rhododendrons – Page 6 – derrickjknight

Aviemore

Beside many cattle grids are placed small pedestrian gates, for ease of crossing. Most people seem to either drive or walk over the grids. Mat’s little Jack Russell, Oddie, simply trips across them. Flo’s Scooby, on the other hand, managed to slip and hurt his foot on one. Our lower drive gate is so seldom used that the latch grows moss.

Today’s walk, starting by crossing the grid, was to Fritham where Jackie met me at The Royal Oak for a ploughman’s lunch and a pint of beer, and drove me back afterwards.

The sheep in the field alongside Furzey Gardens road were looking very shaggy this morning. All but one unfortunate, who appeared to be masquerading as the sheepdog in the Specsavers advertisement, and consequently retained straggly bits of fleece. Or maybe the shepherd, having somewhat unsuccessfully sheered just one, had decided to have his eyes tested.

There were still some boggy patches across the heath on the North side of the A31. So maybe sandals wasn’t a good idea. But the ponies usually find a way through, and they know it is much more fun to ford a gravelly stream than to squelch through a soggy quagmire. At one point I disturbed a dear little doe who scutted away from the gorse bushes before I had seen her. Had she just lain doggo I would have missed her altogether. But then, she didn’t know that.

Taking a short cut across the heath near Fritham, and hearing the drone of a single propeller airplane, I looked aloft in time to see it disappear into the fleecy clouds. Possibly the plane confused me, for it was soon after that that I realised the short cut wasn’t. This required the unnecessary circumperambulation of several farms and contributed to my being slightly late for our rendezvous. Had I not taken this minor diversion I possibly would not have met the smallest foal I have ever see. He will no doubt grow up to be a Thelwell pony like his Mum. A little later I was rather chuffed to be able unerringly to direct a car driver to the pub.

With less than a mile to go I found my way barred. A cow had adopted the standard New Forest stance of head in hedge. She stirred herself sufficiently to extract her tagged ears and fix me with a stony stare. This necessitated a little rear negotiation on my part. I shifted a bit sharpish as she twitched her tail and tap-danced her back legs. She may have also moved her front legs, but I wasn’t looking at those.

It is just possible that my ‘poof redders’ may be tempted to inform me that you won’t find either ‘scutting’ or ‘circumperambulation’ in a dictionary. As far as ‘scutting’ is concerned it seemed to me to be a perfectly good way of describing the bobbing of a deer’s scut, or rear end, as it romps away. And why not describe a circular walk as a ‘circumperambulation’? After all, sailors get away with circumnavigation. I’m hoping the Oxford Dictionary scouts spotted that one when I first used it on 20th July last year.

This afternoon, having slumped a bit after our lunch, we stirred ourselves to visit a National Gardens Scheme open garden in Bartley. We were so pleased we did because we could not have anticipated the breathtaking display that greeted us in this comparatively small establishment in a village street.

Having been planted with expert knowledge and care it is clear that this garden has been planned for all-year-round colour, with an eye for texture and shape. So varied is the fare that I could identify only a fraction of the menu. Trees have been carefully pruned; when one plant is over for the year, up pops its neighbour, like the poppy by the pond; variegated leaf adds to the palette; and all kinds of artefact are used as containers. Butler sinks are filled with succulents and alpines. One of these lies atop an old mangle. Mata Hari lounges in a corner by the stream that flows through the bottom of the back garden. A chair has faced the front garden pond long enough to harbour plentiful lichen. Almost every tree or trellis has a resident clematis or other climber. Raised beds have been constructed for vegetables.

A tasteful, artistic, and skilled hand has planned the optimum use of the whole plot, a modest one that can be viewed on an epic scale. I remember my surprise when I first saw the originals of some of William Blake’s engravings and realised how small were these monumental works. Aviemore is not dissimilar.

I could go on and on about this home of Sandy and Alex Robinson and their eldest son, Gavin. Perhaps the attached photographs may be more eloquent.

