Our electrical timers gave us the definitive answer to how long the lights were out yesterday. It was the full hour. If we can trust them.
Widdershins, on this morning of sunshine and showers, I walked the Shave Wood Loop, returning via Bull Lane.
Fields remained waterlogged. Tinkling streams twinkled when the sun shone through the clouds. Busy little birds chirruped in the trees and hedgerows, and an ever-elusive woodpecker could be heard practising carpentry.
Toy ponies in London Minstead were unimpressed by the feeble rainbow that did its best to enhance their backdrop. A dark brown one was given the impression of being backlit by the mane and tail of its two-toned companion.
Bracken is now taking root in the branches of the gnarled old trees, although Shave Wood has received its share of devastation.
A third heap of ‘sold’ timber lies by the forest verge.
A jet trail shimmered beneath the branches reflected in the camber of the tarmac, causing me, continuing yesterday’s philosophical theme, to question how we know whether the white exhaust stream is above or below the trees? Do our eyes deceive us?
Round-bellied ponies chomping in the wood are clearly finding food much easier to come by than at this time last year.
This afternoon Jackie drove us to Ringwood for shopping and banking. The variable, but pleasant, weather continued.
Having missed out on fish and chips yesterday, we dined on them this evening. Our battered fish was pollack, a creature until recently regarded as only fit for cats. We both thought it had more flavour than cod. Not as pure white as its more popular relative, we are not put off by its greyish hue. And we are told cod is rapidly dying out from over-fishing anyway, so we had better get used to it.
Tag: Shave Wood
Why?
Photograph number 43 in the ‘through the ages’ series was probably taken by Vivien and printed by her brother Bernard in 1962. Bernard always used a square format. Here, I sit on a cast iron and wooden-slatted bench in the garden of 18 Bernard Gardens to which we had moved as a family a couple of years before, alongside my brother Joseph.
In a fascinating coincidence, my parents and I each produced five children with eighteen years between them. Unlike my Dad, I needed three wives to achieve the round handful.
Dad was a man, of his time, who would never borrow money for any purchase. When, in the late sixties, the large Victorian house began to suffer from subsistence damage, the quotation for repairs was £400. My father could not be persuaded to borrow that sum on mortgage, so it was sold and the remaining members of the family moved to Morden.
This morning I received a phone call from Sam and Malachi in Perth, Western Australia, and had long conversations with each of them. My grandson chuckled away when I asked him: ‘Why?’. He has, so far, despite distinct O’Neill genetic traits, retained his English accent. The attached photograph is taken from Holly’s Facebook page of 26th December last year.
Snowdrops have arrived in our garden. I spotted some as I began my walk of the Football Green/Shave Wood loop this afternoon. They were not far from the sawn-off cherry tree stump, which is all that remains of the casualty that was taped off in December.
A trail of white plumage, reminiscent of Hansel’s breadcrumbs, on Running Hill led to the remains of a large, now unidentifiable, white bird.
At the bottom of the hill, the gentleman who lives at Orchard Cottage opened his gate and crossed to give a pony on the green a tasty morsel. He had to be quick to return to his garden.
The dark brown creature and its white companion, having had their interest aroused, wanted more and were intent upon laying siege. That is one of the hazards of that particular kindness to animals.
Further on down into Minstead, alongside the pedestrian safety path that runs by the most dangerous stretch of road, the smoke rising from a bonfire in an adjacent field blended with the subtle greys of the clouds above.
On Lyndurst Road, just before the junction with Football Green, a number of fairly large trees have fallen recently. Huge tyre tracks provided evidence that some rather heavy machinery had been used to clear them from the road.
Foraging ponies are looking a great deal more healthy than they did this time last year, when they were so cold and wet and their ribs were beginning to protrude.
As I turned the corner at Shave Wood, the skies, having been somewhat obscured by the trees, came back into view. How they had altered since I first saw the bonfire blend. Big skies are a feature of the countryside, and I find their constant changes of hue and formation fascinating. At that moment the artist had laid gentle brush strokes of yellow and indigo over the bright blue base wash.
Visible from high up on the hill approaching London Minstead, Minstead Lodge, like the Gothic pile it is, stood out against the rainbow trout tints in the sky.
From Bull Lane I could look down on the still burning bonfire I had seen from the other side of the valley. The cloudscape painter had changed his or her palette yet again, as the setting sun slowly turned the gold to pink.
A BT Openreach technician high on a ladder clamped to a telegraph pole opposite the Minstead Lodge drive in Seamans Lane was applying some kind of testing device. He agreed that he was quite busy at the moment.
Further on I met Oliver. Not my grandson. A greyhound. His owner’s mother informed me that he had not been fast enough to pass muster as a racing animal, so was in fact a rescue dog. He seemed friendly enough, and ignored the baying of neighbouring hounds who had picked up either his or my scent.
For dinner this evening, Jackie produced roast belly of pork with sage and onion stuffing, roast potatoes, and vegetables. This is a most underrated cut of meat, that, when of Lidl quality cooked long and slow, offers a most flavoursome meal. Creme brûlée was to follow. I drank more of the Bergerac.
Hearts
This morning I stepped straight across Lower Drive into the forest, half clambered, half slid down the steep wooded flanks of Running Hill, and eventually came to the gate through which I had passed to reach the wide gravelled track discovered on 10th of this month. No longer did I have to seek out a path through the undergrowth set with bracken, grasses, and other wild plants.
