reflections – Page 31 – derrickjknight

On The Moors

Today’s news is that the car transporter, Hoegh Osaka, featured yesterday was deliberately run aground when it developed an unexplained list. The decision was apparently taken in order to protect the shipping lanes. Recovery is expected to take some days with minimal disruption to the port of Southampton. Here is an extract from a comment posted by my friend Barrie: ‘Thank God nobody was hurt the Captain and Pilot deserve a medal’.

Feeling a bit like the sage green reflections in the muddy pools, on a very mild, heavy, overcast morning I took a lethargic amble along the path through Roger’s field off Downton Lane.

I have mentioned before my trip with Matthew to Uncle Ben and Auntie Ellen’s home in Bolton. This was for the purpose of running the Bolton Marathon in 1982. It was in that year that I took a series of black and white photographs, the negatives of which I scanned this afternoon. They span more than one part of that summer, so today I will address those relating to that visit. Mat and I climbed up to the moors above Horwich,where it was a bit bleak. I reproduce some of the photographs here. Mat can be seen in the last two. I am grateful to my cousin Yvonne Burgess for identifying these as scenes of Rivington, the Pike so named being seen in the distance in the final moors picture. See her comment below for the Good Friday custom.

A further description of the Bolton event features in ‘A Welsh Interlude’, as does my maternal grandmother.

This evening the five of us dined at The Plough in Tiptoe. Everyone enjoyed their meals. Mine was steak and Guinness suet pudding followed by mixed fruit crumble and custard, with which I drank Doom Bar. Given that a ‘Sorry Sold Out’ sticker was placed on the blackboard across my choice almost as soon as I had ordered it, that was clearly a result in football parlance.

Chinese Takeaway Pie

Before collapsing into bed last night we watched episode 5 of ‘Downton Abbey’. Only 37 more to go, not counting Christmas specials.
Over the festive season, the skin encasing Scooby’s stomach has become rather tight. He was off his food yesterday evening, and this morning he puked up on the kitchen floor. He perked up immediately afterwards, so, in order to liberate his nostrils from the aroma of disinfectant, Jackie took him out to smell the roses. These were frost-covered, as was a pieris that has risked blooming early. This latter plant is one I bought, potted and repotted whilst living in Sutherland Place. Left there until I removed my belongings, first to Michael’s house in Graham Road, and ultimately to Downton in April, it miraculously survived and has taken well to our garden soil here.
Allowing the sun time to come up, I took the woodland walk, this time walking round the field before fording a muddy ditch leading to the stream. It was a little warmer today, so the frost dripped from the foliage onto felled logs and the forest floor. Sunlight streaked through the trees, setting the bracken alight and casting shadows on the rippling, sparkling water.

This evening’s meal was a miracle of mother/daughter invention. Becky produced Chinese Takeaway Pie. She took the left-over dishes from the meal of a couple of days ago, laid them in tiers along an ovenproof oval dish, and covered them with the pancakes that had been provided for the duck. This was gently heated in the oven, and was an enjoyable melange. Jackie’s contribution was Egg Foo Yung – well, all right, egg and bacon omelette. They went very well together. Peroni and J2O was drunk by all except me. My choice was Gran Famila Las Primas 2013.

The Reluctant Recliner

On another unseasonably warm, mostly overcast, day, Jackie drove Becky and me to Emsworth and back, so that our daughter, who, with her family is still with us, could keep an appointment. I wandered around the town, walking down Queen Street to Slipper Mill Pond, then back up the hill and round to the harbour and the Mill Pond.
First I came to Dolphin Quay, from which I took the footpath along the pond and watched gulls, an egret, and coots scratching around in the silt, or paddling in the shallow pools.
The tide was out in the Slipper Pond and the harbour, but the Mill Pond provided a good swimming area for various water fowl, such as elegant swans; further coots, one of which admired its reflection in a film of water on the concrete; and mallards parading in their colourful mating regalia.
Between the harbour and the Mill Pond runs The Fisherman’s Walk, part of The Oyster Trail which is described on an encased information board.
On our journey back to Downton, I bent my head downwards at some point. Knowing my propensity for falling asleep in the passenger seat, Becky, behind me, assumed this is what I had done. She went on to recount an occasion when, in 2007, she had driven me and Flo back to London from a trip to Newark. Apparently I had nodded off in the front seat and Becky directed Flo, who sat behind me, very, very, gradually to turn the wheel at the side of the chair so that I could adopt a fully reclined position. This had to be done inches at a time in order to effect a smooth drop so that I would not be woken. ‘Mum, Mum’, our granddaughter would whisper at intervals in order to indicate the inefficacy of the exercise. Flo was enjoined to continue until the seat was prone. I remained fully erect, unsupported, and fast asleep with my chin on my chest. Flo then was instructed to reverse the process. Keeping the necessary silence must have severely tested both mother and daughter.
This evening, before the Emsworth family returned home, we dined on Jackie’s superb chicken jalfrezi (recipe), egg korma, savoury rice, and paratas; followed by a choice sweets, mine being egg custard. I drank Reserve des Tuguets Madiran 2010. and Jackie drank Hoegaarden. The others chose sparkling water.

