shadows – Page 11 – derrickjknight

The Water Bed

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This morning we drove to New Milton to register with the Birchfield Dental Practice, then do business at the bank and the post office. Afterwards we visited Streets Ironmongers in Brockenhurst where we exchanged our Swan’s Basket for a more suitable grate for the new fireplace, and a bag of coal. As we left the shop, the car thermometer registered 19 degrees. we’ll hardly need a fire. Someone up there is having a laugh.

The land around the Balmer Lawn section of Highland Water has dried out enough for the flooded area, bearing strong shadows from the overhead sun, to contain discrete pools reflecting the trees and the skies.

Some of the shadows criss-crossed the roots exposed by receding waters.

Clear water flowed over the glowing Highland Water bed.

The river itself sparkled in the sunlight.

As I wandered along the banks a pony seemed to move across the landscape. Actually it remained stationary. It was I who changed my position.

Highland Water and walker on road bridge

Cyclists were reflected beneath the bridge, over which a walker proceeded in the direction of Brockenhurst,

and under which the river streamed.

Other ponies had reclaimed their pasturage. This one set off past the car park towards the river, thought better of it, and, eyes open, went to sleep.

Perhaps it had decided to leave the watering hole to the donkeys,

who, thirst slaked, went off for a scratch

followed by a necking session.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s sublime chicken jalfrezi and mushroom rice, with onion bahji and samosa starters and a side dish of dal makhani and paneer. Jackie finished the Vernaccia di San Gimignano and I finished the carmenère.

Indigo, Sepia, Lightning

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The four of us brunched today at Beachcomber cafe on the cliff top at Barton on Sea, within sight of The Isle of Wight and The Needles.

The day’s ever-changing light laid a haze over the ponies on Barton Common. Although these animals roam freely like any other New Forest pony, for their own protection, they are fenced along the road through to the coast.

Various walkers cast their shadows across the beach.

I am not sure of the purpose of the stationary working boat that rested on the sun-slashed ocean surface beneath the indigo skies.

The Beachcomber was as well patronised as usual; the food was good, and the service efficient and friendly.

Shortly before sunset I walked down Downton Lane and along the path through Roger’s fields. The sky bore a strangely sepia hue,

until the lowering sun set the cottages and fields alight,

and sent lightning flashes overhead.

This evening we dined on perfectly roasted lamb and potatoes; stuffing; crunchy cauliflower, carrots, and runner beans; gravy with lots of goodies, and mint sauce; followed by spicy pumpkin pie and cheesecake. Ian drank Peroni; the ladies, Australian white wine; and I finished the rioja.

Brunch

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Late this bright, sunny, and chilly, morning, Becky and Ian, Jackie and I, motored to Steamer Point for brunch in The Friars Cliff Cafe.

Blue sky and cotton clouds reflected their hues in ocean stripes against the backcloth of the Isle of Wight and The Needles, as walkers strode out along the steps of Friars Cliff beach.

People basked in the sunshine, which was surprisingly warm;

enough for the cafe tables on the promenade to be well patronised.

Smaller beings slalomed their way among feet and shadows.

Becky led Scooby down to look at the water, but his attention became diverted by an elegant, waving, tail.

Even when seated at the outside tables many people discarded their coats, like a couple of boys who hung theirs on their scooters, equally superfluous to requirements on the shingle.

The group in the background of the picture containing the mobile phone user was just one of many at the water’s edge.

This evening the four of us dined on Jackie’s luscious sausage casserole, mashed potato and swede; crunchy carrots and Brussels sprouts; followed by the most appetising pumpkin pie I have ever tasted. The Culinary Queen attributes the success to an extra egg, evaporated milk, nutmeg, and cinnamon. She and Becky finished the sauvignon blanc, Ian chose Peroni, and I drank El Pinsapo gran seleccion rioja, 2011.

Heard On The Telegraph

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Many of the negatives from the French holiday of 1985 are in black and white Ilford film. This was my favourite in the dark ages of the early 1980s when I printed my own work in monochrome with chemicals in the blacked out kitchen makeshift darkroom. I scanned another batch today.

