shoes – derrickjknight

Fill Your Boots

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Early this morning Jackie drove me to New Hall Hospital for a Pre-Admission Clinical appointment. This was a most thorough and efficient physical check involving all the usual blood tests, etc., including an ECG. I seem to have passed. There followed various questionnaires for which Jackie was invited to participate. Next, we were introduced to the Head Physiotherapist who explained what we were to expect before and after surgery. I was, incidentally told that I was “a lucky man” in my allocated surgeon.

The off-white tarpaulin covering the skies developed a leak in the afternoon, so I was fortunate in managing to produce a few photographs before lunch.

On the road through Salisbury’s Downton, fields of oil seed rape blazed in the murk.

A cluster of white-faced cattle huddled in the corner of a field

beribboned by tributaries of the River Avon near the mill at Woodgreen. (See Paol Soren’s comment below for important information about these creatures)

Having been attracted by the recently patched thatched roof of

Surma Valley Indian restaurant at Burgate,

we just had to have lunch in this 16th century building set in 3/4 of an acre of grounds. We were not disappointed. Service was friendly and efficient and the food was first rate. Jackie enjoyed her sheek kebab starter followed by prawn buna and aromatic pilau rice; as I did my mulligatawny soup, lamb tikka gowchi, and special egg rice. We both drank Kingfisher.

We have an expression, “fill your boots”, originating from early naval times, when a mug was called a boot and this was an encouragement to get quite drunk. Now we use it to mean eat so much that your boots are also full. We didn’t exactly do that, but Jackie brought some of hers home in a doggy bag for this evening. An earlier visitor to the restaurant avoided doing so by leaving his boots outside.

My laptop died some time ago. Later this afternoon we collected a replacement – a MacBook – from Peacock computers and I did my head in trying to load all my various accounts, like this one, onto it.

More Bastides

Having received no response from the estate agent, I decided to print off, sign, and post the document to the French solicitor complete with the errors. There are only so many times I am prepared to point out mistakes. This meant popping over to Shelly and Ron’s for my signature to be witnessed. Ron performed the task; I e-mailed scanned copies of each signed page to the agent; then posted the original to the solicitor.

the //about-france.com website claims that ‘the “Bastide” towns of southwest France are a growing tourist attraction, and comprise one of the largest collections of well-preserved mediaeval townscapes to be found anywhere in Europe.’ In yesterday’s post I featured

Beaumont 4 9.03

Beaumont-du-Perigord, being a fine example.

Unfortunately I cannot be certain which was the next such town I visited with Maggie and Mike in September 2003, but I think it was Monpazier, founded by the English to keep out the French in 1285. It was to change hands between these two nations several times in the following few decades.

The main feature of a bastide is the central square surrounded by colonnaded arches now housing shops, such as wine merchants and toy suppliers. I enjoyed seeing baskets of diabolos, such as those brought back from holiday by my maternal grandparents.

Colourful market stalls fill the square which is

surrounded by grids of streets linked by narrow alleys or ruelles.

Weathered walls, iron gates, and tended gardens invite attention.

Maggie and Mike 9.03

When we passed a church which had recently held a wedding, my friends thought it would be a good wheeze to pretend it was theirs.

I drank more of the Malbec with our evening meal consisting of Jackie’s chicken chow mein and Tesco’s won tons. Mrs Knight enjoyed her food , and did not imbibe.

The Interknit.

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We didn’t much feel like taking the Christmas decorations down last night, so left it at unplugging the lights. When you consider that the Head Decorator is also the Head Gardener, you will realise how daunting is this task.

Imagine our delight then, on coming down this morning, to find that leprechauns had been in and completed the job. Leprechauns in the forms of Becky and Ian, of course.

The pastel pink winter flowering cherry in the front garden now blends with the brightly coloured crab apples, which have not yet been finished off by the blackbirds, thrushes, and tits that still feast on them.

Becky has, in recent weeks, taught herself to knit on line – using what Matthew has termed the Interknit. She has, without the aid of patterns, produced a set of sample shoes for Poppy,

who took great delight on trying them on soon after she arrived with Mat this morning.

Poppy enjoys playing with the mice which have periodically featured on posts. She makes a beeline for them when she arrives. She is also fascinated by the chimes of the grandfather clock and the other striker in the kitchen.

It therefore seemed appropriate for four of the mice to run up the clock.

Matthew and Poppy had to leave soon after 4 p.m., so were unable to share the classic roast pork meal that Jackie served up, thus demonstrating a remarkable improvement in her health. She and Becky finished the Barcelino, and I began a very special médoc, Baron des Tours, given to me by Helen and Bill for Christmas.

Not Much Happening In Lymington

We managed to mess up our clock today. It was losing a minute or two a day so we decided to adjust it. After we had done so we had great difficulty in getting the pendulum back in. When we did, the clock stopped. We calmed down. Eventually. And this afternoon took it back to Martin at Dials.

Christchurch and Lymington Roads are now subject to flooding, so we were given numerous washed by the spray thrown up by cars, and especially lorries, in front.

Apart from the ducks on the quayside water there was not much life in Lymington,

and what there was was covered in waterproofs or wielding umbrellas. Even Quay Street was rather deserted.

The post person had made a delivery to Old Solent House. The observant of you may be able to discover how I know by perusing the worn stone doorstep.

Forming a right angled corner between this house and Dials is a municipal ash tray. The soggy stubs thereon betrayed the fact that at least two smokers had abandoned their cigarettes.

Further down towards the quay a pair of slip-on shoes had been left outside a closed shop. Although they were under a short porch, I though their owner would probably go home in wet tights.

Given the nautical nature of the Quay Side Gift Shop window display, it probably welcomed the raindrops through which shoppers, had there been any, would have peered in order to absorb the suitable ambience,

reflected in the paving of the alley behind The Quay. Chewing gum spots get everywhere.

This evening we dined on a rack of pork ribs in barbecue sauce; Jackie’s egg fried rice; and prawns wrapped in filo pastry masquerading as roast parsnips, that The Cook termed ‘things’. Jackie enjoyed the last of the chablis and I drank Fortes del Colli chianti classico 2012.