pumpkins – Page 2 – derrickjknight

Before And After: The Gazebo Path

One of the more urgent tasks when we first arrived at Old Post House was cutting the grass. This was carried out on 16th May 2014.

Beyond the eucalyptus runs the main central gravel path from the urn circle to five ways. We have created some confusion in the title applied to this thoroughfare. In my posts and on Jackie’s label we call it the Pergola Path. On the Head Gardener’s map it is termed the Gazebo Path. This is the more accurate name, since it is spanned by a gazebo, not a pergola.

In today’s section of the before and after story, we will revert to Gazebo.

We needed to weed and rake the gravel and reset some of the edging. This is how far we had come by 2nd June. The Chilean Lantern Plant to the left needed considerable pruning to enable safe passage along the path.

On 3rd June Jackie reset the iron wheels bordering the grass patch.

By 22nd June the task was complete.

Jessica and Imogen explored the path on 1st November.

Later, they set off down it in search of pumpkins which they carried back to the house.

Here is the view on 7th September 2015.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s glorious lamb jalfrezi and perfect pilau rice, followed by lemon mousse. We both drank Kingfisher.

Strictly Come Dancing

This morning Jackie made a shopping trip for more supplies for the day, then drove Louisa to Milford for her to buy a birthday present. Later, I walked down to the Spar shop with my daughter. We then awaited the arrival of Errol, Jessica, and Imogen coming by car from Mapperley.
The girls had to be persuaded to eat, because they were desperate to get out into the garden. When they were eventually released, they set about hiding the pumpkins, two of which they had brought with them, and the other three having been prepared by Jackie.
Again, they had to be prised from the garden for a trip to the beach. They were, of course, very happy to get there, and enjoyed scaring themselves by confronting the buffeting waves which had the propensity to cover their feet and soak their leggings.
On the cliff top, a painter was intent on capturing the seascape.
Although the day was warm, the wind was strong, and the water cold, so Jessica and Imogen eventually felt chilled enough to return to the house in order to prepare for the bonfire. With a little help from the adults they dressed Guy Fawkes.
Between three and four o’clock Danni and Andy, Jacqueline and Elizabeth, and Mat, Becky, and Flo all joined in the party. Flo set the bonfire, Imogen and I carried out the effigy and sat him on the pyre, and we all waited for nightfall. When that came, candles inside the pumpkins were lit, and the fire was set alight. At the last minute I hammed up trying to retrieve my infamous pink jogging bottoms. I was, of course, too late.
The splendid display of fireworks was managed by Matthew, and Flo and Errol assisted in keeping the fire going.
Jackie had catered brilliantly. Everyone was able to choose from chilli con carne, lamb jalfrezi, chicken and vegetable soup, hot dogs, scones, blackberry and apple crumble, and Becky’s flapjacks. Wine, beers, water, and fruit juices were on tap.
The children waived viewing the last three fireworks, because they wanted to watch ‘Strictly Come Dancing’, especially as it was a Halloween special.

Why Did The Donkey Cross The Road?

After a noisy thunderstorm during the night, the day dawned bright and clear. I walked the circular route to Milford on Sea and back. Indicative of the brisk pace I was able to maintain in the cooler weather, this round trip took just over 90 minutes.

The pines along Sea Breeze Way cast lengthy shadows across the terrain, and the sun that caused this also enriched the colour of the

leaves now beginning to fall in the Nature Reserve, where the footpaths are becoming rather soggy.

On my way back along the cliff top, watching very choppy seas, I leant into a very forceful head wind which made me think I should have taken this route on the outward journey. Then I would have been blown along. Perhaps I should have emulated the crow which, flying low, may have gained some shelter from the land. Not being able to fly, except in my youthful dreams, I would have had to walk along the shingle, and today I didn’t have time for that.

Back at home, I joined Jackie, who had already made a start on the continued clearance of the back drive. We have almost finished the task.

Later this afternoon Jackie drove us to the Montague Arms Hotel at Beaulieu where we met Elizabeth for a cream tea.

As we arrived at the hotel two donkeys left the forecourt, wandered around the corner and across the road and came to catatonic rest outside someone’s house.

The Montague Arms is a splendid building with a beautifully maintained garden. Whilst waiting for my sister I wandered out and spoke to the gardener who was pleased with my appreciation of his work. He didn’t stop all the time we were enjoying our refreshment. We could have played croquet on the immaculate lawn, had we felt so inclined.

For refreshment, the ladies each chose cream teas, Elizabeth’s beverage being Earl Grey and Jackie’s English Breakfast. The scones looked delicious, but I, thinking we would be eating out later, originally declined. My lady and my sister, however, each persuaded me to have half of one of theirs. With these I drank a bottle of Ringwood’s Forty-niner.

After this, having all agreed to go on afterwards to The Family House in Totton for our evening meal, we took Elizabeth on a tour of Beaulieu, which, of course, doesn’t take very long. We introduced her to Patrick’s Patch which contained more seasonal produce than last time we visited in November last year.

Chard and dahlias were still in their beds, and an attractive arrangement of miniature pumpkins was on display.

I travelled with Elizabeth to the restaurant to be sure she would find the car park where we arrived at the same time as Jackie, and had our usual excellent meal in homely surroundings. We all drank T’singTao beer. Afterwards we parted company and Jackie drove me home.

