spider – Page 2 – derrickjknight

More Than It Could Chew?

It was yet another unseasonably hot day.

I cleared up after last night’s fire. It had become dark before I was able to finish the exercise. I gathered up the unburnt branches, chopped them up small, and piled them beside the incinerator which has taken the place of the two old wheelbarrows. The rusty metal one suffered enormously from being the pyre container until recently. The green one had been a pond in the Weeping Birch Bed, to which Jackie applied the finishing touches this morning.

She also completed her work on training the Wedding Day rose on the Agriframes Gothic Arch.

The rose garden, where most roses, like Love Knot, are blooming,

encourages a reflective mood.

We continue to enjoy an entomologist’s delight. Actually, I could do with a student of insects to identify what I think might be a baby spider contemplating wrapping up a bumble bee which might be a bit more than it could chew.

The cosmos gives an idea of scale.

This evening we drove over to Emsworth to visit Becky and Ian. Becky had some items for sale in the monthly Emsworth auction, which was very crowded. Our daughter sold an old wind-up gramophone and some Beatles records, among other things, but the prices were disappointing. Afterwards we dined on excellent fish, chips, and gherkins from a shop across the road, with Tesco’s mushy peas. Becky drank chianti and the rest of us enjoyed the Italian Birra Moretti.

Grass Cuttings And Wild Woodbines

This morning Aaron twice drove himself and me to Mole Country Stores to buy some decking with which he repaired our somewhat decayed structure. The reason for the second outing was that the new lengths were narrower than those being replaced, so we were originally two short.

Sitting in the cab of a working van took me back to my teens and early twenties. As I said to Aaron, it is often the scents of such an enclosed space that stay in the memory. The dominant one in our friend’s vehicle was that of grass cuttings. Dad’s removal van during the 50s and 60s bore the strong aroma of Wild Woodbines, his chosen brand of cigarettes. I worked alongside my father in the school holidays, and later, on Saturday mornings.

Today’s TV rugby fare included matches between Samoa and USA, Wales and Uruguay, and New Zealand and Argentina. In order not to spoil things I will say nothing about them, except that that was a lot of TV.

In the intervals between contests I took the air in the garden, where plants and wildlife continue to benefit from the Indian summer.

Hibiscus thrives;

the first colchicum or Autumn crocus has emerged from the soil;

Bees, like this one on a bidens, still coat their limbs with pollen;

and a spider wrapped up its prey with which to stock up its larder.

The sunlight enhanced the garden views such as

those from the Shady Path across the Grass Patch,

and from the Brick Path towards the Heligan one and beyond. Japanese anemones are prominent in each one.

Jackie produced her delicious chicken jalfrezi with egg fried rice for our dinner tonight. Tesco’s meat samosas made good starters. Jackie drank Hoegaarden whilst I finished the malbec.

The Plantation House And Garden

A visitor just inside the front door this morning somewhat deterred Jackie from leaving the house by that route. Well, it was suspended at just about head height.

Yesterday the Head Gardener pronounced sentence of death on a ficus which was far too close to the patio, and too big for the plot it occupied. She made a valiant start on carrying out the punishment which I continued today. Working in steady drizzle, I just managed to complete the task before heavy rain set in for the day. The two pieces of trellis in the background of the photograph were taken from the recently freed cast iron gate. A scented jasmine has already been planted to make its way up them.

In the days following Sam’s arrival into Port St Charles, Barbados in May 2004, I continued to photograph the island and scanned a dozen more slides today.

The two boys were very keen to meet the new celebrity. They were Jay and Sol, the sons of Peter Milnes, who lived in a former plantation house. An introduction was arranged and we made our way to their home, where their delight was patent.

The family lived in a former plantation house. Better appointed than most they date from the colonial days when rich men could keep the poorly paid servants to run the establishments. The house was impressive and situated in an idyllic spot.

Hibiscus

and breadfruit were among the plants.