Often, especially along country roads, when there is building development work being undertaken, you will see a notice warning of ‘heavy plant crossing’. 
Some of this had cut a swathe through the forest floor as wide as the gravelled roadway it led to. The boggier parts had been made even more treacherous by the deeply pitted lengths of wheel tracks.
Before reaching the gravel there is a crosspaths on this track. (I am ignoring the remonstrations of my computer’s dictionary at this point. If you can have a crossroads I don’t see why you can’t have a crosspaths – would you believe it, the computer has just attempted to control me by splitting up the word?).
I turned right, trusting that I would emerge somewhere near Shave Wood or, better still. Suters Cottage. I soon came to a pedestrian gate which looked promising. I went through it and continued. After a short time the terrain became unfamiliar enough to cause some trepidation. You know, clambering up one leaf and log strewn rocky slope after another, whilst being feasted on by small fat winged beasts, can become a bit dispiriting. Just as I was beginning to feel this I saw the fish beckoning. 
This creature protruded from half way up a tree trunk. I’m pretty sure it was indicating the correct route with its flipper.
Especially as I came upon an unpleasantly boggy stretch I began to wonder about the wisdom of my finny faith. You can usually tell when a road is about to come into view because there will be a prolonged gap in the trees, where a bit more sunlight is in evidence. So when I did espy what I thought must be the Shave Wood end of Seamans Lane, I was somewhat relieved.
You will be as surprised as I was to learn that I had emerged more than halfway up Running Hill and had only a few more yards to travel. I am quite used to getting to the wrong place by going the wrong way. To get to the right place by going the wrong way is so unusual it is worth printing out this post and framing it.
Our old friend Tony joined us for a salad lunch and evening meal of Jackie’s smoked haddock and cauliflower cheese (recipe). The latter was accompanied by an excellent Prosecco Tony had brought. Although I have always retained a friendship with this man I first met on our Social Work training course in 1969, Jacke had not met him for about forty years. As she prepared to receive him she quipped that if the meal she planned was not ready for consumption she could always use the pigs’ hearts she had in the freezer. I didn’t register the point of the joke until she reminded me that she had given him hearts in shredded form to supplement the minced meat she had cooked for the first dinner she ever gave him 43 years ago. When Tony sat down to his lunch he spoke of that meal. The poor chap had been enjoying his shepherds pie until informed it contained that particular ingredient which he could not tolerate. They each had the event which I had forgotten burned in their memories. The tale of my own never to be forgotten culinary memory involving stuffed hearts was told in my post of 3rd August last year.
‘I’m Not An Olympic Cyclist’
Before lunch, which consisted of a vast amount of yesterday’s food with the addition of more cold meats, pies, and cheeses, Jackie drove Don and me to Bank where we sampled the beers and sussed out the food, which looked very tempting, in The Oak Inn. The beamed pub was very full and catered for numerous families. Don and I drank Gale’s Seafarers Ale and Jackie had Staropramen. This naturally led to a rather soporific afternoon until Don returned to Bungay early in the evening.
I had to rather force myself to walk the Shave Wood loop after this, but it was a beautifully clear evening, which was encouraging.
Jackie was talking recently about escapees from Victorian gardens, which is her term for the ubiquitous purple variety of rhododendron. In the past week I have learned that there are far more varieties of this Chinese import in the gardens of The New Forest than I had previously imagined to exist (see those featured in posts of 2nd, 3rd, and 4th of this month). Those loose in the forest all seem to be standard sized and shaped purple. Apparently they have periodically to be culled because they take over and ruin the ecology. Some years ago notices were put up whilst the work was going on, in order to explain to dismayed visitors why this was necessary. Stapleford Woods near Newark had an even greater problem with this invader. It is fascinating how one’s attitude towards nature varies according to one’s perspective. Town dwellers encourage the foxes that countryfolk regard as a menace. Everyone knows that squirrels, deer, and rabbits are sweet little creatures. Until they begin to steal your bird food or devastate your flowers and vegetables. Jackie battles against the first of these and does her best to keep the others away. Suddenly they are not so endearing after all.
Cycling families were out in force this evening. As I walked up the road from Football Green to Shave Wood a couple of young teenagers pedalled past me from behind, chatting away. A short while afterwards, I turned at the squeak of a brake and the slap of a foot upon the tarmac. A middle-aged man, silhouetted against the background of sunlit trees, white hair glowing, looked behind him, as if waiting for someone. I continued on my way. He then called ‘put some effort into it’. I continued without turning round. Soon he came past me, followed in his wake by a little older teenager who, as she struggled to catch up, said ‘I’m so glad I’m not an Olympic cyclist’. It seemed to me that she may have benefitted from a bike that was big enough for her. Further on, the other two stopped and waited for the man and girl to catch up. The last I saw was tail end Charlie wobbling into the sunshine.
Don had, this morning, identified for me the cry of a buzzard which circled over our garden. He had been familiar with this from his Gaeddren years in North Wales. In the forest I looked up as I heard the same sound and watched one of these raptors swoop across the clear sky, settle for a while at the top a tall oak tree, and take off in the opposite direction. I heard others I did not see.
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.