Today’s weather followed a somewhat similar pattern to that of yesterday. After a morning’s pottering Jackie drove us in mid-afternoon to the North of the forest where we wandered around our old haunts between Ringwood and Fordingbridge.
Already, pools began to to gather on the heathlands and the forest floors, and streams, like this one near North Gorley, overflowed their fords.
This particular area, although well populated by ponies, has quite a number of donkeys 
roaming. A family of four, quite oblivious of the traffic, occupied the road at Hythe, and at 
Hungerford a pair indulged in a passionate necking session before one was prevailed upon to suckle her foal. These animals do, of course, have right of way in The New Forest, where car drivers must just be patient.
As the sun gradually sank to the horizon, the initially pastel shades of the cloudscapes had, by the time we stopped at the Godshill carpark and Jackie released me with my camera, deepened into a dark indigo pierced by strident reds and yellows and the white heat of the flaming planet .
With the glow of the sun at its lowest point, the already red-brown New Forest ponies took on a brighter shade of russet, thus blending with the autumn leaves and pink clouds of its surroundings.
Soon after our return, we dined on pork spare ribs marinaded in barbecue sauce, superb savoury rice, and green beans, followed by blackberry and apple crumble and clotted cream. I drank more of the rioja, and Jackie enjoyed her customary Hoegaarden.
Tag: stream
Villages Of Oxford And Cambridge Shires
I walked my normal route to Milford on Sea and back this morning. Waves buffeting the 
beach were choppy and the wind blustery, but that did not deter families settling on the shingle, along which couples perambulated.
Part of the footpath that I had, only two days ago, described as safe, has tumbled down the cliff and been bordered by a protective fence.
On the cliff top I met a man walking his dog, who was amused at himself for having forgotten to put his clocks back last night, the end of British Summer Time. He was impressed by how many jobs he had managed to do after having risen so early, but he thought the day ahead would be a long one.
In the Nature Reserve an elderly gentleman tipped his hat to me as we exchanged greetings.
Watching fallen leaves sailing sedately on the surface of the stream, I was reminded of 
Flora Thompson’s book. My copy of this classic portrait of a nineteenth century Oxfordshire village is illustrated by Lynton Lamb.
At intervals along the trail, birdseed had been heaped upon tree fungus. Perhaps Hansel had been returning the favour of the white feathers.
To a certain amount of trepidation by his mother, a small boy was having great fun on the swing I had noticed previously. She had not, fortunately, seen the first episode of ‘Grantchester’, in which a snapped rope bearing a similar swing gives James Norton, playing a charismatic Cambridgeshire village clergyman, an opportunity to emulate Colin Firth’s wet shirt scene in ‘Pride and Prejudice’. Based on the detective novels of James Runcie, ‘Grantchester’ is now a major ITV television series. Norton’s Sidney Chambers develops an unofficial partnership with Robson Green’s Geordie police sergeant.
Flora Thompson’s story was published in 1948, and the detective series is set in the 1950s, so they are contemporaneous in period, if not in authorship.
Later, we watched the second episode of Grantchester. Well, we had to, didn’t we?
Although we ate it in the evening, Jackie produced a superb traditional Sunday lunch. Slow roasted beef was accompanied by roast potatoes, parsnips, and Yorkshire pudding; thick gravy jam-packed with juices from the meat; brussels sprouts, carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli. After this we could just manage a custard tart. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and I drank Castillo San Lorenzo reserva 2008 rioja. As is often the case when enjoying such a meal, we spoke of our mothers’ roast dinners of our childhoods in the ’40s and ’50s, which we converted to cottage pies on Mondays with the aid of a National or a Spong hand-operated mincer that was clipped to a tabletop. You put the pieces of left-over joint into the bowl at the top, turned the handle, and the minced meat was forced through a circular grill, and dropped out of the spout into a waiting container. Jackie, herself, used one when we were first married in 1968.
Starting Handles
On this brighter, balmy, day, the returning sunshine was welcomed by all; by me; by Roger’s newly sown fields; by ferns and mare’s tails on the bank of the stream; by basking cattle huddled behind the corner cottage; by a young man, with the customary electronic device, waiting for a bus; by slithering slugs and by creeping caterpillars on the footpath; and by one solitary wave watcher seated on the shingle.
These are the steps Bob runs up and down.
On my return, whist Jackie continued her autumn tidying, I began the daunting task of digging out the more stubborn roots of bramble and ivy from the back drive. Bolt cutters were required for the removal of more of our predecessor’s metal mesh.
As you can see, I didn’t get very far.
