I took an early walk of the postbox loop this morning, and because we were promised intense rain all day from 11 a.m. onwards, settled down to scanning old positive film. In fact the day was extremely dark and dingy with no rain, no light source penetrating, and the forecasters putting forward the timing of the storm by the hour. It began at 5 p.m.
My last foray into my ‘posterity’ archives produced a colour slide of Vivien, Michael, and friends from the Yorkshire Insurance Company.
Mike Vaquer, one of those present, took this one of our little family in May 1964.
It won’t need very close inspection to see one of my cauliflower ears, the result of binding down in the second row of the scrum, and grating them against props’ thighs. I am happy to say that once my playing days were over these blemishes subsided somewhat. I also appear to look rather like Jack Palance, but I think my broken nose is simply a trick of the light. Palance was an American professional heavyweight boxer of the early 1940s who became a film actor with a career spanning fifty years. He had great presence.
Archie, an appropriately named architect, was our neighbour in Gracedale Road in the 1980s. On our first meeting in the street, I glanced at this South African born giant’s ears and asked: ‘Second row?’. ‘You too?’, he replied, nodding. We hadn’t even mentioned rugby. I wouldn’t have fancied my chances against him.
Three months after the family shot was taken, we visited my grandparents in Staines. Grandma is seen here among Grandpa’s roses giving Michael his first taste of ice cream. Just as I had been Annie Hunter’s first grandchild, my son Michael was the first of her next generation of offspring. My sister Elizabeth, photographed on the same day, looks as if I probably prevailed upon her to admire another rose as a prop.
Three years on, in July 1967, I discovered St Botolph’s Church at Hardham in East Sussex. A simple two-cell stone building of very early Norman style that is Grade 1 listed, this place of worship, dating from the 12th century, contains the earliest almost complete series of wall paintings in England, and in particular the earliest reproductions of St George, the patron saint of England. Like many such wall decorations these lay under whitewash for centuries until they were uncovered in 1866.
Wishing to photograph the paintings in natural light with my Olympus OM2, I only found one scene that I thought would be in receipt of sufficient illumination. To me, at that time, it was just a man with a rather long spear on horseback. The light coming from the single east window on that day must have been shining on me as well, for I had unwittingly photographed St George fighting at Antioch in 1098, at which engagement he was believed to have made a miraculous appearance to help the Crusaders, about 
which I have only read comparatively recently. Here he smites the infidels with a lance. He was thought to have turned the battle.
We dined this evening on roast pork and the vegetables you see here. 
The crackling was crisp, crunchy and scrumptious. Spicy bread pudding and custard was to follow. I finished a bottle of the Bergerac.
Should you wish to emulate the crackling of the woman I am fortunate enough to have cooking for me,
The method is:
Rub salt into the skin some hours beforehand. Roast the joint on very low heat, gas mark 1-2 or 150C for about three hours. Then for the last 20/30 minutes turn the heat up to the maximum when the crackling will bubble up and live up to its name.
Jackie says that had she know this meal would be on display she would not have served the roast potatoes and parsnips in the dish in which she cooked them.
Tag: recipe
A Link
This morning was another splendidly spring-like one. I walked down to the Village Shop and back, to collect my dry cleaning. In an open-necked shirt and unbuttoned jacket, I raised a sweat. Not bad for January.
As I approached the Trusty, dazzled by the high sun, I was uncertain, until she’d passed me, whether the driver of the trap pulled by a familiar white pony clopping up the road was my friendly acquaintance from Seamans Lane. It was. She slowed the horse to a walk, and we exchanged smiles and waves.
The weather reverted to white cloud this afternoon, and I had a trawl through my posterity collection, coming up with colour slides from 1964.
Two members of the group of friends pictured with Vivien and Michael in May of that year were to provide a link with the next stage of my life of which I was unaware at the time. Seated in one of our two rooms in my parents’ house at 18 Bernard Gardens, from the left next to Vivien are Felicity, soon to marry Tony Dowdle who is beside her; Mike Vaquer; and David, whose surname I have forgotten. The three men were work colleagues at the Yorkshire Insurance Company. It was Mike who had introduced me to photographing the West End Christmas lights.
