sailboarder – derrickjknight

He Caught The Sun

As we ease off in the garden we are embarking on the next stage of the internal refurbishment of our house which was in a sorry state when we bought it in April 2014.

Our bedroom with ensuite bathroom drops down from the alleged dressing room through which it is accessed. A large chunk of this room has been sacrificed to a rather pointless extension of the airing cupboard. As with every other D.I.Y. effort throughout the house it has been a botched job.

Richard, of Kitchen Makers is to start work on various rooms, beginning with this on Tuesday.

For seven years this room has been only good for a dumping ground. When our craftsman removes the extension of the airing cupboard he will build a useful structure into the former chimney breast seen in the centre of this trio of pictures.

Although we still have to clear the clutter shown above, this morning we emptied the now obsolete extension.

The third picture in this second gallery shows the door frame to the inner original cupboard which will be reinstated. The variously textured walls will be refaced and eventually redecorated, removing

our predecessors’ stencils and the false wall oppressing my great great grandmother, Elizabeth Franks.

I have eschewed flash photography for many years. I didn’t use it for the pictures on this post, but I have a project coming up next year for which it may be necessary. It must have been some time in the ’90s when I bought a rather complicated flash gun with instructions for use with film. I have never used it. This afternoon I made an effort to understand it and eventually produced some passable images. Nevertheless I need to seek further advice before deciding whether to find a simpler device.

Later, Jackie drove me to Mudeford to have a look at the skies.

Gulls in a feeding frenzy rather dominated a few hopeful starlings hoping to peck up scraps.

On the harbour side of the quay a few people waited for the sunset and a sailboarder caught the sun.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s wholesome stewp, with fresh crusty bread. She drank Hoegaarden while I drank more of the Comté Tolosan Rouge.

In Keyhaven Harbour

Yesterday Ron told me about his discovery of a collection of negatives made by his father, Ray Salinger, in the 1940s and ’50s.

Ron scanned these high quality photographs of drinkers in The Walkford pub and e-mailed them to me. We think the man in the apron is the milkman who has just delivered the milk the barman is holding – by horse and cart, of course.

On a humid-damp, dull, overcast afternoon, after a visit to the pharmacy at Milford on Sea, Jackie drove us to

Keyhaven where I walked along the harbour wall.

Strong winds swept across the high tide surface, sending rippling waves shunting weedy scum seething against the stonework,

and sweeping bent grasses alongside.

I watched various boats speeding around the harbour; and a

sailboarder prepare his steed and weave his way among the moored craft.

A boisterous dog enjoyed chasing a floating stick its owner kept throwing for the purpose;

a pair of swans drank their fill.

Perhaps in consideration of the engineers involved in cable work, the owners of a house nearby had placed a polite notice at the start of a neatly mown drive across the sward.

We continued along Saltgrass Lane and observed walkers on Hurst Spit.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy lamb curry, savoury rice, and plain parathas with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Saint Emilion. I was given a special addition of a dish of fried onions, chillis, and garlic to increase the heat of my portion.

Someone Is Going To Regret It

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In the late morning of this very hot Summer’s day, Jackie drove me to Mudeford Quay. This was the first occasion since my surgery on which I squeezed myself into the car without having been forced to do so by a medical appointment. My Chauffeuse Extraordinaire drove very slowly around the quay and the harbour, stopping on occasion for me to photograph a subject through the passenger seat window.

Departing boats and stationary buoys shimmered on the waves as we arrived;

one gentleman shaded his eyes as, perched on his bag, he watched the activity.

Fishing was undertaken from the quay and from the spit opposite.

Leaving the quay, we cruised along the harbour where swans paddled past moored boats

and a skimming sailboarder.

Squawking black-headed gulls strutted about

beside the dinghy park;

and the sailboarder came into clearer view.

A little dog trotting beside its master paused and urged its mistress to keep up.

I wondered whether two women on a bench were aware that another pair was about to pass in front of them.

We diverted to Avon Beach where I disembarked and leant against the sea wall watching a small boy smoothing a log on the sand. He, and a couple in chairs nearer the shore were oblivious of each other.