Margery and Paul visited us this afternoon, and we enjoyed our usual wide-ranging conversations. Thinking of how times have changed over the last century, we embarked on the subject of early motoring. We travelled back to 1919 when Jackie’s grandfather acquired his first car, and never had to take a test. He would regularly drive himself from Anerley to Brighton when hardly another vehicle was to be seen on the road.
She remembered her Dad cranking up a starting handle to get the car going, and jump into the car hoping the engine would continue running. The dog-legged shaped metal crank was shoved through a hole in front of the motor where its own female end engaged with a male one attached to the starting mechanism. This handle for the Morris Minor most resembles one I remember using to help my Dad get moving. You had to be quite vigorous in your cranking, and hope the equipment didn’t suddenly whizz round and break your wrist.
Later, Jackie and I watched, on BBC iPlayer, episode 2 of the 11th series of New Tricks. It was in the 9th series of 2012 – the last one I watched – that the skilful and watchable Denis Lawson replaced James Bolam as one of the old dogs, (who, according to proverb, cannot be taught new tricks), namely a trio of retired policemen under the management of a female officer played originally by Amanda Redman. Their task is to reopen investigations into unsolved crimes.
As with a number of successful TV series over the years, this comedy-drama began as a one-off – on 27th March 2003. Of the original cast only the everlasting Dennis Waterman remains. Redman has been replaced by Tamzin Outhwaite; and Alun Armstrong by Nicholas Lyndhurst.
Having found the rapport between the original cast members very entertaining, I will need to reserve judgement on the current team. One of the secrets of success of such productions is the chemistry between the actors. In my view this is a little lacking at the moment, but it is worth persevering with.
The supporting cast played their parts well.
Our evening meal consisted of Jackie’s classic sausage casserole (recipe), smooth mashed potato, and crisp carrots and peas, followed by jam sponge and custard. She drank Hoegaarden, whilst I enjoyed Isla Negra Cabernet Sauvignon 2013.
The White Feathers
I don’t think the fact that it was a dull overcast morning today when we made continuing slow progress on the work of clearing the edges of the back drive, was really the reason I am beginning to find it very boring. Perhaps you are too.
I brought bolt cutters into play to assist in disentangling the chain link fence from the trees. The task took a further two hours, and I still left parts of links protruding from the trunks of trees that had grown round them. The metal was so deeply embedded in the example shown here that, some way into its cut, my saw struck it and I needed to employ an axe.
Having, for the second month running, missed the home bottle collection, this afternoon Jackie drove us down to the bottle bank at Milford on Sea, where we unloaded our bottles and jars, and I walked back home via the footpath alongside the stream and through the Nature Reserve. This time, instead of arriving at Shorefield, I diverted into the Woodland Walk and across a paddock which brought me out, via Westminster Road, to the cliff top.
At regular intervals on the shrubbery along the footpath, small white feathers were neatly laid on leaves. It was as if the birds who had eaten Hansel’s breadcrumbs, taking pity on the lad, had replaced them with scraps of plumage.
Molehills also appeared at regular intervals along the way. The solitary creatures who make these, beset at this time of the year by the urge to mate, blindly shuffle along their dark tunnels until they find their object of desire, do the necessary, and return to their lonely existence. Every so often, the head gardener informs me, rather similarly to the activity of escapees from a prisoner of war camp, the earth has to be cleared from the tunnel, and is consequently pushed up to the surface.
As I approached one of the bridges I watched an excited family playing Pooh Sticks.
By the time I reached them they had moved on, and were now, as they said, engaged in a hunt for the poo possibly left in the undergrowth by their dog. It was the grandfather who told me about the route across the paddock.
Once on the cliff top, hoping to find a path emerging near the bottom of Downton Lane, I walked further along in the direction of Barton on Sea. I was disappointed in this, since all the stiles bore a Private notice, so I backtracked at took my usual route back through Shorefield via West Road.
Windborne crows chased each other across the skies.
Clouds loomed over Hengistbury Head, as a weak sun glinted on the sea, and a yacht sailed against the backdrop of The Needles.
The hedge to the garden of The Wilderness on the approach to Shorefield glowed brightly with vibrant honeysuckle and rose hips.
This evening we dined on Jackie’s delicious chicken jalfrezi (recipe) and pilau rice, followed by profiteroles. She drank Hoegaarden and I drank El Pinsapo rioja 2011.
Job Done
Because our neighbours are on holiday we were able to make an early start on burning branches and foliage. With the two fires approach we had made considerable progress by lunchtime.
This afternoon, I felt like a change, so Jackie drove me to Milford on Sea in order for me to investigate further the Nature Reserve Trevor had guided me to on the 13th. I had speculated that if I continued along this path instead of rejoining the coast road, it would take me to the woodland walk at the far end of Shorefield Country Park. Wonder of wonders, it did. I must be finding my bearings.