This evening Jackie and I dined on her scrumptious cottage pie, carrots, and cauliflower. She drank Blanche de Namur and I drank Cimarosa Reserva Privada malbec 2013.

Ian’s Bag

This morning I repeated yesterday’s short walk. On leaving the house by the stable door, a heady fragrance greeted me. It floated from the Agriframes arch, where our retrained cream rambler now blooms. The scent is powerful enough to permeate the whole of the brick path. Bees were as drawn to it as I was. Should any of my gardening friends be able to identify it, we would be very pleased. (The head gardener’s research now establishes this plant as ‘Wedding Day’). Obviously a carnivore, a spider, wrapping its lunch in clingfim, ignored the honeysuckle sepals also ensnared in its sheltered web.

I enjoyed a pleasant conversation with Roger, during which we compared dodgy knees. I complimented him on keeping his public footpaths open. He was amazed at the lengths other farmers go to to keep the public away.

Aaron and Robin laid anther section of the rose garden path; and this afternoon, after Becky and Ian had returned home to Emsworth, I watered all the window boxes, hanging baskets, and newer plantings.

At Easter, when Frances and her family’s visit had coincided with the Emsworth family’s stay, and she had brought over some of Chris’s belongings for me to keep or to find good homes for, several containers were placed in the library. One of these was a large travelling bag filled with items I thought might be useful for Becky and Ian. I gave our daughter a rather impressive pair of field glasses. She thought Ian would really like them. I pointed out the bag, inviting her to rummage through the contents. As she began to do so, ‘wait a minute’, she exclaimed. ‘That’s Ian’s bag’. Sure enough, all its contents belonged to her fiancé. It was then she remembered that she had deposited this item in the library. Ian, feeling rather fortunate that I hadn’t given them to anyone else, took them home.

My catering task this evening was simplified by having one of Jackie’s superb sausage casseroles to microwave. With this we enjoyed boiled potatoes, carrots and cabbage. A Post House Mess, consisting of Cornish dairy ice cream covering strawberries in a meringue nest, was to follow. I drank La Croix Saint-Roche montagne saint-emilion 2013.

Stalking The Starling

Queuing to get on the blog this morning were:

This pink rambler that has come through the recent rains somewhat scathed;

the clematis Marie Boisselot;

more alliums, one with a sentinel spider, less than usually reluctant to be noticed. Click to spot it.

By popular request I have returned to the Streets of London Series. I scanned another dozen from April 2004, of which I offer:

Firstly Church Path, NW10, in the London Borough of Brent. St Mary’s Church, dating from 938, has featured in a number of posts, such as that of 15th February 2013, when I found its grounds ‘Surprisingly Picturesque’.

A younger, rather more splendid, church is Saint Pancras Parish Church on Euston Road, NW1. Its website describes what I have photographed, thus:

‘The church is a prominent landmark. Built by public subscription in 1818-22, it replaced the derelict Old St Pancras as Parish Church. Old St Pancras was rebuilt in Victorian times as one of the 17 subdivisions of the Ancient Parish of St Pancras. St Pancras Euston Road is Grade 1listed as a fine example of the Greek Revival style. Its external features, based on temples in ancient Athens, include an octagonal spire and an impressive front portico with 6 huge columns. On either side at the rear are our famous caryatids – statues of Greek women supporting the porches over the two entrances to the crypt. Traditional iron railings enclose the churchyard, where the annual parish picnic and other celebrations are held on the lawns.’

Midland Road NW1, was still closed at the time of the London bombings of 7th July 2005, my 63rd birthday. The whole of Euston Road, and many of the side streets around were cordoned off, and people were pouring out of the underground system, as I took my normal walk from Beauchamp Lodge in Little Venice to North Road, a mile or so behind Kings Cross station. Midland Road is now incorporated into the development area around that station. On the morning of the bombs, oblivious of what was happening, on a forced pedestrian diversion, I came across an assembled swarm of many hundreds of men in the yellow hard hats shown in this picture.