Already, well before noon, the beach was filling up with sun-seekers settling into chairs or lying on the sand with varying degrees of protection. Some would undoubtedly regret the exposure tomorrow.

While one gentleman and a boy engaged in bucket and spade activity, another grappled with a crossword.

This evening we dined on pepperoni pizza and plentiful salad.

A Windy Day

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This morning I sat in the dentist’s waiting room whilst Jackie kept an appointment.

During this time I finished reading Bruce Goodman’s ‘Bits of a Boy’. Given the amazing number of spurious dental appointments young Bruce wangled, this was probably quite appropriate. This autobiographical work must have been hidden away for at least half a century. No-one could possibly take us right into the mind of a boy at various stages of life unless he was that boy – then. Read it. On line. Or downloaded. It is a must for entertainment, for history, and for atmosphere. Oh, the memories it stirred in me.

After lunch Jackie drove us to Lepe and back.

Attracted by a group of tiny ponies we stopped at Norley Wood where Jackie waited in the car for me to photograph the creatures.

Other cameras and mobile phones came into play. One woman took her photos through an open car window;

another group walked up to, and petted the animals.

They fully understood why I named this windswept pony Donald.

I have mentioned before that gorse in the forest is regularly thinned out by controlled burning. For this reason an unusually great number of larger ponies grazed on the left hand side of the road outside Beaulieu.

A few, more reluctant, after the land had cooled, to leave their familiar territory had returned to the other side, sometimes, ghostlike, reaching up into the remaining charred bushes, sometimes foraging on the grass.

There are still a large number of waterlogged trees in pools around the forest, offering, like these near Exbury, many arboreal reflections.

How did these tyres come to be in the water?

As usual, mallards, had occupied another recent pool.

So windy was it at Lepe that the waves were extremely choppy.

One yacht made its way without sail;

others, against the backdrop of the Isle of Wight, leaned at an impressive angle;

and a sailboarder skimmed across from the island and back in the blink of an eye.

Gorse bushes and rugged trees on the clifftop bent with the wind;

and daffodils lit the bank above the Watch House.

This evening we dined at Daniel’s Fish and Chips restaurant in Highcliffe. Jackie added onion rings to her cod and chips. My supplements were mushy peas and a roll and butter. I drank tea, and Jackie didn’t.

A Touch Of Sea Air

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On a bright and sunny morning Jackie drove us out to Flexford Bridge to survey the scene that had been waterlogged on our last visit.

These muddy-looking snowdrops had been struggling to keep their heads above water then.

Banks of others lined the verges of

Flexford Lane which offers another view of Sway Tower, otherwise known as Peterson’s Folly.

The numerous catkins no longer bore droplets of rain.

On that earlier day sheep had held the higher ground that led down to the Avon stream;

today they cropped the fields of Bridge Farm.

To reach the livestock I had walked up a pitted byway,

passing a number of derelict sheds,

holes in one of which neatly framed a group of distant trees.

This afternoon Jackie cut back the clematis Campaniflora in the front garden. Unfortunately this climbs on the arch alongside one of the three manhole covers laid along the pipeline to the septic tank that carries our effluent. She decided to check this one. it was full of thick shit and toilet paper soup. She tipped a couple of buckets down it, to no avail. I took over the task and had the bright idea of shovelling out the mess, putting it in a bucket, and emptying it into the last hole. It hasn’t helped, which means there is a blockage between the first two manholes. It seems that the problem stems from inadequate equipment in the guest bathroom above. I deferred the next stage to tomorrow. It always pays to think about a problem. And I was knackered.

Probably everyone knows that unpleasant aromas linger in the nostrils long after you’ve scrubbed up. Today was no exception. It seemed like a touch of sea air was needed to blast the pong away. We therefore drove out to Calshot

just before sunset,

where a sailboarder was wending his way back to his car.

Against the backdrop of Fawley Power Station, boats and buoys rested on the silt at low tide,

whilst geese honked overhead.

This evening we dined on belly of pork served with boiled potatoes, carrots and broccoli. Jackie drank Hoegaarden whilst I drank more of the Cabernet Sauvignon opened a couple of days ago.