A useful prop in the garden of the gite, were the cartwheels.

They worked on their own, or as a backdrop for Sam’s poking about in the water.

The nearby woodlands offered contrasting light,

and lengthening shadows across the roads.

During the process of producing this post, I realised, on gazing out of the window, that a jackdaw had heard on the telegraph that I was working in black and white, and helpfully posed, perching on a pole, cocking its head to make sure that it had heard aright.

Anyone who has followed my technical problems ever since I uploaded Mac’s new operating system will be relieved to learn that this work was done on that machine. This morning, I received an update from Apple which seems to have ironed out a few problems. Don’t get too excited, but do watch this space.

This evening we dined at Lal Qilla in Lymington. We received the usual very warm welcome, excellent food, and friendly, attentive, service. My meal was king prawn Ceylon and Jackie’s chicken Haryali. We shared a naan, special fried rice, and a caulliflower bahji, and both drank Kingfisher.

Defending Southampton Water

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On another splendid September summer’s morning, Jackie drove us to Calshot and back.

Calshot Beach had just two occupants: the proverbial one man and his dog.

A woman was discussing the refurbishment of her beach hut. What had at first seemed a simple carpentry job had developed into a bit of a rebuild because of the discovery of dry rot and woodworm.

Betsy, at number one, was able to enjoy the sunshine outside her delightfully appointed summer house.

These huts threw long shadows in the sunshine.

Some boats were moored;

others sailed behind the cricket stumps – http://www.royal-southern.co.uk/News-Desk/ID/1037/Yacht-Clubs-meet-for-the-annual-Bramble-Bank-cricket-match-in-the-middle-of-the-Solent – (Info courtesy of quercuscommunity.wordpress.com), deep on the boundary.

A seaplane droned overhead.

Calshot Beach is on a sand and shingle spit leading to Calshot Castle,

first seen through boats old

and new.

These masts belong to members of the Calshot Cats yachting club.

Across the water lies Fawley Power Station.

I was not the only photographer interested in the scene;

and crossing a lead with fishing rods, a young man engaged in a tug of war with his dog.

Turning my attention to the water, I tracked a speedboat

as it sped past the Red Funnel ferryboat,

then yachts, with the Spinnaker (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Spinnaker_Tower) on the horizon.

Since the Olympics breakfast on 19th, I have been unable to face my favourite full English, so when we decided to lunch at the Activities Centre, I opted for ham, egg, and chips, which could be considered as breaking me in gently. Jackie chose vegetable soup and a baguette.

Whilst enjoying this, I watched silhouettes making their way along a distant sand spit.

Here is the history of the castle (enlargement should help).

We dined this evening on Chicken Kiev, Jackie’s piquant cauliflower cheese, and creamy mashed potato. I finished the malbec.

Seating Arrangements

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Anyone who has followed this blog for any length of time will know that we are prone to buying almost as many benches and chairs as plants. This is because we like to provide points at which to sit and contemplate the views, or simply to take a rest in the shade.

Today I followed the cloud-diffused sun around the garden, photographing a selection of the seating arrangements.

Many, like this pair of chairs in the front garden, were bought very cheaply from Efford Recycling Centre.

This bench, recently moved from the grass patch to the Dead End Path, was from the same source. It is, in truth, a bit rickety, and therefore rests against the butler sinks.

Our four large wooden chairs made by a local carpenter, cast interesting shadows on the patio.

Looking a bit battered after its journey from Newark to two London addresses before being extensively repaired by me two years ago, this bench is a replica of those at Nottingham Castle. It is perfectly sturdy.

Jackie found the cast iron ends of this seat, now resting on the Heligan Path, in the shrubberies. I bought the wood and fitted it together.

A cluster of metal chairs is loosely arranged on the gravelled south end patio;

this one has strayed a bit, presenting a view into the Rose Garden,

where this elegantly ornate chair is one of the features.

Our most recent dump acquisition has replaced the earlier mentioned bench on the grass patch. It is made of light and strong aluminium, but could do with a paint job.