The building against which the construction workers are leaning is the British Library, at 96 Euston Road. Opened in June 1998, its Brutalist architecture, designed by Colin St John Wilson, can be seen to better effect from Ossulston Street, NW1.

The proprietors of M.S.Tyres on the corner of Roundwood Road NW10 find it necessary to batten down the hatches against the ubiquitous graffiti that decorates this area of North London. At least the windows are protected.

It doesn’t matter where you are in our capital city, it is very risky to leave your bicycle unattended. Virtually outside Baker Street tube station leans an example of the skeletal remains that litter many of our streets.

Either from familiarity with my presence, or from a desperation to feed its brood, I was able this afternoon successfully to stalk the parent starling squatting behind our kitchen facia board.. The bird, carrying sustenance, now lands on our roof, a speculative distance from the hidden nest; gingerly makes its way along the eaves; stands on the corner fidgeting and uttering sharp cries, either of warning or encouragement; then drops down and makes a dash for safety.

Watching the poor creature dithering, popping its head down, lifting it up for a quick shufti, and eventually taking the plunge, was fascinating.

The skies were overcast today, but, it seeming to be the season for awards, the sun popped into my e-mails. I have now been nominated for:

Thank you very much, rameshwarir at https://rameshwarir.wordpress.com/page/2/ for nominating me.

You have asked me these rather profound questions, which I answer as follows:

Do you believe that there is someone watching over you, someone you can just feel & not see? I do
What is the purpose of life? As best I can to make other people as happy as I would hope to be
What is the one thing that you would go to or do to relieve your heartaches? I have found it and have no more
What makes you happy? Refer to my answer at 2 above
What do dreams mean to you? Those we experience through sleep are a way of working through timeless issues. In another sense, dreams are what we wish for
What about Nature do you adore? Its constant variety
What is the one element, off the 5, that you would associate yourself with and why? Earth because I like to think I am pretty well grounded
What is your take on birth & death? Birth is an opportunity to begin a good life. Death is a time of reckoning
What have you learnt from Nature? That it is there to be admired; and that we can control none of it
What part of the tree would you associate yourself with? The trunk

In no particular order, my nominees for the award are:

Fox And Finch Antiques

The Contented Crafter

MaxReynolds: Sunrise, Sunset And Other Visions

I will not set you specific questions, but simply invite you to tell us something about yourself as you wish.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s scrumptious chicken jalfrezi with pilau rice topped off by an omelette. Kingfisher was our chosen beverage.

Cave Dwellers

On a warm, sunny, morning, Jackie drove me to Lymington hospital for a physiotherapy appointment. This had been rescheduled because I forgot the first one. Apparently, although it still looks pretty manky, and required the physiotherapist to cut away scabs clinging to the parchment of dead skin, my hand is healing well. I’ll spare you the photographic evidence. Later, I walked around the garden where

a minute spider clung to one of the many different cranesbill geraniums;

a glechoma has produced tiny flowers which neither of us has ever seen before;

a rich carmine lonicera adorns the arch leading into the planned rose garden;

and ornamental grasses cast their shadows across pale lilac aquilegias.

I needed to climb onto the Ace Reclaim bench to photograph this unidentified clematis,

because it is so close to the fence that it is our neighbours who are getting the benefit of it.

Jackie had no difficulty in identifying the marvellous magenta Dr Ruppel variety ascending the weeping birch, because she had planted it beneath that tree.

I thought it rather generous of her to have added a dedication to The Heligan Path sign.

As you approach the entrance to Lymington hospital you are currently greeted by a sparrow concerto of splendid amplification. This comes from a colony inhabiting the walls. The architects have provided a facade of stone chunks without apparent grouting. A strong metal grid covers this, presumably to prevent an avalanche. These, the head gardener tells me are cages called gabions.

The birds flit backwards and forwards to and from the crevices behind which they are nesting.

This one appears to be carrying food for chicks.

