quay – derrickjknight

An Annual Event

CLICK ON GROUPED IMAGES TO ACCESS ENLARGED GALLERIES

This morning I printed a batch of sample photographs from which Raj at Lal Quilla can make a selection for his wall.

These have all featured on previous posts.

At lunchtime Jackie drove us over to Shelly and Ron’s home in Walkford for the annual wreath-laying on Mum Rivett’s plot in the Woodland Burial Ground.

Jackie, Helen, Shelly, Anthony at Mum Rivett's plot

Jackie’s nephew Anthony joined me and the three sisters who laid the wreath. The temperature was cold and it rained throughout.

Afterwards we repaired to Shelly and Ron’s home, where we all spent a pleasant afternoon and early evening, together with the other two husbands. Shelly produced a wonderfully cooked dinner of roast turkey, stuffing, roast potatoes and parsnips, red cabbage, Brussels sprouts with chestnuts, and carrots. I’m bound to have missed something here. This was followed by excellent blackberry and apple crumble with custard; and Helen’s superb trifle and cream made using some of Rachel and Gareth’s wedding cake. Red and white wines were enjoyed, after Ron’s mulled wine.

After the meal we were treated to Ron’s video of the above-mentioned wedding and a cultural trivial pursuits quiz, some of which, between us, we answered correctly.

Around The Harbour

This morning Jackie drove us to Lymington Quay where, after a short wait watching the harbour, we boarded Puffin Billy for a thirty minute tour.

Approaching midday in sultry weather, most visitors were taking a rest on the many available seats.

One of these watchers was prevailed upon to walk her little boy around the quay to see the ducks.

He became very excited when the Isle of Wight Ferry terminal train crossed the bridge over the untroubled water.

A colourful conversation took place on a moored boat.

Once started out on our trip in hazy midday sun, apart from one exception, shapes became more important than colour. A young family in the prow seats watched as we neared the yachts, moored at a cost of £10,000 per annum.

Our friendly guide pointed out the tallest ship, built in 1913, that is on the market for a cool £3,500,000.

We were rather too close for me to photograph the whole thing, so I had to be satisfied with a man up the mast.

On our return we skirted the opposite side of the harbour, so I took the shot then.

An interesting array of footwear was sported by our fellow passengers.

The exception to monochrome was the view of Lymington Marshes.

The Mallards hitching a lift on a dinghy insisted on being shown in all their glory.

Back home the sun continued burning, but, now no longer directly overhead, was more conducive to photography.

A scarlet climbing rose has now taken over the wisteria’s arbour.

Our more flamboyant poppies are now coming into bloom;

this one is reflected by a pink hydrangea in Elizabeth’s Bed.

This rose in The Oval Bed is labelled Pink Abundance. We are not sure about the colour description.

The Rose Garden received a good sprinkling.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s excellent chicken jalfrezi, vegetable rice and samosas; followed by her sponge cake. She drank Hoegaarden, I finished the Fleurie, and Sheila drank water.

Not Much Happening In Lymington

We managed to mess up our clock today. It was losing a minute or two a day so we decided to adjust it. After we had done so we had great difficulty in getting the pendulum back in. When we did, the clock stopped. We calmed down. Eventually. And this afternoon took it back to Martin at Dials.

Christchurch and Lymington Roads are now subject to flooding, so we were given numerous washed by the spray thrown up by cars, and especially lorries, in front.

Apart from the ducks on the quayside water there was not much life in Lymington,

and what there was was covered in waterproofs or wielding umbrellas. Even Quay Street was rather deserted.

The post person had made a delivery to Old Solent House. The observant of you may be able to discover how I know by perusing the worn stone doorstep.

Forming a right angled corner between this house and Dials is a municipal ash tray. The soggy stubs thereon betrayed the fact that at least two smokers had abandoned their cigarettes.

Further down towards the quay a pair of slip-on shoes had been left outside a closed shop. Although they were under a short porch, I though their owner would probably go home in wet tights.

Given the nautical nature of the Quay Side Gift Shop window display, it probably welcomed the raindrops through which shoppers, had there been any, would have peered in order to absorb the suitable ambience,

reflected in the paving of the alley behind The Quay. Chewing gum spots get everywhere.

This evening we dined on a rack of pork ribs in barbecue sauce; Jackie’s egg fried rice; and prawns wrapped in filo pastry masquerading as roast parsnips, that The Cook termed ‘things’. Jackie enjoyed the last of the chablis and I drank Fortes del Colli chianti classico 2012.

Lymington Quay

On a wet, mild, morning, I inserted the penultimate section into the garden album, and printed the final batch of photographs.

This afternoon Jackie drove us to Lymington quay and back. She left me to find Dials Antique Clocks, recommended yesterday by Highcliff Watchmakers, while she went in search of Peacocks and baby clothes.

We were both successful. Dials has a most picturesque location at the corner of Quay Street. The clock repairer was happy to tackle a traditional clock bought by Michael for Jessica and me about 35 years ago. He didn’t do battery operated digital clocks like Mum’s carriage clock that had become so corroded that, when Elizabeth cleaned it, the contacts fell off. When I explained that it was one I had bought my mother many years ago, and bore my name as part of her identification of presents to be returned to the donor when the time comes, he changed his mind, although warned me of the cost., which is really not a factor. I have, incidentally, told Mum that I don’t any longer give her a present I wouldn’t want back at a later date.