Helen and Bill’s champagne, Etienne Dumont 2012, was a slightly incongruous, but nevertheless delightful, accompaniment to our evening meal of fish and chips, mushy peas, pickled onions, gherkins, sliced bread and butter, and tomato sauce.

Propelled Back To England

I had one last laugh with Thierry and Geoffrey yesterday evening. As I prepared to leave Le Code Bar, having finished posting that day’s blog entry and amending the English version of his bilingual summer restaurant menu, David told me my builders were seated under the outside canopy having a drink. I bade them a further farewell and went back to the house to find it cleaned spotlessly. Returning to the bar I told them that the place was so clean I was scared to go in. They were so amused by this that Geoffrey interrupted his mobile phone conversation to laugh uproariously.

Back at the house I took my shoes off and entered in my socks. A short while later Geoffrey returned for his jacket which he’d forgotten. He took his shoes off. As he left I raised my right, still unshod, leg so my foot could be seen by Thierry in the car. More guffaws.

John Blair’s contribution to the Oxford History provided my late night and early morning reading, and I continued on the plane with John Gillingham’s ‘The Early Middle Ages’.

Courtesy of Lydie, Flybe, and Jackie, I took my usual route home to Minstead, which was rather more overcast than the Aquitaine I had left an hour or so earlier. As we had soared aloft into the bright sunshine above the scattered clouds, I was unable to distinguish the individual speedily spinning propeller blades, but the camera could.

The spaces between the clouds afforded interesting views of the French coast.

Back in Minstead all the trees were now fully in leaf; the rhododendrons in Castle Malwood Lodge garden were looking stunning; and Jackie’s pots had somehow multiplied themselves, their plants having flourished. It is amazing what Baby Bio can do for violas.

We drove to Eastern Nights in Thornhill for our evening meal after which we dropped in on Elizabeth for a brief visit and scared ourselves with the amount of weeding there is to be done in this well-fed, now profusely blooming, garden.

Cheers, Errol

Louisa, Errol, Jessica and Imogen and I made an early start as Errol drove us to Ocknell camping and caravan site near Fritham, so they could investigate the facilities. They have bought a tent and intend to start camping. We went out along Roger Penney Way, where I thought we might see donkeys, cattle, and even pigs, to complement the ponies. We did see a few, but more were to come.

The nearest we got to pigs were the Peppa Pig brochures which the girls studied avidly as their parents sought information at the site’s reception office. They had, of course enjoyed a trip to Peppa Pig World with Jackie and me on 3rd November last year.

On our return, I suggested a drive through Fritham, where we were treated to prolonged close-ups of both donkeys and cattle who were in no hurry as they ambled up the road. There can be no more ungainly gait than that of hoofed animals on tarmac. Even the new calves show signs of their parents’ awkwardness. The donkeys showed us their rear views. The cattle ambled towards us aiming, no doubt, for their sheds at the junction leading to The Royal Oak. When we turned back after coming to the end of the road, they had clearly been in no hurry, so we had to follow their rears as well. On Stoney Cross Plain there were a number of forest pony foals to be seen.

It was not yet 10 a.m. when we returned to the Lodge. We had already had one diversionary trip to stop Jessica and Imogen from waking Eleanor’s household. Eleanor is ten years old and my granddaughters were itching for her to join them in the den. But the curtains were drawn in her flat and it was Sunday morning. I therefore stood in for the young lady until our very early lunch, necessitated by the family’s long journey back to Nottingham.

The den is within the spreading limbs of an enormous rhododendron which provide an excellent climbing frame. Paving of various materials, some of which have been decorated with charcoal from a bonfire; a little fabricated gate; a patch in which carrots are being grown; a set of wind chimes; various plaster ornaments on a bird-feeder; and a wooden seat straddling the almost horizontal branches, are all features of this creation. With immaculate timing Eleanor came in to view just at the point of lunch. As quick as a flash the girls were off to join her. Imogen took her cucumber-filled crusty roll off with her, and returned a few minutes later for earth to be scraped off the filling. Naturally she was given fresh ingredients.

