Tag: shadows

Sunlight Playing The Forest

Despite the forecast of sunny spells today we were treated to clear cerulean skies and full sunshine throughout the day.

As we set off early to Ferndene Farm shop I paused to admire Jackie’s planting of primulas and violas in front of the garage door trellis.

This was the view from the car as I waited for just a short time for the Shopping Lady to rejoin me.

Long shadows stretched across Beckley Road and the driveway to The Glen;

and knitted knotted skeins across the woodland verges beside the road to Burley, on which

Jackie parked the Modus enabling me to photograph the moorland landscape.

Joggers, cars, walkers, and cyclists competed for space. We had imagined that the rather slow driver of the red car was keeping her distance from the cyclists ahead. She was, however, no faster after those on bikes turned off.

Hightown Lane was my next point of embarkation. Again walkers, cyclists, and other vehicles vied for space on the narrow road. Voices carried some distance.

I began drinking in the delights of the clear, sparkling, stream, revealing glimpses of its bed among rippling reflections; clumps of golden daffodils; bright backlit leaves; and pendant overhanging catkins.

One of the field horses wearing a red rug revealed the need for warmth during the still very cold nights. It wasn’t that warm at 11 a.m. either.

Gnarled trees and sinuous wooden fences cast their own images beneath and beside them;

while those following the contours of mossy banks created concave and convex curves as penetrating light illuminated the soft green cushions and picked out russet autumn leaves.

During her vigil on the verge Jackie spent some time pondering who might live in a cave on the bank.

This evening we dined on further helpings of yesterday’s, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Merlot Tannat.

Sunny Rooms

Today the sun shone its light into our rooms. As yesterday, accessing the gallery by clicking on any image will reveal individual titles.

This afternoon I watched the televised Six Nations rugby matches between Italy and Ireland, and between Wales and England.

Dinner this evening consisted of tasty baked gammon; creamy mashed potatoes; piquant cauliflower cheese; crunchy carrots; and tender runner beans, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Merlot Tannat.

Today The Sun Came Out To Play

Individual picture titles will be found on the gallery, otherwise I will leave the title and the sun in charge.

This evening we dined on roast chicken thighs; chipolata sausages; crisp roast potatoes, parsnips and Yorkshire pudding; sage and onion stuffing; flavoursome Brussels sprouts and carrots, with tasty gravy. Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank Cotes de Gascogne Merlot Tannat 2019.

A Game Of Their Own

I spent the morning watching the Channel 4 coverage of third day of the current Test Match between India and England in Chenai; and the afternoon watching BBC’s broadcast of the Six Nations rugby match between Wales and Ireland in Cardiff. The Indian weather was hot and humid; the Welsh much cooler. Covid has prevented any spectators except for match officials. In Chenai no-one wore masks; in Cardiff they did.

My photographs were all taken from the TV screen. I cropped all images for two reasons, namely to produce the pictures I wanted and to remove broadcast spoiler score information.

There are now many different forms of international cricket requiring different time spans and consequent paces of the game. Traditional Test Cricket ebbs and flows with changes of fortune over five days.

Bowlers bowl to batsmen; one batter receives the ball, the other stands at the bowler’s end ready to run to the other end, crossing with his partner to score one or more runs. The bowler aims to hit the stumps behind the batsman. The umpire in the white coat and hat is there to make decisions about dismissals.

Wicket keepers are equipped with special protective gloves, pads for their legs, and helmets for their faces. Slip fielders beside him have no such protection.

The essence of spin bowling is that the aim is to make the ball change trajectory after hitting the pitch. Throughout the Indian sub-continent the conditions are conducive to this method. Here Jack Leach has bowled ball seen about to land in the first picture; sends up a reddish dust cloud and takes a path behind the batsman’s front leg in the next; eventually ending up in the wicket keeper’s gloves. Had this hit the bat on the way through the man would have been out.

Batting technique is very important.

There are other ways than being bowled (when the stumps are hit by the ball) of being out or losing your wicket. If the ball is caught by a fielder without first hitting the ground the batsman is out, caught.

This is a quite phenomenally athletic dismissal close to the wicket.

Had this one been held out in the deep field it would have been equally spectacular.

When appealing to the umpire to grant a dismissal, arms are uplifted with a cry of ‘Owzat’, or, as is the modern way shrieks and gesticulations.