A variety of wooden seats, like this one outside the stable door,

this beside Elizabeth’s Bed,

these along the back drive,

and this beside the Brick Path facing the Phantom Path, were obtained from the same source.

Others, like this one alongside the Head Gardener’s Walk, came from IKEA.

Beside the same path, in the arched Gardener’s Rest was furnished by the recycling centre.

Aaron recently added touches of paint to this iron bench bought from Ace Reclaim architectural salvage outlet. Beside the Shady Path it looks across the Palm Bed.

This evening we dined on juicy chicken Kiev; sauteed leeks, peppers, and mushrooms; crisp carrots, broccoli and new potatoes; followed by Bakewell plait and vanilla ice cream. I drank more of the syrah, and Jackie drank a blend of Bavaria and Hoegaarden.

The Wedding Factory

Although the temperature has, consequently, dropped a few degrees we are in the midst of a few days of cloudless blue skies, even at midday sending long shadows across the garden, for example the brick path, sporting a fresh set of weeds.

Camellias,

hebes.

and pansies do not flinch at the lower temperature.

This afternoon Jackie and I drove to The Firs in West End to join Danni, Andy, and Elizabeth in making adornments for the young people’s wedding in May.

160 strips of hessian have to be cut, sealed, and prepared for tying.

Jackie’s task was to cut ribbons and wrap them around serviettes containing cutlery.

The rest of us prepared the fabric strips.

Danni had an aide-memoire of the room size on the back of her hand;

Elizabeth demonstrated a certain amount of gentility with her little finger;

Jackie’s digits gave out a somewhat different message.

When we ran out of ribbon, Jackie and I went off to Hobbycraft to buy some more. As we disembarked back at The Firs, I asked my lady if she had the purchase. She replied that I had it……………….

We did an about turn and returned to the store where I recovered our little bag of goodies from the counter.

After this we all dined at Eastern Nights in Thornhill where we had a thoroughly enjoyable evening.

She Mistook My Brogues For Acorns

Barrie and Vicki dropped in this morning to present me with Barrie’s new book, ‘Walking in the Sea’. I look forward to reading it.

Ever since my lingering cold in August, I have been feeling decidedly under par, so Jackie persuaded me to visit the GP, made the appointment, and drove me there. After a thorough examination, Dr. Moody-Jones formed the opinion that I have a specific infection and prescribed antibiotics. I have confidence in the diagnosis. We’ll see how we go.

On a very sunny afternoon Jackie drove us through the forest. We enjoyed wood- and heathlands, and the livestock that, having right of way in the New Forest, roam the terrain and the roads.

Pools, such as this one formed near Bolderwood, are beginning to varnish the forest floor.

We stopped for a while near the Ornamental Arboretum.

Next stop was Nomansland where ponies grazed on the green,

where the lowering sun cast long shadows and glinted in the animals’ eyes.

The matted, crusty, hide of some of these creatures bore evidence of how muddy their environment has become.

As we drove back along Roger Penny Way, a grunting sow followed by squawking offspring, clambering all over each other in their haste, burst through the bracken, dashed along the verge, and came to a halt among a heap of fallen leaves and acorns. They were just like the proverbial pigs in a trough. I was amazed at the amount of noise they made.

At one point the mother left her brood, advanced on me, and, her nose rings grating on my toes, snotted all over my light tan brogues. Eventually she realised they were not acorns, and returned to the trough.

On the approach to Beaulieu, a group of cattle, and one pony, grazed on the heath in the warm glow of the setting sun.

Just before we reached the village, rounding the bend in a narrow road, we came hard up against the reason for a bit of a hold-up. A donkey, its rear hooves planted in the road, calmly chomped in a hedge.

This evening we dined on roast lamb, mint sauce, roast and mashed potatoes, carrots, cabbage and corn on the cob. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I abstained.

Overgrown

On a beautifully sunny morning I aimed for the wood beyond the rape field. What, earlier in the year, when the crop was young, I had described as a brassica field, had in fact been sown with rape which has completely overgrown the public footpath.

