silhouettes – Page 3 – derrickjknight

Stygian Skies

Heavy rain fell from decidedly Stygian skies throughout the morning during which I finished reading the fourth chapter, entitled ‘ ‘Give me combat!’ France: 1894-9′, of Barbara W. Tuchman’s The Proud Tower.

I had previously been vaguely aware of the Dreyfus Affair with dominated the decade, but never really understood it until reading Tuchman’s analysis of the schism that split France. Dreyfus was a French army captain who happened to be Jewish and was unjustly accused of selling secrets to Germany. There is now no doubt that Captain Dreyfus was framed by the French military authorities who used forged documents to condemn him to years of imprisonment. It became a national conflict between the Dreyfusards, convinced of his innocence, and those who believed the military should be supported at all costs. Violent anti-Semitism developed and was pitted against those, largely artists and intellectuals, who fought for justice.

I will refrain from offering more details save to say that the ultimate pardon did not come with a finding of innocence. Ms Tuchman describes the physical and emotional violence of the warring parties, which also involved a failed assassination. France, too, had the seething undercurrent which seemed endemic to the rest of Europe.

My mid afternoon today the rain had ceased and a brief appearance of sun had cast a little light over the land.

While I readied myself for a trip into the forest Jackie nipped out into the garden and photographed

raindrops on weeping birch and clematis cirrhosa Freckles.

The chameleon skies were the canvas on which my camera painted

varying tones of indigo and smoky ochres with pink tinges.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s mixed meats and vegetable stoup followed by pepperoni pizza and fresh salad, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank The Second Fleet Cabernet, Merlot, and Petit Verdot Coonawarra 2019.

All My Ducks In A Row

On a bright, fresh, and crisp morning we took a drive into the forest. Slanting sunshine set the thawing frost glistening and lengthened shadows.

We tried a visit to Tanner’s Lane. This meant driving between rows of parked vehicles with no turning space. I walked while Jackie turned back.

We had imagined this little hidden beach would be safe enough. No such luck.

This was the only group keeping some distance from others on the sand and shingle.

There were other dogs, one in the water with three hardy humans.

I was not inclined to linger.

We continued to Sowley Lane where I was next decanted.

Some oak leaves dallied on gnarled limbs; others, grounded, glistened with dew drops; holly prickles had broken one’s fall.

Two men in a boat discussed their best fishing spot.

We stopped for a look at Buckler’s Hard,

where a robin drew our attention to the parking restrictions.

As we passed Beaulieu Mill Pond I spotted a pair of long necked log peacocks on the far bank.

Jackie parked and I walked back past the border of reeds to photograph them.

On the way there I managed to get all my ducks in a row.

Down a bank along Lymington Road a solitary donkey enjoyed a breakfast of spiky thistles.

Ponies preferred grass

or languorous cogitation of the thawing frost in the hazy sunshine.

In her Modus Jackie aroused the attention of an inquisitive field horse which she photographed along with

golden silver birches and glistening white terrain.

This evening we dined on Mr Chan’s Hordle Chinese Take Away’s fine fare with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Coonawarra which involved opening another bottle.

They Left Their Mark

We have an old saw that states “Red sky at night, shepherd’s delight, red sky in the morning shepherd’s warning”. This certainly rang true today. Jackie had only a few minutes to photograph a

rosy pink dawn. Afterwards there was barely a tinge left for Florence sculpture’s portrait.

On this decidedly dank, dismal, day, Aaron, Mark, and Steve lopped two trees and removed another,

leaving their initials on the stump.

In a little more than half a day, the A.P. Maintenance team carried out this task, leaving the garden as if they had never been here except for

the neatly piled debris on the back drive. Because Aaron’s van is still in hospital they could not remove all this until it is back on the road.

This process is well choreographed, each man knowing his specific tasks.

Mark wielded the chain saw, first from the shed roof, then whilst climbing the trees.

Because the first holly seriously threatened the shed it was cut down and shaved to the level of the initialled image above.

Aaron received Mark’s cut branches, sometimes catching them from him as they were tossed down;

he and Steve gathered them together

and toted them down the garden to the neatly stacked piles.

The second holly and a sweet smelling bay tree were left standing but considerably reduced in height.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy pasta arrabbiata with minced beef, followed by unusually spicy custard tart which, had she remembered to include the extra prepared ingredient, would have been pumpkin pie, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Shiraz.

Waterditch Road

I wasted the best part of a rainy afternoon wrestling with my scanner because I had planned to start a new series of slides and negatives, but it is so long since I worked on any of those that I managed to mess up the settings and couldn’t sort them out. I even downloaded a manual from the internet but couldn’t understand what to do with it. Children, grandchildren, great nieces and nephews – help me please.

My caring Chauffeuse, despite the increasing hammering of rain lashed by 50+ m.p.h. winds, dragged me out of my slough of despond by suggesting we went out for a drive.

We began on the eroded cliffs of Milford on Sea

along which I struggled against the gales.