After The Deluge 2

Yesterday evening Bill drove Helen, Jackie, and me to the Fuchi Chinese fusion restaurant in Totton. One of their favourites, this establishment is rather more up-market than Family House, which remains one of ours. The food was first class, and the service excellent, once we had struggled through the accent of our beautiful waitress with her very strong accent. This young lady understood us very well and spoke very good English once you could get your ears adjusted. It was quite fun really.
There was something of a pause between dishes, obviously the result of everything being freshly cooked. Helen chose a dish served in a hot stone pot with a fried egg on top of it. The man I took to be the young proprietor tossed this, mixing in the egg, and served it to Helen, informing her that it was enough for three people. We all had a share. It was good.
The highlight came at the end of the meal. This was Helen’s jasmine tea. The hand-made clear glass teapot was perched on a stand of the same material. Now I know why tea lights, one of which was placed under the pot, are so called. A rounded teabag was undone. It contained what looked like a small walnut. This was dropped into the hot water, and we watched, fascinated, as a beautiful flower unfolded in the gradually darkening liquid reflected in the shiny black composite table. I don’t know what the tea tasted like.

Snatching sunshine between showers after another night of heavy rain, risking losing a shoe to the suction of the bog it now is, I wandered around the small section of forest that lies between our Upper Drive and the A31. It has taken a heavy toll in recent months. One huge branch has been ripped from its trunk. Deep pits, once dug for gravel, not yet filled by autumn leaves and other detritus, are now small lakes reflecting such surrounding trees that are still standing, and aiding the erosion of those that have fallen. Ponies visit for a drink and a meal of lichen and holly, now much more easily accessible.

As I walked out, raindrops from a recent shower, still sliding from branches overhead, dripped pattering onto last October’s leaves and forming ripples on the lakelets.
Bright emerald green moss contrasted with the soggy russet leaves on which the sun radiated long, strong, shadows.
The telephone cable brought down by the toppling, large, lichen-covered tree on 11th February still trails along the verge. It is itself undamaged.

Much of the area is completely waterlogged.

Reflections seen against the light of the sun penetrating the trees are seen in silhouette.
On 28th February I observed that the evolution of what starts out as compost soup can be very varied. For today’s lunch this became chicken stoup (stew/soup). Added to the soup of that date was the remaining rich liquid from the evening’s sausage casserole and some freshly cooked further chunks of chicken. Superb.
Smoked cod, baked beans and chips accompanied by Roc Saint Vincent Sauvignon blanc 2012 provided our evening sustenance.

Darkness At Noon

It was a bright and cheerful morning when I set off this morning to walk the Shave Wood loop and survey the effects of yesterday’s storm. No more trees seem to have been uprooted or severely damaged, but there is more surface water than I have seen before.

Water runs down the slightest incline, be it on the roads or in the forest. Where there is no slope new pools and streams are forming. Ditches follow the same logic. If there is a hill they are fast flowing; if there is a plateau they swell and join the ponds on the open land and among the trees. A tennis ball bobbed about in one running rivulet.
Many areas of scrubland normally cropped by the ponies now bear darkened patches and trails that are inchoate lakes and streams. At the moment Football Green retains enough dryish terrain to support animal sustenance. Further into the forest the skies are brought down to earth in their reflections.
The rose bush that had scratched at the side of the car has been cut back and tossed onto the muddy verge near the Minstead village sign.

At the corner of Shave Wood near the A337 an elderly tree suffering from osteoporosis appears to be using one of its branches as a crutch to prevent it from staggering into the road.
As the wind got up and the rain came down again, with each howling gust the tall creaking beeches caused me to become somewhat wary. In the darkening skies of noon, Minstead Lodge looked even more the Gothic pile. (Thank you, Arthur Koestler, for writing your 1940 novel giving me today’s title). The day remained changeable. Soon after this photograph was taken, we were treated to a rainbow, yet by the time I reached home I was beset by rain falling from dark clouds and buffeted across the cattle grid on Lower Drive.
This afternoon we visited Elizabeth. When Danni returned home with Andy we dined on Elizabeth’s spaghetti Bolognese, followed by a Firs Mess. We began with an English bacchus wine, after which Elizabeth, Danni and I drank various red wines and Andy consumed cider. After this we went home.