This evening I received a photograph from Errol that he had taken yesterday. Strangely enough, I was walking in the wrong direction (I am indebted to Becky for this interpretation of the picture, which is more apt than my original).

We were also grateful to Errol for providing the drinks that went with our evening meal tonight. Jackie drank a can of Stella he had left in the fridge, and I finished a bottle of a French wine he had bought at the village shop. This beverage trips off the tongue as well as it slid onto it. It is Lazy Lizard Shiraz 2011. We ate oven fish and chips followed by Jackie’s rice pudding and Sainsbury’s profiteroles.

A Near Miss

Although the temperature was a little more than zero degrees today, it was cold and blustery so it seemed appropriate that I had an appointment at the Lyndhurst GPs’ ‘freezing’, or cryo- clinic today. The purpose of this was to persuade another skin blemish to depart from my left shoulder.

After a hasty drive to Totton’s Lidl and a mad dash round the shop for weekend provisions, we still arrived back at Minstead without allowing me quite enough time to walk to the surgery. Jackie therefore drove me to Forest Road’s crossing with the Newtown and Acres Down roads, and I walked from there. She collected me after the cryosurgery. I was in and out in ten minutes.

Along Forest Road we learned a new road warning signal. An oncoming driver flashed headlights at us. Jackie instinctively knew what she was being told, which was fortuitous because around the next bend a good dozen ponies straggled across our path. They required a bit of weaving through. The morning’s rain held off for my walk, but began again after we returned home.

On this grey day bluebells brightened the verges leading to Lyndhurst; and the kitchen garden Jackie has now finished planting up, sparkled. Even in the rain the shrubbery that has now bloomed for us to view from our living room is an attractive sight.

Photograph number 17 in ‘Derrick through the ages’ was taken by Elizabeth on 24th August 2007. Hopefully not quite the biter bit, this is more accurately the photographer photographed. This was the day James Arondelle’s parents got married. Although rather less important than their son, born a comfortable time later, the bride and groom were my niece Fiona and her husband Paul. My post of 20th March tells of how I am sometimes roped in to photograph family weddings. One such occasion was the wedding of these two. Elizabeth wanted to make sure I featured in a few pictures. This one looks as if I might be pondering about something.

The above mentioned post also describes how it is possible to have a disaster on such an occasion. It was just a week after Fiona and Paul’s big day that I photographed the Notting Hill Carnival. This was in my pre-digital camera days. On the first roll of the film I took of that famous regular event in West London are some of my favourite photographs. Something went wrong with the shutter during the exposure of the second roll. I only captured half of each frame, and the camera was irreparable. I was sorry to lose the carnival pictures, but think of how much worse it could have been had the camera not held out for another week. In fact I only discovered the problem after I finished that particular film in Australia, after Sam and Holly’s wedding, but they had had a professional doing the job, so all was well covered.

A postscript to this is that on that August bank holiday it was absolutely freezing. As cold as any days we have suffered lately. Sunny and bright enough for photogenic shadows, but teeth chattering and goose pimply for anyone, like me, who had turned up early enough to bag a place at the barriers three hours before the action started. Eventually, I remember, my bladder got the better of me and I had to nip home for a pee. Then of course I couldn’t regain my place, so I concentrated on photographing the crowds rather than the dancers and their floats. It is those crowd shots that I lost.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s chicken curry and savoury rice. Brilliant. I finished the Carta Roja. Brilliant.

Have I Simply Gone Mad?