Waves crashed against the rocks below and the Isle of Wight was barely visible to intrepid walkers.

Ripples blew across the car park; traffic control signs, and barriers to road works were flattened.

Continuing inland we listened to the mesmerising swish of windscreen wipers and the cacophony of clattering rain,

gazed on wet fields with neither sheltered livestock nor sensible wildlife in sight.

We were about to turn for home, but on such a day it seemed obligatory to investigate Waterditch Road. So we did.

As we traversed the ford over the stream that no doubt gave the road its name we felt grateful that we did not live in the house beside it.

British Summer Time does not end until 2 a.m. tomorrow morning, but, driving into headlights through Highcliffe soon after 5 p.m. one would never have known.

This evening we dined on toothsome baked gammon; crisp roast potatoes; succulent ratatouille; crunchy carrots; and tender runner beans with which the Culinary Queen drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Montpeyroux. Afterwards we enjoyed Jackie’s aromatic apple pie and cream.

Taking A Chance

There is a direct path from the kitchen window featuring our late beloved blogging friend, Pauline’s, light catcher to my computer station.

The light prism cast by this often accompanies me as it did this morning – a comforting reminder of a lovely lady.

After a reading session this afternoon Jackie drove me to Puttles Bridge so I could walk

along the Ober Water Trail. There were very few other walkers; only the barking of dogs disturbed the otherwise silent solitude. Fallen and broken trees, some across the stream, others sporting graffiti, gave evidence of the recent heavy winds. Leaves floated in the rippling water until coming to rest at a log dam; beneath my feet acorns nestled among exposed sylvan roots. The red and yellow notches in the various posts along the way signified the length one could choose to walk, red for one mile and a half, yellow for one mile. It is only when you near the one mile bridge that the path offers a glimpse of the water reflecting the surrounding woodland. When I first took this walk at the beginning of the year I didn’t have the energy to approach the stream for pictures such as these. Today this seemed not far enough just to turn round and retrace my steps.

I therefore decided to take a chance on the path across the bridge at one mile linking up with another path leading from Puttles Bridge.

It didn’t. It took me up a slope offering silhouettes of walkers and ponies. and leading to a closed visitor centre.

Looking back at the tree line tracking Ober Water I set off across the tufted, often soggy, terrain, avoiding heaps of pony droppings, trying neither to trip over clumpy shrubbery nor sink into boggy bits, and eventually finding the location of the Puttles Bridge area.

Feeling on my last legs this is what I met.

I then had to scramble my way across to the road and take the long way back to the Modus. By the time I had reached the entrance to the car park I was so obviously knackered that it was necessary to persuade a party of four leaving the car park that I did not need them to turn round and drive me the last fifty yards or so. The trek had lasted 70 minutes.

This evening we enjoyed a dinner of Jackie’s most flavoursome sausage casserole; creamy mashed potato; tender runner beans; crunchy carrots and firm broccoli, with which I drank more of the Cotes du Rhone and Jackie didn’t.

The Reader

After a little clearance work in the garden I spent much of the day finishing reading

This is Penguin Books 1948 edition of Huxley’s novel first published in 1923. Today’s seven and a half pence is the current coin equivalent of the purchase price of one shilling and sixpence. We could, in 1948 have bought six of De Marco’s 3d ice creams mentioned in https://derrickjknight.com/2012/05/29/the-bees/ for that money.

At that time Penguin books were bound with stitching which must be one reason why this copy remains intact.

Huxley’s novel, allegedly comic, is to my mind a tragic farce focussing on London’s post WW1 promiscuous Bohemian intellectuals. His second work of fiction contains his usual exploration of ideas and includes a number of devices such as the dialogue of a musical play within the story. The writing is as fluid as ever although terms like ‘blackamoors’ and ‘nigger mask’ for a band of musicians and a piece of carving, albeit not meant in a derogatory sense, grate on modern ears.

Regular readers will know of my penchant for leaving bookmarks in my own copies for posterity to find within the pages. Sometime before the mid 1960s someone has beaten me to it

with this compliments slip, from perhaps Joan, who might have been trying to get her pen to work by scribbling as I sometimes do in order to make the ink flow. The telephone number is the key. Before the 1950s very few people had telephones and the early exchanges were operated manually by banks of usually female staff who connected callers to the required recipient. As in the number on this slip the areas were identified by the first letters of the location followed by four digits. All-digit numbers were introduced in the early 1960s, when the TEM of Temple Bar became 836. Later still London numbers were, in two stages, further divided to begin 0207 (inner) or 0208 (outer).

Watching me reading, and correctly assuming that this would all appear on today’s blog post, Jackie decided to make her own contribution in the forms of

her photograph of me and this Father’s Day card Becky sent me some years ago.

Shortly before sunset we drove to Barton on Sea to have a look at it. These are my photographs;

and here are Jackie’s,

with a couple of me.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy paprika pork, tender runner beans, and boiled new potatoes, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Médoc.