Three months later we attended the wedding of Tony and Felicity in a church in Killieser Avenue, Streatham.
Felicity looked all the Bluebell Girl she was. Interestingly, she seemed a great deal more happy to be photographed then than she had appeared in May. Alan Murray, best man, I think, and company seemed rather determined to ensure that Tony was covered in confetti.
Vivien was to live barely a year after this wedding.
A further year on and I was to return to Killieser Avenue for visits to Jackie who was then sharing a flat with her friend Janice. Who could have known?
Even less predictable was it, given the intervening years, that Jackie would be feeding me a wonderful dinner this evening of lamb curry and pilau rice, accompanied in my case by more of the Bordeaux.
For her fans, she has provided a description of the preparation of first the curry, then the rice.
Lamb curry (serves 8):
For the sauce finely chop 4 medium onions; 4 fat or 5 medium cloves of garlic; 3/4 bird eye chillies, and fry them in a little mustard oil mixed with vegetable oil.
When this mixture is softened and golden, throw in 3 tsp ground turmeric, 2 tsp cumin, 2 tsp coriander powder, 2tsp garam masala; 2 tbsp white vinegar, 2tbsp red wine and stir until a lovely paste is formed.
Stir in 2tbsp tomato puree and 500g Passata
The lamb (1lb), which has been pre-cooked should then be added. Our chef has used trimmed rump steaks boiled, with a little water and a lamb stock cube, in a pressure cooker for 6 minutes. If you have no pressure cooker simmer in stock until tender.
Add the lamb and its juices to the mixture above and simmer on a low heat until you have a nice thick sauce.
At some stage before then add a cupful of broad beans.
Pilau rice:
Take 8 oz basmati rice and one pint of water. Pour a little of the water into a small saucepan with 4/5 bay leaves, 2 inches of cinnamon stick, 8 green cardamoms and 8 cloves. Simmer until soft and squashy and water full of flavours.
In the meantime fry another finely chopped onion with a couple of cloves of garlic in 2oz butter then stir in the rice and throw in the saucepan of wonderful spices, the rest of the water and 4 good shakes of Maggi seasoning. (Jackie may have been a bit carried away here. For ‘throw in’ I would substitute ‘gently pour in ‘, but what do I know? Make up your own mind. PS you can leave out the saucepan itself).
Boil until all the water is gone. Garnish with toasted almonds and chopped coriander leaves.
Anyone caring to zoom in on the rice may well spot a few peas, sultanas, and yellow pepper. That is because you can add a little of whatever your fancy dictates and you have available.
Finally, a tip on keeping coriander fresh. Neither freeze it nor leave it in water. Wrap it in cling film and leave it in the fridge. That which garnished today’s meal had kept its youthful quality for at least three weeks, and there is more in the fridge.
‘Get Two’
This morning I began reading Voltaire’s tale, ‘Le Taureau Blanc’, which translates as ‘The White Bull’. I doubt whether anyone of my generation can see such a title without thinking of Tommy Steele’s famous 1959 hit song ‘Lttle White Bull’ from the film ‘Tommy the Toreador’. Rather as with Adam Faith’s ‘What do you want?’, I have been known to burst into a vernacular rendition of it. Both these period masterpieces can be heard on Youtube.
The year after Tommy burst on the scene was my last one at Wimbledon College. In ‘No-one Forgets A Good Teacher’, I signposted the possibility of featuring Bryan Snalune.
I believe I stumbled upon a print containing his image today. He is probably on the viewer’s far right nearest the volleyball net. I think I am at the back of this court in jumper and tie. I’m amazed that so many in the picture wore ties. Bryan introduced the sport to the school, and brought in, I think Canadian, Air Force players to teach us the game. If they were American, I do apologise. He arranged a few fixtures for us. I have no idea how we fared.
This gentle giant, not much older than us, had that magic quality that demands respect whilst conveying equality as a human being. He was a lot of fun without losing his authority. I see his toothy smile and shock of fairish hair now. His subject was French, through which he guided me to A Level GCSE.
The smile mentioned above is probably indirectly responsible for my being awarded a punishment of two strokes of the ferula.