Various males stand guard outside their respective entrances.

You wouldn’t want to tangle with this one. (Click on him to reveal his malevolent visage).

The house sparrow is an Old World sparrow believed to have evolved in the Mediterranean region centuries ago. It is unlikely to date as far back as the times of the Neanderthal or Cro-Magnon humans. The latter term for our ancestors comes from the name of a hill in the village of Les Eyzies de Tayac in the Dordogne in Southern France, within reasonable driving distance of my house in Sigoules. This was where bones were discovered by workmen in 1868. These people were also cave dwellers, and lived on this hillside:

One former resident, surveying the valley below, has been preserved in stone.

Perhaps far more famous are the caves at Lescaux where early folk have left their marks on the walls. Chris and Frances were rather disappointed a few years ago when they took a trip from Sigoules to see them. In order to preserve the artwork intact, the public are not permitted to enter the original dwellings, and are shown around a replica, at the speed with which anyone who has been marshalled along a crowded art gallery will be familiar. Here is a two and a half minutes guided tour taken from YouTube:

[youtube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2hiFqqqjTxQ&w=560&h=315] There was no YouTube in prehistoric times, so people told their stories in scratched markings and pigmentation. In Argentina’s Patagonia stencils of human hands, together with other rock paintings depicting the life of hunters who lived between 13,000 and 9,500 years ago, cover the walls of the cave known as the “Cueva de las Manos” which literally means, “the Cave of Hands”. Perhaps these people didn’t live long enough to be inflicted with Dupuytren’s contracture.

This evening we dined on a tangy variation of Jackie’s cottage pie topped with sheets of mature cheddar cheese; baked carrots and leaks; stir fried cabbage, onions, and peppers; and piquant cauliflower cheese. This was followed by Lidl’s Deluxe New York cheesecake, use by 18 May. Jackie drank her habitual Hoegaarden and I relished my customary red wine, in this case the last of the Cotes du Rhone Villages.

Beach Hut Maintenance

This morning Jackie and I continued work on the entrance to the back drive. This involved another bonfire. I had anticipated saving the brushwood until November when we will celebrate Guy Fawkes day with the Mapperley grandchildren. We already had far more than we will need then.
The still hazy noon, following an early morning mist meant that The Needles fog alert was still sounding as I took my now circular route to Hordle Cliff and its beach. The Isle of Wight and lighthouse were still invisible.

At the bottom of Downton Lane, a ladybird clung to a mare’s tail.

The field on the left of the coast road also belongs to Roger Cobb, whose tell-tail perfect ploughing lines alerted me to his standing Massey Ferguson tractor whilst he repositioned the hinge on a five barred gate. I held it steady as he applied his hammer.

Crows foraged among the crumbling turned-up soil.

Down at the beach a spider lurked between beach huts, and a solitary swimmer surfaced on the smooth water.

t has not been unusual this summer to to see beach hut maintenance being carried out. Observing an example of this from the water’s edge I walked up to the building being repaired and spent some time with Marcos, the craftsman, and his dogs. We sat and chatted enjoyably for a while. His two spaniels seemed more sure-footed than his woolly black dog, which kept slipping down the bank until coming to rest against some part of me or another.

Marcos, who also does household decorating, had replaced the whole of the front of the hut which was rotting in parts. this is an attractive example of the work of milfordandhordlecliffbeachhuts@yahoo.co.uk

Jackie had continued work on the back drive entrance, and I joined her later on. She is exposing a brick edging to a narrow border beyond the gate, and I have reached half way into the fuchsia hedge. This is what the area looked like as the sun was going down. The No Parking sign is the handiwork of the previous owner of our home, and the plastic bag is to gather up what people chuck out of their cars.

The Happy Wok at Ashley provided our Chinese Takeaway meal this evening, with which I drank Shepherd Neame Bishop’s Finger Kentish Strong Ale. Jackie’s drink was Hoegaarden.