The Prize Pumpkin

Jackie drove me to and from New Milton for my trip for lunch with Norman.
The trains to Waterloo are very cramped. Space has been designed to accommodate people of, at best, average height and girth. Opposite me in a cluster of four seats without a dividing table, a young woman squeezed her legs around a huge piece of airline hold baggage which was wedged against the seat alongside mine, ensuring that no-one would be able to occupy it. There was room for her luggage neither in the overhead racks, nor in the corridors. When she invited me to use her hard-cased pink carrier as a perch for my coffee I remarked that it was impossible to imagine that this line served an airport. She replied that she was travelling all the way to London and was going to work. She said she had been informed at the ticket office that this was a commuter train, and people using the airport, with the consequent large baggage holders, should not be availing themselves of it. Our conversation took place while the stationary train was loading and unloading passengers at Southampton Airport (Parkway) station. I have, in the past, used these same trains on my journeys from London to the airport.
Taking my usual route from Waterloo, and passing Tenterton Gardens allotments on my way from Preston Road to Norman’s, I watched a gentleman tending a rather splendid array of pumpkins. This reminded me of the teenaged Matthew who lovingly nurtured an enormous example of these in his allotment at Cottenham Park in the early 1980s. One morning our son was devastated to find that his prize exhibit had been stolen by intruders overnight. These North London gardeners’ plots are enclosed within a vast and lofty strong metal cage, and can only be entered by use of a key. Would that Mat’s more established facility had been similarly protected.
I have mentioned allotments on several occasions now. Today, for the benefit of those not familiar with the term as used by gardeners, I reproduce the following explanation from Wikipedia:
‘An allotment garden (British English), often called simply an allotment, or a community garden (North America) is a plot of land made available for individual, non-commercial gardening or growing food plants. Such plots are formed by subdividing a piece of land into a few or up to several hundreds of land parcels that are assigned to individuals or families. Such parcels are cultivated individually, contrary to other community garden types where the entire area is tended collectively by a group of people. In countries that do not use the term allotment (garden), a community garden can refer to individual small garden plots as well as to a single, large piece of land gardened collectively by a group of people. The term victory garden is also still sometimes used, especially when a community garden dates back to World War II or I. [This comes from the slogan ‘Digging for Victory’ which encouraged people to grow their own food]
The individual size of a parcel generally ranges between 50 and 400 square metres, and often the plots include a shed for tools and shelter. The individual gardeners are usually organised in an allotment association, which leases or is granted the land from an owner who may be a public, private or ecclesiastical entity, and who usually stipulates that it be only used for gardening (i.e. growing vegetables, fruits and flowers), but not for residential purposes (this is usually also required by zoning laws). The gardeners have to pay a small membership fee to the association, and have to abide by the corresponding constitution and by-laws. However, the membership entitles them to certain democratic rights.’

Norman produced a roast chicken meal with crisp roast potatoes, tomatoes, and spinach in a cheese sauce, followed by blackberry and apple pie and custard. We shared a bottle of Reserve de Tugets 2010.

Jackie had not been idle in my absence. At the entrance to the back drive she had planted a row of flowers on the bank between the brushwood and the gate on one side, and carried out some heavy pruning on the other.

The Banana Skin

I travelled by my usual means to Waterloo this morning, and from there took the Westminster Bridge route to Green Park. There was a long queue on the M27, making my arrival at Southampton Parkway a little late. Obligingly, the train was also tardy, but reached the London terminal on time.

Bright sunshine coursing through the passing trees and the carriage windows caused rapidly flickering strobe lights to dance across the pages of my book. Dull clouds and a biting wind swirled across and over the Thames in significant contrast as I walked across it.

There are about fifteen ticket outlets at Waterloo station where, on arrival, I now buy my return tickets. From half way along the row a shrill shriek of ‘Are you fucking kidding me?’ shattered the calm. An otherwise elegant young woman kept up a similarly tongued tirade at the teller. I’m not sure quite what had distressed her, but she demanded the return of a ticket for which she had paid. She momentarily claimed the attention of all those serving behind the other counters. This rather disconcerted people in a hurry to buy their admission to the trains. She disappeared before I had reached the front of the queue.

A figure astride a plinth set high up on the wall of the former County Hall was either giving birth to or supported on the shoulders of a young Hercules.

Near the London Eye a cheery oriental gentleman representing Lion Travel held up a flag which brought his compatriots flocking to him.

Around the corner the London Dungeon was decorated in season. The pumpkins, like the exhibits inside, were probably made of wax.

Gulls swooped down on a glutinous white substance, perhaps emanating from McDonald’s opposite, smeared on the coping of the Embankment wall. When they had sufficiently sated themselves and gummed up their beaks, starlings eagerly scraped up the residue.

The lines William Wordsworth composed on Westminster Bridge have stood the test of time. The picture can be enlarged by clicking on it to facilitate reading this famous work which is often obscured by the sheer volume of visitors passing by.

A painter has begun the task of applying a long-handled roller to boards screening works outside the Houses of Parliament.

In St. James’s Park a young squirrel disguised as a flattened teasel chewed a tourist’s tempting lure.

The window display of the wine merchants Justerini & Brooks in St. James’s Street suggested that, in Iberia and Italy at least, vintners still stop their bottles with corks.

Because he always opens the bottle before I arrive for lunch, I do not know whether the excellent St Emilion Norman served with our roast chicken was blessed with a cork or a screw top. Sainsbury’s apple strudel was to follow.

On the Victoria Line tube en route to Carol’s a pleasantly and persistently smiling young man, reading the Evening Standard whilst plugged into an electronic device, sat next to a fresh banana skin. When an elderly Chinese woman expressed interest in occupying the otherwise empty seat, he picked up the discard; nursed it carefully, whilst still managing to turn the pages of his newspaper; and carried it away when he left the train.

My normal journey from Carol’s to Southampton was uneventful, but poor Jackie, driving to meet me, had a reprise of this morning’s delay, because of an accident on the road ahead.