brought back one item he thought the forest would be clear. I said I had been amazed that people who loved the area enough to visit it would be so casual as to drop drink cans and food wrappers in it. I have not mentioned it before, but the verges do have these articles thrown onto them. I told the man I would follow his example. We were joined by a woman called Carol, introduced as the Mayoress. She thought I must be the man her daughter had seen walking around.

By the junction leading down to the Study Centre and the ford, a car driver negotiating her path through a pony trio had to be very patient with the third in the string.

There were a number of dog-walkers out today. I also met a young couple by their car trying to transfer their feet from muddy boots to everyday shoes without either falling over or touching the road with their stockinged feet. I well know it is an awkward procedure, almost as difficult as trying to get a foot back into a sodden shoe without slipping it directly into the mud. That is of course quite impossible. We exchanged pleasantries about having footwear sucked off by the mud.

As I passed the still extant twig circle I had seen since 4th December I reflected on Becky’s observation on my post of 26th. She had Googled the two circles mentioned and come up with the sensible suggestion that these circles were the work of a Druid Grove. The Sylvan Grove of the Order of Bards, Ovates, and Druids was formed at Samhain in 2004. Its Home Page speaks of pagan pub moots around the New Forest. Jim Champion, a forest photographer has posted a picture of a ‘Stone Circle in Wick Wood, New Forest’ taken in 2007. This is identical to my shot of 26th and is situated near Acres Down, as is mine.

This afternoon Helen and Bill, and Shelley and Ron came to visit and stay for the evening meal. Jackie produced a succulent gammon joint with a vast range of vegetables, followed by apple crumble which was much enjoyed and based on the sisters’ Uncle Max’s recipe. Red and white wines were drunk. We had enjoyable conversation throughout, distributed presents after the meal, and played Scrabble.

It Was Christmas Day In The Forest

After Jackie and I had exchanged Christmas stockings, and before the rest of the family emerged from slumber, I took a brief walk down to Minstead, turned left opposite The Trusty Servant, left again into Bull Lane, and back home via London Minstead.

The shower installed in our flat number 4 was, until this morning, the most powerful I have ever experienced. The very hot water needs careful adjustment, and if the taps are fully turned on you are drilled backwards through the curtains and likely to end up on the floor, having to fight your way back to lessen the flow. This, however, is nothing compared with the stair rods that continued to saturate our surroundings.

As I walked down Running Lane I noticed the silent scuts of our three deer, like three baubles on different lengths of elastic, bobbing up and down as they disappeared from view, festively decorating the forest trees. Apart from the occasional jacketed horses in soggy fields, water bouncing from their coverings as they ate their morning mud porridge laced with straggly grass, the only other sign of life was of a robin flitting, dripping, across my path.

The rain had increased in tempo the minute I set out. As if someone had operated a switch it ceased on my return, just as I liberally sprinkled the welcome mat and applied the towel which had been thrust into my hand. Very soon we were enjoying bright sunshine, as the rest of Santa’s stockings were leisurely opened.

In the early afternoon Flo spotted a woodpecker in the garden. This was the first time I’d ever seen one. This bright green red-topped bird flew off to a distant tree, to return tantalisingly beyond my camera’s range.

Watching the Queen’s speech at 3 p.m. I reflected on the first time I had see her on television, as recorded on 27th May. The technological advances available since her coronation are quite astounding. Not only is the screen much much larger; the picture in colour, and with no parallel lines moving up it; but it can be photographed with a tiny camera, transferred to a computer, and instantly posted around the world. The broadcast itself has already been transmitted globally, to countries many of which did not have television in 1953.

After this Becky drove Flo, with me as a guide, on a pony hunt. Primrose and Champion were back in their field feeding on fresh dry hay. Seeing three on the edge of the forest we stopped the car and Flo got out to converse with them. Leaping the ditch, they rushed over and, together with several more who appeared from nowhere, they had soon surrounded us. Apart from those I described on 13th October, I have never seen them move so fast. This rather disconcerted Becky who, earlier, on foot, had encountered a persistant sodden pony who got close enough for her to cry ‘let’s get out of here’. Apparently safe in the car, Becky was even more alarmed when one stuck its bewhiskered nose through the open window. No doubt they were seeking more palatable food than that which the soggy forest provided.

Later in the afternoon and early evening we watched a DVD of ‘Ice Age 4’, followed by ‘Call the Midwife’ on BBC 1. Jackie then provided a marvellous traditional roast turkey dinner with Christmas pudding to follow. Jackie, Ian and I all had some Compte de Brismand champagne. Ian also drank Peroni and I imbibed Bouchard Fleurie 2011. We played charades in which I went some way to exonerating myself after my ignominy in a Passage to India a week or so back. I didn’t actually mention it in my blog, but Jackie chose to point out my incompetence in her Facebook comment. I wonder if this time she will mention that I got ‘Phantom of the Opera’ after one syllable.