We now have a third umpire equipped with the technology to check the on- field umpire’s decision.

Either the fielding captain or the batsman may ask for a review.

This offers the opportunity for waiting in anguish, for adjusting helmets, discussing tactics, or tightening boot studs.

Here are views which aid the third umpire’s deliberations. The second picture tracks the anticipated path of the ball in order to estimate whether it would have hit the stumps.

Batsmens’ team mates watch keenly from the otherwise empty stands.

As the evening gradually draws to a close, long shadows have a game of their own.

I have become so carried away with trying to explain some of the aspects of our summer game that I have no time to do the same for the rugby. This will follow tomorrow.

This evening we dined on thick bacon chunks, flavoursome pork chipolatas, piquant cauliflower cheese, chestnut mushrooms, creamy mashed potatoes, crunchy carrots and tender cabbage. The Culinary Queen finished the Sauvignon Blanc and I finished the Macon.

Round The Harbour

On a sun-bright, finger-tingling afternoon we drove to Mudeford where I wandered for a while.

Fishing paraphernalia including coiled ropes, piled crab pots, bright buoys and rust-red chains lay neatly on the concrete and gravel area. Someone with a sense of national colours had placed a a child’s bright red and blue hat on an overturned white rowing boat.

There were plenty of socially distanced walkers, some casting long shadows.

A couple watched by a man sailing a dinghy passed the beach huts opposite; two others crunched along the shallows where

a young man photographed the still floundering capsized sailboat;

so did I, and Jackie focussed on the derelict rowing boat beside it.

A small group of cottages with good views of the sea are perched upon the quay itself.

Three silhouettes were working on some boats; others, with tinkling masts, were moored for the winter.

Jackie also photographed the open shore line, and pictured me, wings spread to aid balance while negotiating undulating potholes.

Early this evening Richard from Kitchen Makers visited to fix a leak in the kitchen waste pipe. He insisted on coming right away and refused payment, regarding this as after sales service. So service is not completely dead.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy chicken jalfrezi, boiled basmati rice, and parathas, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Macon.

Notting Hill Carnival

When Brian of https://equinoxio21.wordpress.com/2021/01/12/carnival-of-carnivals/ posted his Brazilian feature a couple of days ago his photographs sent me on a search for a set of my own colour slides from August 2007. I spent rather too much time on what seemed a fruitless exercise until, overnight, I remembered some forgotten boxes.

This was the year of Jessica’s death and my return to London to try to set up home alone once more. My usual meticulous filing system broke down. Consequently I kept slides unidentified in the processor’s little boxes. When Jackie and I were reunited in 2009 she helped me identify the contents, although I have never incorporated them into my archival system. Jackie had remembered this process and thought it was possible that she had labelled one box Notting Hill Carnival.

Indeed she had.

Today I scanned them.

For a couple of years I lived in Sutherland Place, very close to this corner where one of the sound units was situated. In 2007 I was one of only two residents who stayed at home for the Bank Holiday weekend. The other woman wore earplugs and, as the music shook our houses, advised me to do the same. The sound from the speakers was actually painful.

I do hope this young lady occupying one of the floats still has her hearing.

The wonderful light on this August day, and the sparsity of some of the clothing belies the fact that the temperature was very cold. When I left my spot on the railings beside St Stephen’s Mews to go home to use the lavatory and add another layer of clothing

I was able to reclaim it on my return. Two years later that would not have been possible. I couldn’t get near any of the floats, and when I left my flat I had to prove that I lived in the road in order to pass the barrier to reach home. 2007 may well have been the last manageable year of such a popular event drawing visitors from all over the country.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s wholesome savoury rice; a rack of ribs in barbecue sauce; and crisp tempura prawns with which she drank for of the Cabernet Sauvignon and I drank more of the Shiraz.

I Had Seriously Overdone It

Now we are back in full lockdown I took a walk along Christchurch Road to the

field leading to Honeylake Wood.

So far so good. I was not quite the only walker leaving footprints on the muddy track leading to

the leaf-laden undulating path down to the bridge

over the fast running stream. Reaching the bridge was the trickiest bit. As I slithered down the muddy slopes I grasped at branches rather too flexible in order to keep my balance, hoping they would hold and not dump me in the morass.