The ferula was the Jesuit version of the cane. A small, flat, slipper-like object consisting of leather with whalebone inside it, this was wielded by a punishment master not connected with whatever offence of which you had been guilty. ‘Two’ – one on each hand – was what was dished out to the little boys. If you were a recidivist and rather older you could progress to ‘Twice Nine’. But you wouldn’t want to.
Bryan Snalune was a keen amateur actor. During my group’s last weeks at school he performed in a play where his character was called Goofy. Clearly the casting director had also noticed the teeth. I cannot remember why, but I was not present at the performance, yet my classmates came back with this priceless information for a budding cartoonist. It felt natural to draw Walt Disney’s Goofy on the blackboard just before the French lesson.
Unfortunately our friendly teacher was not the next one to enter the room. Instead, Fr Strachan, S.J., the deputy headmaster found some reason to make a brief visit. Glancing at the familiar character depicted on the board, he said: ‘Who did that, Knight?’. Maybe he recognised my style. Although a decent enough man, Fr Strachan was not known for his sense of humour. On that day he displayed a rather quirky one. ‘Get two’. He proclaimed.
I don’t remember the name of the executioner, but I can see him now, a little round chap in holy orders whose beady eyes glinted behind his spectacle lenses. He was a little surprised at his prescribed task when I knocked on his door and extended my arms. My outstretched palms were at a level which put my fingers in danger of picking his nose. He, and I, were both even more surprised when, at each stroke, a wailing chorus set up an anguished howl in the corridor outside. Although my hands stung rather more than somewhat, I was able to open the door to encounter the whole of my class doubled up with laughter.
The year before this, when Tommy reigned in the cinemas, Bryan had managed the second XI cricket team of which he had appointed me captain. Roger Layet stands second from the left. In the teacher post highlighted above, I told how Moses came to know my name. It was for this team that the performance that brought me to his recognition was played. Bryan Snalune was the umpire. When five wickets had fallen, all to me for not many runs, ‘Take yourself off now’, he suggested sotto voce. He was the boss, so I did. Mind you, I doubt that his intervention as a supposedly neutral officiator was legitimate. When only two more had gone down and the game was, I thought, in need of my more direct involvement, I came back on and polished off the last three. Could that have been the day I would have taken all ten? I guess we’ll never know.
When you have determined on chilli con carne for dinner and you have run out of red kidney beans and live in the heart of the New Forest, you cannot nip round the corner for a tin. This means a drive out to stock up. And whilst you are there you might as well buy a few more things, which is what Jackie and I did. New Milton’s Lidl was the fortunate beneficiary of our custom this afternoon. En route through Downton we were not surprised to see that the The Royal Oak is closed and the business is To Let.
The above-mentioned chilli con carne was as delicious and appetising as usual. It came alongside savoury wild rice with sweetcorn and peas. Creme brûlée was to follow. Mine was accompanied by Llidl’s excellent value Bordeaux superieur 2012.
Now. In grave danger of yielding my laurels to my lady, I am honour bound to satisfy the desire of a valued reader. There are a number of fans who find the culinary codas to these posts of prime interest. I will therefore detail the method of preparation of tonight’s repast.
Like all creative cooks it is useless to ask Jackie for a recipe. Each meal is a work of art in progress, planned and often prepared in advance with the variable brushstrokes applied as she goes along. However, here goes:
For enough chilli for eight servings take:
4 medium onions, 4 bird eye chillis complete with seeds, 4 large or 6 medium cloves of garlic. All finely chopped, fry in a little oil and set aside;
Simmer 1 lb of lean minced beef with a Knorr beef cube (Oxo too salty) until tender;
Combine everything with a small packet of passata, a small tin of tomato puree and 2 tins of drained red kidney beans. Adding water if needed, simmer until all flavours combine in a nice, thick, sauce.
This comes with a warning. We like it hot. Some don’t. Adjust chilli content accordingly.
This particular rice is boiled.
8-10 oz of basmati with added wild rice (can be bought mixed in supermarkets). When half-cooked add the contents of a small tin of sweeetcorn, a handful of frozen peas and 4 good shakes of Maggi liquid seasoning.
Bon appétit.
The Siren Deer
I’d really rather not mention this morning’s walk, but my innate honesty determines that I must. Actually, although that wasn’t quite the intention, it extended well into the afternoon of this scorchingly hot day.
