It was very clear this morning, as I walked the postbox loop, why Running Hill is named after the streams that run down it. Yesterday’s rain continued in abundance, although the wind has eased.
The raindrops that kept ‘falling on my head’, were not just those that came directly from the skies. Have you ever noticed that when you walk under trees those drips whose descent is interrupted hit you and your clothing with a much louder plop? This is because they slide down the branches gathering bulk on the way, and are veritable droplets by the time they reach you. My raincoat was again hung over the bath to dry.
In October 1981 Jessica, Sam, and I spent a fortnight in the holiday home of friends of Jessica’s friend Sue Sproston in Cabrieres in the south of France. 
Photographs taken on that holiday are in the next set of random black and white negatives I identified and worked on today.
Like all French houses, especially in the south, attractive shutters kept out the heat of the sun, but that didn’t stop a young woman basking on the stone steps to her house. I remember the steep climb back up from the baker’s in the morning after we had shopped for baguettes and croissants. This was my first French holiday.
The stone garden walls intrigued me, as did abandoned vehicles behind them. Dappled light lent enchantment everywhere, especially when flashing through the treelined avenues along which we drove in the Renault 4. My train journey up to London, on a bright day, has the same strobe-like effect.
It is perhaps fitting that the tiled rooftops fascinated me so much, given that we were to discover that they occasionally leaked. One evening the clear blue sky suddenly darkened. Deep indigo replaced the brighter colour as clouds filled the firmament. Violent lightning rent the air and lit up the rooms in the wake of rumbling bouts of thunder. The raindrops that followed made this morning’s drips seem quite insignificant. They fairly hammered incessantly on the roof and skylights, finding their way through the many cracks and crevices. The house was soon filled with buckets, bowls, pans, and any other containers that could be found, all rapidly filled with first spattering, then splashing, rain.
We learned in the morning, when the day was as bright as that in the pictures above, that the storm was the worst in local memory. The owners of the house had thought it fairly safe to leave the roof to the last of the refurbishments necessary for their holiday home. I am, of course, now accustomed to such storms in Sigoules.
With our own lesser rain still descending this evening we dined on delicious prawn risotto (recipe) and green beans, followed by scrumptious apple crumble and custard. We both drank Cimarosa zinfandel rose 2012, which Jackie enjoyed and I found rather too scented.
Tag: Running Hill Minstead
You Could Say I’d Be Stumped
The encouragement Jackie has received from our neighbours about her garden at the Lodge has inspired her to aspire to new heights. This meant we had to visit Cadnam Garden Centre, ostensibly for more netting for the rabbit proofing. I set off a little earlier than Jackie, so she could drive there and have a coffee and read whilst waiting for me to arrive. What I hadn’t been aware of was her plan to add a Gardman Gothic Arch to her little plot which measures 86 inches (220 cm) by 18 inches (46 cm). So we bought one. And the netting. And a couple of terra cotta pots to block a hole between the steps and the end of the building through which a rabbit, capable of breaching a three inch gap, might wriggle. There also had to be a couple of hanging baskets.
I was attracted to a display containing a wheelbarrow beautifully coordinated with the plants in front of it. Jackie pointed out that it reflected garden centres’ realisation that most gardeners are women.
The afternoon was devoted to the assembly of the arch. With all our IKEA experience we are dab hands at this now. However, should you ever think of allowing yourself to be diverted whilst stretching out a measuring tape, into letting go the far end without locking the spool, it is not to be recommended. Later, we returned just before closing time for the necessary compost. My right hand wasn’t too comfortable with the Elastoplasted knuckle of its third finger being slid under the compost bags to lift them.
After lunch we had another trip by car to the Acres Down Farm Shop where we bought vegetables for the bank holiday weekend, not fancying braving one of the supermarkets on such a day. It is a distinct feature of country life that trips to buy standard items become outings worth recording. No longer can we obtain anything just around the corner or after a trip on an underground line.
The walk that split the shopping and construction periods was most pleasant. The blooms of an ornamental cherry of a Japanese flavour at the back of the house gleamed in the sunshine or sheltered in the shade of a neighbouring trunk. 
Running Hill becomes leafier by the day, and shadows were cast everywhere. 
Ponies, whose numbers were to increase as the day went on, were out in force.