On the way down I was able to take in the surrounding woodland.

Soon I was on the upward, firmer, track,

bordered by undergrowth containing mossy logs, a discarded welly,

and bracken-covered woodland.

At the top of this slope I turned for home – just carrying myself and the camera was all I could manage, let alone use it, as, head down and gasping, I retraced my steps and staggered home, aware that I had seriously overdone it. I collapsed into a chair and rested for quite a while.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy pasta arrabbiata with which she drank more of the Rosé and I drank more of the Malbec.

Late Afternoon

The 106 m.p.h. wind that ripped through The Needles overnight howled around our house and garden.

Numerous plant pots were blown down;

tables and the new pig hit the deck;

owls were knocked off their perches;

broken branches and scattered trugs tossed around;

an arch bent and a rose dislodged. I had the sun in my eyes when the rose accosted me and pierced both my head and my jacket.

Late this afternoon we drove to Milford on Sea watching wild waves whipping up spray, lashing wooden breakwaters and wetting glistening rocks. Gulls swooped overhead; numerous walkers braced the bitterly cold wind. One group descended the slippery shingle, then attempted to avoid the rippling waves licking their feet. One young lady had forgotten to cover her legs.

It was hardly surprising that no-one sat at the picnic tables of the Needles Eye Cafe standing in reflecting pools.

My fingers tingled enough to send me back into the car while I waited for the sunset.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s post-Christmas soup with crusty bread followed by gooseberry and apple crumble with which the Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Montaria.

Head To Head

On a bright, crisp, afternoon Jackie drove us to Bisterne Close,

where she parked and sat in the car while I wandered into the forest with my camera, rustling the dried autumn leaves, across which the low sun cast long shadows. One lone cow wandered off into the distance. Golden gorse glowed; a few beech and oak leaves lingered on the branches; some fallen limbs bore lichen and fungus; holly berries shone for Christmas.

Jackie photographed a bouncing squirrel

and a pedestrian me.

Ponies were mostly waiting expectantly at the far end of close. What for was unclear.

This evening we dined on well roasted gammon and parsnips; creamy mashed potatoes; piquant cauliflower cheese; firm carrots; and tender green beans, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Comté Tolosan.

What Now?

It was a pair of grey ponies at the crossroads that prompted me to ask my willing Chauffeuse to park beside

the stream at Ibsley ford, where a story began to unfold.

The greys, casting their shadows in the morning sunshine, were mirrored by a couple of cyclists engaging in a lengthy conversation before parting and going their separate ways.

Leaving its companion to admire her silhouette, the lead pony

climbed to a higher level and, despite acorns being poisonous to horses, began to snuffle around them.

A kindly woman parked nearby, left her vehicle, and began lobbing apples in the direction of the animal that had remained on the green. You may need to bigify these pictures to see the airborne fruit just beneath a cycle wheel.

Having emptied her carrier bag the lady returned to her car and continued on her way, leaving the recipient of her largesse wondering what to do next.

There are a number of mighty oaks at this location. Here, one is host to an intriguing fungus; another leans over a stream; and a third casts long shadows.

This comparative youngster has seen better days.

Visiting holiday children spent many happy hours on this makeshift swing.

On the other side of the ford the continuing stream

has recently been bridged by a fallen tree which will see no better days.

I photographed some autumn leaves and turned to find that

Jackie had been focussed on me.

In nearby fields, reflecting the much colder, albeit bright, weather, field horses are back in their winter rugs.

We drove on to Hockey’s where we brunched, even though on technically takeaway meals, this time in

a warm covered dining area with its antique displays.

We had travelled to the north of the forest in search of peckish pannage porkers, but the only ones we met were these on Hockey’s pots.

On the road to Gorley I photographed a fence and its accompanying gate; a lane with smoke wafting past a thatched cottage; and sunlight piercing the same vapours within the dappled woodland.

Jackie meanwhile focussed on

the ancient craft of hedge laying

and a winsome weather vane, in the process pausing for the wind to produce a pleasing direction.

Later, we presented a dilemma to a hind and fawn imitating a pair of rabbits in headlights. They eventually decided to take the road ahead, until they encountered an oncoming woman. What now?

The walker moved aside and they scampered back into the trees.

This evening we dined on oven fish, chips, and peas with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Shiraz.