My plan was to walk the two underpasses loop via the Sir Walter Tyrrell Inn. Somehow it went horribly wrong. I blame the siren deer.
I reached Sir Walter in good time with no mishap. As I passed The Rufus Stone I saw a small family trailing after Dad who was clearly aiming for a picnic spot. It was almost two hours later before I met anyone else not in a car. This was a young couple, the man in shorts, and the woman in a bikini, settling down on a blanket with their little toddler in the shade provided by the forest near Suters Cottage. They were local people, and so knew their way there.
Everything went swimmingly until I reached the now rather dried up stream, and was able to cross it at a hitherto impassible point. Had I stayed on the other side I would probably not have followed the Brook tributary and been distracted by the sirens. They played hide and seek with me in the trees.
I managed ultimately to catch them with my lens. If you zoom the picture by clicking on it, and look very, very, carefully, you, too will glimpse some of them, in this cervine version of Where’s Wally? (or Waldo if you are in USA). I believe the ancient sailors who were tempted by the sirens’ calls became somewhat disorientated by toxic influences. I shared their fate, because once the deer finally disappeared I had no idea in which direction I should proceed.
It was the unusual sound of the animals trooping through the trees that had alerted me to their presence, and, as so often on clear, warm days, the A31 noise was very loud. I headed for it. I was confronted by a stout wooden fence, lots of undergrowth, and a ditch, providing a pretty insurmountable barrier to this major road. Not recognising the point at which I reached it, I had a choice of turning right or left and following the fence as closely as I could. I always go left and it is always the wrong option. Well, I couldn’t break my rule, could I? Sod’s law would be bound to kick in.
Today was no exception. Sparing a thought for the walkers I had directed to the Sir Walter Tyrrell on the 11th, I tramped on. Eventually, above the bracken, I spied a road sign that informed me I was going in the wrong direction. I didn’t really want to go to either London, Southampton, or Winchester. So what next? Well, if I continued I would come to the Cadnam roundabout which was just a little bit out of my way. If I turned around I’d be retracing my steps, and would eventually reach the underpass. But that wasn’t very adventurous was it?
I continued heading for the M27, London, and all points East.
The next A31 motorists’ guidance was to non-motorway traffic. I must, I thought, be near the roundabout. I was. Soon the traffic sign confirmed it. The motorway barriers were to my right. When I was faced with a fence in front of me, I realised I was looking at Roger Penny Way which would take me to the
roundabout. There was no gate, and no cattle grid. There was nothing else for it. I was going to have to climb. At least I could be confident I would have no audience for the ungainly performance of scaling the stout timber construction. I thought it rather unsportspersonlike of the biting insect that took the opportunity to sink its fangs into my right knee as I straddled the top bar of the fence. In fact I made a better job of the assault than I had of leaping the gymnasium horse in my schooldays. That was a sight to behold. I never did get over it without a certain amount of crawling.
Cadnam roundabout should strictly be given in the plural, because there are in fact two, each of which has to be negotiated before reaching the comparative safety of the rather dangerous A337. The exercise is not to be recommended at any time, let alone the height of summer. I did it. Only two drivers called me rude names and one little boy was rather impressed.
Not far along the A337 I noticed a gate on my left that appeared to be padlocked but wasn’t. I went through it and walked into the forest keeping the road on my left. There wasn’t any real footpath and I had to cross a number of dried-up streams, but suddenly…….. Eureka!…….. I came to the gravel road I had discovered on the 10th.
I had a result at last. I now knew a safe route from the home side to Cadnam roundabout.
It was a straight line from this wide track, through a narrow, partially obscured, partly soggy, footpath to the gate into the forest that flanked Running Hill. It was on this stretch that I met the couple mentioned above. From the gate I improved on my uphill diagonal so much that I emerged onto the Hill just a few yards from our Lower Drive. Dave’s path had been totally obscured by bracken that I walked through to my goal.
The rest of the afternoon was for drinking water and recuperation. Jackie produced her marvellous chilli con carne (recipe) and wild rice, with which we shared a bottle of Setley Ridge New Forest rose she had given me for my birthday. I finished with rhubarb crumble and custard, from which Jackie abstained.