A robin and a blue tit saw off a nuthatch from the bird station. Really it was the robin who did the business, the tit being like the little kid who eggs on the bully to snatch some of the glory. The robin then stood guard, looking threatening, while the tit, knowing he didn’t belong in the same space as the toughie, head deferentially bowed, waited his turn. Modern technology found a wonderful new way to send me ballistic this morning. We received a phone call from the handyman who is to fix a few things in the flat. One item was not on his list. Since, without the agent’s say so he could not fix it, unless we contacted them we would need to continue flushing the lavatory with a piece of string which gets soggy if you drop it in the water. Rob, the handyman, asked us to call the agent. That was when the fun started. After dialling the number I was asked by a machine to enter my password. Well, how do you do that on a mobile phone? I also had an e-mail telling me the device would not receive messages because the password was incorrect. Thinking this may have been to do with my having reset my e-mail password on the BT account, I followed the directions given to do that. I was not allowed to do it that way, so I tried another. The new password was rejected, and the phone locked. Now, my mobile phone is on an O2 account, as my regular readers will already know. The home phone, in Jackie’s name, is a BT account. So you will be able to imagine my surprise, and mild expletives, when I got the same password request on the home phone. My expletives became even milder when Jackie got the same response on her pay as you go T-mobile. Eventually, I received a call from the home phone on my mobile. Jackie had now discovered that that had begun to work without the machine’s interference, as had her mobile. I could now receive calls, but access nothing else on my locked phone. There are seventeen apartments in this building. During this fiasco our entry buzzer was activated. Hoping it was our Rob, Jackie answered the door to a deliveryman who was trying to access number 15. Ours was one of only two buzzers he had managed to get to work. Rob arrived in good time. He was unable to access the loo until I got out of the bath. My ablutions had been delayed by the shenanigans. Whilst soaking comfortably I contemplated ‘Murder In The Lounge’, posted on 25th August last year. That story was about a cat fight. What I didn’t mention then was that the people next door were out when I returned the perpetrator’s collar, so I put that through the letterbox and left an answer phone message. My neighbours did not receive the message, and what is more, their entry phone did not take messages. Nevertheless, as I pressed the buzzer, a machine from inside the hall asked me to leave a message. So I did, and when I heard nothing more from my neighbours whose cat, after all, had left my sitting room looking like a pile of feathers after a predator had made a kill, I thought that rather churlish of them. So, did that buzzer short circuit with the telephone, or was the timing pure coincidence? And, if that was possible, could the deliveryman, trying all the buzzers in turn, have managed the same thing? It was, after all, only after he left that Jackie managed to use the phone. Or have I simply gone mad? Never mind, I thought, the birch on the lawn now sports fresh green leaves, and the sun casts its rays through our huge mullioned windows. There was, however, nothing remotely amusing or cheerful about the way the rest of the morning was spent. I was rash enough to telephone O2 about the locked phone. First of all the advisor suggested the earlier problem must have been related to the number we were trying to ring. That made sense to me. She then took me through the very lengthy process of unlocking my mobile. I had to enter, ten times, the password that kept showing up as incorrect. She could then reset it for me, but all the information carried by my phone would be wiped. I did this, and watched all my contact information; e-mails; saved messages; texts; and anything else I haven’t thought of, represented by a black line progressing across the screen. Twice. When she reset it, the password I had been using all along worked. Perhaps I have gone mad. This is exactly why I have always been reluctant to keep all information in my mobile phone’s memory. But I’ve often been a bit lazy in this respect. So, if you ever want to hear from me again, please send me an e-mail with your contact details. If I don’t receive any of these, I will know where I stand, and I just don’t know what I’ll do with myself. After lunch, with all this buzzing in my head, Jackie drove us to Elizabeth’s, where she continued planting bulbs and seeds and I cut the grass. This was slightly problematic in that I couldn’t get the mower going again. I was just about to throw in the towel, when, realising that would only clog up the works even more, I remembered Elizabeth’s technique, displayed on 20th, of pushing the machine along, jerking it up and down. A few yards of shoving what looked like a giant snail with hiccups did the trick. We were pleased to see the early, red, rhododendron has benefited from the bracken compost and the removal of diseased buds last summer. Before I could put my mind to this, I gleaned some family phone numbers from my sister and inserted them into my mobile. If you are a family member do not assume I now have all your details. Danni cooked a superb roast chicken dinner with all the trimmings for the four of us. Pudding was apple and blackcurrant pie. Danni and I drank McGuigan Estate shiraz 2012; Jackie drank Hoegaarden; and Elizabeth drank water.