Norwegian Rocks

On another bright morning, in preparation for tomorrow’s booked slot in the recycling centre, I carried the next batch of garden refuse bags to the far end of the back drive. We then drove to the pharmacy at Milford on Sea to collect repeat prescriptions, and back along the coast road.

A number of walkers were enjoying our sunny spell. (The lone woman was photographed by Jackie).

Serious erosion continues to pare away at the cliffs. The gentleman in the yellow jacket here was my informant on the subject of the ongoing

sea defence work being undertaken by Earlcote. The huge blocks of stone being transported by a fleet of container trucks, grabbed, and released into place by powerful equipment have been shipped all the way from Norway. These photographs are the result of my collaboration with the Assistant Photographer who is credited appropriately in the gallery titles.

I didn’t have anything to do with this one.

We continued inland to South Sway Lane to collect three bags of horse manure which I later added to the compost bins. In these times of Covid we were both pleased to note that we have not lost our senses of smell.

The far end of the field opposite now holds a horse and foal. The mare kept her back turned, so I couldn’t tell whether it was Gimlet or not.

We filled up with petrol at Loaders Garage in Bashley, where I photographed a vintage car for the amusement of my American readers, one of whom may be able to identify the vehicle.

This evening we dined on another sitting of Jackie’s splendid lamb jalfrezi, turmeric tinted boiled rice, and plain paratha, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Malbec.

In The Rain

Heavy, steady, rain fell throughout most of the day.

I photographed the scenes from indoors. The pendant in the rain spattered window was made for me by the daughter of a client some thirty years ago. The fallen pot was blown down. If there are any more we don’t want to know about it.

I looked down on the garden from upstairs.

Seen from our bedroom window, the puddle in the gutter outside our front drive is a good rain gauge.

At mid morning we left in the rain for a damp forest drive. I had expected simply to make photographs from the car. In the event I couldn’t help myself, so Jackie parked on the verge of Braggers Lane where I found raindrops spiralling in puddles; damp trees; and

damper field horses, some in rugs rooting around, I think for acorns – poisonous to them – in puddles behind barbed wire.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s cracking chicken stoup and crusty bread, followed by ample apple pie and custard, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Shiraz.

Familiar Trees

My post https://derrickjknight.com/2013/02/13/back-in-england/ from my very early days of blogging tells of how the thirteen year old me began his book collection in 1955 with

The only illustration in that post, before my current scanning facilities, was of the decorated cover. I scanned the images today. Above we have the frontispiece and the title page.

The eminent arboriculturist offers detailed informative botanical, geographical and historical text which I guess I must have read more than once in the last 65 years.

Here are the colour plates, some of which bear the signature of A. Fairfax Muckley. I can only assume that the others are the contribution of W. H. J. Boot, R.B.A. I chose not to reproduce the black and white photographs.

My illustrations of apples in https://derrickjknight.com/2014/02/21/beckys-book/ were inspired by the watercolour in this book.

Although social distancing was maintained by the crowds occupying areas of the forest, such as these figures at Barton on Sea, we made our later outing a short one.

This evening we dined on spicy pork chops on a bed of peppers and leeks; creamy mashed potatoes; crunchy carrots; and tender cabbage, with which we finished our New Zealand Sauvignon Blanc, paying our respects to our late friend, Pauline King.

They Keep On Coming

The moon was out of bed this morning when Jackie took her camera into the garden, yet cloud cover soon rolled in. She crouched low to offer the Cobaea Scandens cup to the lingering orb. Fennel seeds, sweet pea pods, and mahonia completed the collection of silhouettes. The Assistant Photographer finished with pastel shades of verbena bonariensis against New Zealand flax.

This afternoon I cut the grass for which the expression ‘mowed the lawn’ would be a little pretentious. It seemed somewhat ambitious to hand-clip the edges so I will live to fight them another day.

The hanging basket in the top centre of the first picture contains a bright lime-green heuchera.

For a little light relief I transported Jackie’s clippings from her weeding and taking cuttings to the compost bin and bagged up some of the woody material.

Beside her the Dragon Bed’s Polish Spirit clematis and hanging baskets petunias display vibrant colour.

Bees, like this one in geranium Roxanne, went about their business undisturbed.

This variety of rudbeckia has prove quite prolific this year, whereas several others have failed.

Recents storms virtually stripped this pink climbing rose of its leaves, yet buds keep on coming,

as do those of Flower Power, Lady Emma Hamilton,

Absolutely Fabulous,

and Crown Princess Margareta, who encourages the coexistence of different generations.

The Weeping Birch Bed, like most of the others, still contains a variety of colourful blooms.

There aren’t many without a dahlia or two.

Preferring the ebb and flow and artistry of Test matches, I am not fan of T20 cricket, but, as I watched England’s innings against Australia on TV this afternoon I began to wonder whether my apathy might be a teeny bit prejudiced.

This evening we dined on Mr Chan’s excellent Hordle Chinese Take Away fare with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Malbec.