I left the clocks at the shop and wandered back to the still water.

The only real sign of life, where the boats were all moored, was of the sea birds.

A wagtail bravely advances towards a gull.

Speaking of gulls, surely this mongrel pigeon has at least dual heritage.

Swans were busy preening,

and a pair of sleepy mallards dozed to the rippling sway of their rowing boat.

For our dinner this evening Jackie produced her delicious lamb jalfrezi, chicken tikka, onion and mushroom rice, and an onion bhaji. I drank Old Crafty Hen and The Cook chose sparkling water.

Lal Quilla

This morning Jackie drove us to Lymington Hospital where she had her knee x-rayed. We were very impressed with this well-laid out building, making it easy to find the walk-in service, and the efficiency of that provision when we arrived. Afterwards we parked behind the High Street and walked down to the quay, where Jackie sat on a bench whilst I wandered around; I then walked the length of the main street, seeking Canon printing ink suppliers. I bought some in W.H.Smith’s and ordered another in Stephenson’s. We then met up back at the car park.

In New Street, Jackie spotted a scarf lying in the road, and I tied it to a lamppost. It was still there on our return. If it belongs to you, I hope you recover it before the promised storms arrive.

Many boats were moored in the harbour, but there was little activity other than that of gulls and mallards.

Zooming the third picture above will reveal, on the left-hand edge of the High Street, Lal Quilla Indian restaurant. We thought we would give it a try this evening, and drove back to Lymington. We were not disappointed. My choice of king prawn naga and special fried rice, Jackie’s of prawn sally with mushroom rice, the popadoms, the onion bajis, and the egg parata were all excellent. We both drank draught Kingfisher. The service was friendly and engaging. Even the chef asked if we had enjoyed our food.

P.S. I am grateful to Lakshmi, another WordPress blogger, for pointing out that Lal Quilla is the Hindustani name for what we call Red Fort. This is how it is described by Wikipedia:

‘The Red Fort was the residence of the Mughal emperor of India for nearly 200 years, until 1857. It is located in the centre of Delhi and houses a number of museums. In addition to accommodating the emperors and their households, it was the ceremonial and political centre of Mughal government and the setting for events critically impacting the region.^[1]

The Red Fort, constructed by Shah Jahan, was built as the fortified palace of Shahjahanabad, capital of the fifth Mughal Emperor Shah Jahan,^[2] in 1648. Named for its massive enclosing walls of red sandstone, it is adjacent to the older Salimgarh Fort, built by Islam Shah Suri in 1546. The imperial apartments consist of a row of pavilions, connected by a water channel known as the Stream of Paradise (Nahr-i-Behisht). The Red Fort is considered to represent the zenith of Mughal creativity under Shah Jahan. Although the palace was planned according to Islamic prototypes, each pavilion contains architectural elements typical of Mughal buildings, reflecting a fusion of Timurid, Persian andHindu traditions. The Red Fort’s innovative architectural style, including its garden design, influenced later buildings and gardens in Delhi, Rajasthan, Punjab, Kashmir, Braj, Rohilkhand and elsewhere.^[1]With the Salimgarh Fort, it was designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site in 2007 as part of the Red Fort Complex.^[1]^[3]

The Red Fort is an iconic symbol of India. On the Independence Day of India (15 August), the Prime Minister of India hoists the national flag at the main gate of the fort and delivers a nationally-broadcast speech from its ramparts.^[4],’

The Litter Nest

My first walk today was through the woodland. After a while, I diverged from the footpath, and, although I kept it vaguely to my left, found it difficult to regain until I noticed a rope with strips of coloured cloth lying on the ground and leading off in the right direction. I had seen the other end of this a couple of days ago, so I followed it with success, and returned home in time for Jackie to drive Becky and me to Emsworth, so our daughter could keep an appointment in Havant and I could take a further amble around the quay.

From North Road I took the path through St James’s Churchyard to the A259 which I crossed and turned into Bath Road. I followed this alongside the Mill Pond as far as the Sailing Club and walked around the pond, along Fisherman’s Walk and down the jetty. This occupied me until the light changed as the dazzling sun gradually made way for the gentler moon. It had grown dark by the time my chauffeuse and Becky picked me up again at the corner of Bath Road. I had hoped to photograph the ‘litter nest’ which, for the last three years has been found beneath the bridge over the pond at that point. It was no longer there, so I have used Rosemary Hampton’s illustration from 2013. Becky told me the story. The nest, made from assorted pieces of litter, has been home to a pair of mute swans and their intended progeny. There has been much local concern at the failure to thrive of eggs that have been laid there, because the nest has regularly become waterlogged. This year, for example, of a clutch of six, only one has survived. It is seen in the foreground of this photograph I took today: Conservationists have cleared away the nest and will place a nesting raft on the site. Any home built on it will float on the rising waters. In the bright afternoon sunshine seagulls squabbled over food that was being thrown to the waterfowl, by numerous walkers along the banks. Ducks, swans, gulls and coots played, paddled, drank, and fished in the pond. The tide was out on the far side of the well populated Fisherman’s Walk and under the jetty. Water dripped from their beaks as swans waddled, paddled, and slaked their thirst among coots, egrets and other wading birds among the silt and shallow stretches. One flapped its wings; another managed admirably on its one leg; and a seemingly inseparable pair formed curving patterns as they danced along.