Past It At Six

It was such a grey day that I did not fancy a walk. Not only that, but I’ve done quite a lot in the last couple of days and considered I’d earned a rest. So we went to Hedge End for yet more strip lighting, and dropped in on Elizabeth.

She wants to use some of my photographs for her web site. We discussed possibilities. Jackie watered some of the plants in the greenhouse and I wandered round the garden enjoying signs of post-winter life. Roses and shrubs are budding and some of the latter even beginning to bloom. We were particularly pleased with the winter flowering rhododendron that we planted last autumn in a newly created bed. The one drawback with this is that what was thought to be yellow and scented is actually pale pink and lacking an aroma. Elizabeth thought she may have picked up the wrong one in the garden centre.

After this we visited Mum who has a chest infection and hasn’t been at all well. Not wishing to disturb her if she was asleep, and being unable to remember the code for the keysafe, which allows people access to her house when she can’t get to the door, I rang the bell very tentatively. There was no reply. We peeped through the kitchen window. Fortunately the door to the living room was open and we could see Mum’s slippered feet resting on her pouffe. We could also see the television screen which had writing on it, but no moving pictures. She must be asleep. Craning to one side, Jackie spotted a movement. Mum was doing her cross-stitch. So I rang the doorbell again.

My mother apologised for not answering the bell. She had been feeling less well yesterday and had struggled to the door to be greeted by an electioneering canvasser. Thinking that if there was one there were likely to be more, she put up a notice saying she could not come to the door for political discussions. She removed it this morning but thought that maybe we were another such visitor. I said I was glad to hear that was the reason, because until we saw her twitch when we could see her feet through the kitchen window with an unchanging television screen , we thought she had popped her clogs. Mum had a good laugh at this and didn’t even cough. She had been listening to the radio through the television. Far too up to the minute for me.

I’m sure this nonagenerian would have more success with a computer than I do. I have written before about the problems with setting up my i-Mac, in particular my inability to upload photos direct from my camera. With an unaccustomed burst of optimism I decided to get down to the business of upgrading my machine. Trawling around the Apple on-line information I learned that what I needed was a Mountain Lion. But before I could even think of obtaining one of those dubious pets I needed a Snow Leopard. Whoever named the Berberis Darwinii photographed above would probably understand Apple’s system of evolution.

But, hold on a minute, no Mac purchased before 2007, can accommodate a wild cat. I needed to check my operating system. Non-vintage operating systems are all named after these beautiful endangered species. Not only endangered, they are dying out, and needing replacement, at an alarming rate. There were helpful instructions as to how to discover your operating system. My computer was purchased in 2006, so it is not even powered by a moggie kitten.

The time had come for me to give up trying to find my way through the on-line maze, so I telephoned Apple and, after the usual false starts because I couldn’t give the robot the right answers, I spoke to a very helpful man named John. One of the false starts was Jackie’s fault. Just as the machine I was being questioned by asked me something to which the answer was definitely not ‘No’, she called me from the kitchen asking if I’d like some coffee, which I didn’t. And I don’t think the young woman with the tinny voice is programmed to accept ‘thank you’.

John, of course, confirmed what I had come to realise. I cannot upgrade my Apple. And new i-Macs don’t have a slot for discs, which is what I need to upload the system for transferring pictures from my little Canon. Maybe I would be able to do that another way, but I’ve had enough head banging for one day. When I had told John the identifying number of my non-zoological operating system, he had taken a sharp intake of breath. During the conversation he told me that my six year old machine was classified as ‘Vintage’. Had it been another year older it would have been ‘Obsolete’. ‘Vintage’ starts at five. The term when given to wine might be considered positive. Not with computers.

In the evening Jackie drove us to Totton where we enjoyed fish and chips with tea for me and coffee for her at Goodies. Episode 5 of ‘Call the Midwife’ was for afters when we got home.