I have already mentioned (on 24th April) the number of fallen trees that litter the forest. 
As a newcomer to the environment I could only presume that the fact that they appear to be left in situ for the benefit of the ecosystem. 
During our ancient tree hunt on 1st May, I asked Berry about this. 
She explained that a comparatively recent policy had changed traditional practices. It was once the case that one third of the fallen tree should be left on the ground whilst two thirds could be removed by local people for firewood. This age-old right of neighbouring residents has now been removed; the forest now looks untidy; and footpaths are blocked. But what do I know about it? 
Undoubtedly these fallen giants, in various stages of decay, do provide great benefits for a variety of flora and fauna. Jackie pointed out that there must have been a need for a way of establishing when two thirds of a tree had been removed. ‘Suppose’, she said ‘one family took away two thirds; then another took away two thirds of what was left, and so on. You would wind up with nothing’. Well, I hadn’t got an answer for that. Masquerading as Mother Christmas, she had included a Mensa calendar in my stocking. This has a puzzle challenge on a tear-off pad each day. I wonder if there is such a conundrum in there? If so, I’d have to pass on it. You could say I’d be stumped.
On my walk I had taken a diversion through Shave Wood. It was quite difficult to negotiate a way through this, because of the fallen trees.
Ox heart casserole was Jackie’s offering this evening. It was tender and tasty. Plum crumble was for afters. I finished the Piccini.
The Village Lunch
Running Hill was glorious this morning as I set off to walk a quirky Q linking the two fords with the Fleetwater phone box. This red phone box, incidentally, no longer takes coins. Bishops were in the process of moving people out of Barter’s, a rather large yet homely house which has just been sold.
The only humans I saw were in cars. 
Steaming exhalations emanating from ponies’ nostrils, snorted downwards, soared upwards and evaporated. Come to think of it, mine were doing the same. Poppy nutted Libby out of the way so she could get to the water bucket. Berry had said that this horse was the one in charge. She demonstrated this today. No resistance was offered by the wilder animal.
Sheep were strung out grazing in the sunlight.
We visited The Trusty Servant Inn, known locally as ‘The Trusty’, for lunch. This was a monthly village gathering attended by both familiar and new faces. The pub, in winter months, provides one course from a selection of four or five, for £6 a head. Jackie chose fish and chips; I had shepherds pie; and we drank Peroni and Doom Bar respectively. The village is proving to be most hospitable. At our end of the long row of linked tables one subject of conversation was the alleged Grinling Gibbons work over our entrance hall fireplace. No-one can yet verify the provenance of this. Nor has anyone come up with a definitive origin of the word Seamans. Oz thinks Richard Reeves in Lyndhurst might help with the latter. We also spoke about ancestry, names, and nicknames. Oz, actually Robert Osborne, has been Oz since he was a ten year old schoolboy. Friends of mine sometimes call me Del, and, when they want to be really amusing, Del Boy, with reference to David Jason’s classic television character Derrick Trotter. Oz would not answer to Ozzie, and Diane declines to be called Di. Diane and Bill; Oz and Polly (Pauline); Eileen and David; and Jackie and I got to know each other quite well in the time. At the far end of the table were Mary; and Jeanie and Nick, and a few others we didn’t meet. Mary had driven past us en route; Jeanie was the woman on whose door I had knocked in search of Seamans Lane information on 9th December last year; Nick is the husband who wasn’t in. We had a few words with them when we left. I list these names in full in the hope that this will help me remember them.
While I was walking in the morning Jackie went shopping in Totton’s Lidl. Among other purchases she came back with a child’s play-tent and a fan heater. The reason for the heater is that she is beginning to feel cold in the bedroom, whereas I don’t notice it. After lunch we decided to visit Aldi in Romsey where I had seen an electric blanket. Initially there was no sign of one. Searching under a pile of pillows like a terrier throwing up soil from a foxhole, we unearthed the one I had spotted, fortunately hidden from the view of anyone else who might have liked it. 
By the checkout there was a tub of ‘Hand Cooked Potato Chips’. This amused us. Like almost every display near a checkout, this one contained supplementary items dumped by people who had changed their minds. The woman on the till was very pleased when I told her that if there were an Olympic sport in checking out, she would be in the team. Her speed and friendliness were equally impressive.
Our evening meal was the same as yesterday.