I wasn’t about to tackle that in sandals with my dodgy leg.

Another path has been trodden around the edge of the field. I took that one.

Stinging nettles made it rather less inviting in parts.

Today’s ‘bee’ is probably a hoverfly. The disguise of these harmless insects is so deceptive that I can’t always tell the difference.

I eventually made it to the wood and walked down to the stream where I rested on the rails of the wooden bridge, watching overhead foliage flickering in the shallow water, before retracing my steps.

The filtered sunlight dappled the dark, sheltered, path, casting fascinating shadows.

Our own garden now being less overgrown, we can appreciate our antirrhinum snapdragons,

and the rose Compassion.

The rest of the day was jointly occupied in weeding and planting. Sometimes I wonder if the necessity of eradicating unwelcome flowers has come about purely to make space for the trays of the more acceptable bargains that are brought back from garden centres every time Jackie ‘pops out for compost’. When my Dad ‘popped out for some cigarettes’, you would not see him for an hour or so. So it is with Jackie and compost. When I ran out of weedkiller whilst treating the future rose garden, there were, it being a Sunday, just ten minutes to closing time at Otter Nurseries. I thought I might escape by being able to finish the task tomorrow, but she volunteered to go and buy some immediately. As she said when she returned very soon afterwards, that must have been her quickest ever trip to a garden centre.

This evening we dined on garlicky chicken Kiev, creamy mashed potatoes, roasted peppers and mushrooms, crisp green beans, and pure white cauliflower. Jackie drank her customary amber beer in the form of Hoegaarden, whilst my red wine was a little more of the chianti.

Yellow Ticket

The storm, having filled the deepest ditches, and extended the pools on the fields and the roads, had desisted this morning when we began the day with a shopping trip to Tesco. This supermarket, like all the other home-grown ones, is feeling the squeeze from the Germans, Lidl and Aldi. There were notices everywhere announcing cheaper brands.

By midday the dull weather had evaporated into clear blue sunlit skies. After lunch I walked up Hordle Lane, right into Sky End Lane, left into Vicarage Lane, and left again, returning home back along Hordle Lane. I was lucky, for the rain set in soon afterwards.

Discarded detritus now floated in ochre waters of the ditches which I photographed with my back to the warming sun.

Pools glinted on the lanes and reflected the trees and skies above. A jogger ran past the paddock in which the ponies chomped on their fodder. Later he returned in the opposite direction, possibly eventually passing a woman and her exotic looking dog glowing in the sunlight, and casting long shadows.

Some vehicles sped through the pools on the tarmac, sending up showers of water; others slowed and sprayed a little.

On Vicarage Lane, which enjoyed numerous reflective puddles, I engaged in conversation with a friendly woman tending her garden. She had noticed me attempting to photograph small birds in her trees. We didn’t know what they were, but they were attracted by nuts she had hung up for her visiting tits, siskins, and a solitary woodpecker.

Blackbirds scurried in the hedgerows.

At the corner of Vicarage and Hordle Lanes, lies the Parish Church of All Saints, Hordle. Shafts of gleaming sunlight illuminated the sleepy resting place of former parishioners.

Jackie’s matured liver and bacon casserole was enhanced by the discrete taste of fresh mushrooms and peppers for tonight’s dinner. They were accompanied by prime mashed potato, and crisp cabbage, carrots and cauliflower, then followed by Tesco’s finest Belgian chocolate choux buns. Our dessert was purchased this morning at half price. Such is the UK’s obsession with ‘best before’, ‘use by’, and ‘sell by’ dates, that supermarkets cannot sell goods beyond whichever of these phrases appears the most relevant. Neither, for fear of lawsuits for food poisoning, are they able to give them away. They therefore do the next best thing and reduce the price. Our buns bore the legend ‘use by’ today. Had we purchased them later in the day, they would probably have been even cheaper. In this particular outlet you can recognise reduced items by their yellow ticket.

We each drank the same beverage as yesterday.