Walls

At 10 a.m. this morning we began work on clearing Bev and John’s wall that abuts our back drive. Knowing that I would not have the energy to tackle it after all the other shrubs and trees that threatened our neighbours’ foundations, I began with the fairly mature beech tree which was the worst offender. I need both an axe and a saw to cut it down to a stump that will be left for Jackie’s lethal application. Flora and fauna alike, except for the unfortunate prey of the spider

becoming more engorged as I watched it at its feast, basked in the morning sunshine.

We have stunning clumps of Japanese anemones of various colours, and the recently planted winter pansies, some in the chimney pots, perk up cheeky faces.

Gladioli, one of which provided the canvas for a portrait of a fly that would have done justice to Whistler in his white period,

looked almost translucent against the light.

Bees seem to enjoy the orange dahlias.

A woodlouse, climbing up our neighbours’ wall in an effort to escape my attentions, was soon overhauled by a baby spider.

Hidden beneath a hebe, which we have reduced in size and will retain, was a hart’s tongue fern that seems to be the only one we have. Jackie rapidly transplanted it.

‘Where there’s smoke there’s hope’, was a mantra we, as children in Raynes Park, invoked when trying to breathe life into illicit bonfires we enjoyed on the then much wider patch of railway land at the back of 29a Stanton Road where we grew up. I thought of this as I watched weak wisps of smoke struggling through the fire this morning. It was almost three hours before the first welcome crackle of flame was heard, but, by 1.30 our neighbours had

a wall that Banksy would no doubt find enticing.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with his work, Banksy is a pseudonymous U.K. based graffiti artist who stencils his work on vacant walls. Whatever you think of the idea of defacing other people’s property, you would have to agree that this man is an artist who, overnight, can enhance its value. Collectors like Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie will spend thousands of dollars or pounds on a piece. In October 2007 they acquired a number of works at auction for a total outlay of £1,000,000.

An earlier project of mine, which, so far has not seen any kind of publication, was called ‘Streets of London’, consisted of (more than 1,000) photographs of London streets with the constraint that the name should appear in the frame. In May 2008, because it in itself seemed an interesting scene, I photographed a corner of Acklam Road, W10, just off Portobello Road.

Three days later, I passed the same corner, to find a white wall embellished by a Banksy. Interestingly, this artwork already bore a protective perspex covering. Now, at least one of my street pictures has been published.

We dined this evening on slow roasted, tangy smoked gammon, cauliflower cheese in a mustard sauce, new potatoes and carrots, followed by egg custard dessert. I finished the rioja and Jackie drank the last of the weissbier.

A Summer For Insects

This morning, following the advice Mike gave me yesterday, we went in search of The Old House. Google informed us that this was in Lymington Road in Milford on Sea. It has, of course, quite a different postcode. Jackie drove us up and down this road, and we couldn’t find it. The most likely candidate had a lovely old brick wall, but the house looked a little different from the photograph that had appeared in Country Life, and was one of the few grand houses in this road that did not bear a name. Having seen an advertisement for an antiques fair at the Community Centre, Jackie suggested she left me to search on foot and meet her at the fair. That seemed a good plan.
I wandered into South Lawn Hotel to see if I could find anyone who knew the house. The very helpful staff printed out Google’s directions. These looked promising until they told me to turn left into Church Hill. Church Hill was on the right. It did not cross Lymington Road. So I turned right. The directions took me to River Gardens, actually opposite the Community Centre. The Old House was not there.
I went into the Centre to see whether anyone knew it. Peter who was on the door, didn’t know the property. I had no money, so couldn’t pay the £1 entrance fee. He let me in, so I could update Jackie with lack of progress. No-one could be found who could direct me. Peter suggested I might try the newsagent who may deliver papers there. I did. They didn’t. Back at the Community Centre, Peter introduced me to Chris, who did know the house, and directed me to what had been the most likely candidate. So, back up the hill I trotted.
Having reached my goal, a wonderful 18th Century building, I met Mrs Libby Paling, who was very helpful. She had, of course, been redirecting my bank statements from the stubborn MyBarclays, but now said she would speak to her postman. Mike had told me it was normal practice for postpersons to hand any letters carrying postcodes not on their rounds that found their way into their bundles, to the correct person, but Libby’s postman didn’t do this.
Jackie met me at the top of Church Hill and drove us home.
This afternoon we cut the grass. Jackie’s chosen method was a close manicure with a pair of scissors. I used a pair of rusty but serviceable sheers and a strimmer.
Mum and Elizabeth came for tea and stayed for dinner. We sat on the patio for a while, then did the tour of the garden. A multitude of insects shared our promenade. Most were welcome. That did not extend to the mosquitos. The ice plants attracted different kinds of bee:

A very small cricket sat on a cosmos:

A spider lay in wait for victims of its web that clung to a verbena bonarensis:

and a cabbage white butterfly settled momentarily on another:

A shield bug took preference over a hoverfly that stayed in the background on the clematis Hagley’s hybrid,

and a tiny fly descended into a colchicum (do zoom this one):

Before dinner we sat in the kitchen and opened the skylight. This disturbed a false widow spider that dropped onto my, fortunately still empty, plate. I decanted the arachnid into the garden and washed the dish.

On the clean plate I enjoyed our dinner of exquisite sausage casserole; mashed potato; and crisp broccoli, cauliflower, carrots, and cabbage; followed by a choice of blackberry and apple crumble, lemon and lime merangue pie, or lemon drizzle cake. Elizabeth and I drank more of the chianti and Jackie almost finished the lambrusco.

Sails

In the shelter of the pergola this morning, a large fat spider was tucking into a breakfast that should last a fortnight.
A new clematis and what we think are ginger lilies have now come into bloom.
Leaving Flo to await the arrival of Becky and Ian who have come back for the night, we drove off to Sway Manor hotel to collect Sheila for a day out. The idea was to begin at Christchurch for a boat trip. Forget it. We drove around the various car parks, following other streams of vehicles searching for places. None were forthcoming, so we gave up. As we left each set of parking spaces, we noticed streams of cars pouring in, but no pedestrians coming to retrieve their vehicles and leave a space.
Our next stop was at Barton on Sea for lunch snacks. Slightly out of the way, not on the beach, we found Sails Coffee Shop. We enjoyed coffees with toasted sandwiches and a breakfast baguette. Elaine, the proprietor, and Sandra offered excellent friendly service, and it was noticeable that in this holiday venue, many other customers were regulars known by name. One of these was the woman, once a cricketer who played for Middlesex, who updated us on the state of play in the Oval Test match between England and India. Newspapers and magazines were on offer in a rack. This establishment is to be recommended. Elaine bade me farewell as she drew back the curtain at the entrance.
We then went on a driving tour of all our old haunts from last year. Sheila was particularly delighted to see ponies with their foals. Rain began to fall as we arrived at St Margaret’s Church at East Wellow to show Sheila the tomb of F N, which is how Florence Nightingale wished it to be inscribed. This tower stands proud above the more ancient stones that surround it.
I was particularly intrigued by the land beyond the kissing gate. This is a gate that swings within a curved barrier, kissing it as it turns. There are a number of the modern version of these entrances and egresses around the area. These tend to be much more cramped than the slender iron version in the churchyard. From the church entrance runs a well-trodden footpath which ends abruptly at the gate. Immediately after it comes a barbed wire fence and a row of newly planted trees. What was obviously a public right of way and a route to the place of worship is no more. What is the story, I wonder?
From there we drove back to Sheila’s hotel where she treated us to an excellent meal of chicken and chips with pavlova to follow. I drank the house white wine, a good chardonnay. Jackie drank peroni and Sheila, sparkling water.
Back at home we spent the rest of the evening with Becky, Flo, and Ian, with whom I later watched the cricket highlights.