At the entrance to the footpath stands a memorial bench to Clifford Charles. A single fresh yellow rose tied to this signals that someone still remembers the man.
The footpath through this area runs roughly alongside a stream, across which a number of bridges lead to various houses, one group of which surrounds a lake, with a warning of deep water in which they are reflected.
Some of the residences bear solar panels in their roofs. These structures are intended to reduce energy consumption from the national grid, by harvesting that of sunlight. 
I believe most of 
these are supplied with the aid of a government grant, because the cost of fitting them means that it would take many years for householders to profit from their investment if they paid for them themselves.
I didn’t really see any wild life, although I heard a number of birds. I did wonder, however, what creature might have made a burrow I noticed beside an old tree stump.
Other walkers availed themselves of the footpath, including a couple with what the 
woman called a ‘very bouncy’ terrier as she restrained him while I passed and they continued on their way in the opposite direction. Crocosmia were growing at the junction where she had heaved on an outstretched lead whilst her dog tugged on the other end.
Even in this beautiful, well-maintined spot people dump their rubbish.
At two points along the stream, makeshift swings have been attached to trees, so that dangling over the water adds a little excitement to a standard childhood pleasure. As I neared Shorefield, I heard two young cyclists speculating about where they were. I was able to tell them, and was rather amused to point out to them a sign, just ahead of them, asking people not to cycle. They were rather nonplussed at this, and, I think, unconvinced by my observation that there was no sign from their direction so they could ignore this one. I do hope they didn’t push their bikes all the way back.
When I returned home by way of Shorefield, I got the fires going again. Having burned almost all the debris, I sat on a metal frame, possibly part of what, on the house inventory had been laughingly called an ‘unassembled greenhouse’, imagining I would clear up the final soggy bits of vegetation that now lined twenty yards or so of the back drive, tomorrow, The head gardener arrived and asked if she should get me a rake. None of the possible polite phrases I might have used to decline the offer seemed particularly appropriate. To be fair, Jackie did bring two rakes, and scraped up her fair share. This all went onto the fires. We then cut and pulled up many of the brambles that still flourished there, and added added those. Just before sunset the job was done.
Dinner was an interesting medley. We enjoyed brisket of beef marinaded in barbecue sauce, baked beans, and bubble and squeak with a fried egg on top. Profiteroles were for dessert. I drank a splendid Castillo San Lorenzo rioja reserva 2008, and Jackie was also impressed with her Franziskaner Weissbier which has apparently been brewed by monks in Munich since 1363. Clearly the secret of longevity.
Tony and Anne, Trevor and Jan
Clearance of the future rose garden continues apace. Yesterday Jackie uprooted several unproductive fruit bushes, and this morning I removed the last of the box hedges and a photinia that had been well rooted for a few years. This latter plant required the use of a grubber axe. It had to come out because it has the potential to grow into a huge tree. There is one in the jungle garden next door which is so high that we get the benefit of it.
After this, I took my now customary route on foot to Milford on Sea, taking a diversion through a nature reserve on the way back. Having passed through Shorefield, I met Mike, the postman, who confirmed that he was indeed more comfortable in the front garden next door, photographed yesterday. He was also very helpful about the problem I have been having with misdirected mail being delivered to The Old House, Lymington Road. This is yet another difficulty with MyBarclays, who hold my French bank account. They will only accept proof of address from my New Forest Council Tax bill. This gives our address as Lymington Road, rather than Christchurch Road. I am engaged in a frustrating exchange of e-mails with the bank. Until this is resolved, Mike suggested I might explain the problem to the residents of The Old House, which is not on his round, so they may readdress my statements.
The Solent is now calm enough for leisure yachting. 
People were walking babies in buggies, and sometimes frisky dogs on foot. From the cliff top Tony pointed out the Isle of Wight to his wife Anne. We conversed about my photograph and the general state of the cliffs.
I have mentioned before, the superb view The Beach House has of the island and its lighthouse. Today I shot it through their mature conifers.
On the way back out of Milford on Sea there is a footpath on the right. I have speculated about where it might lead, but had not had the confidence to try it before. 
Today, however, 
I noticed Trevor enjoying a cigarette as he basked on a bench in the sunshine. Crossing a footbridge over a stream, I asked him where the path led. He directed me along it, telling me how I could pick up the coast road. As I walked back over the bridge, an attractive woman came into view. This was Jan, who looks after the administration of the Community Centre cafe. She is a blues fan and particularly likes The Blues Band, especially Paul Jones and Tom McGuiness. This discovery enlivened our conversation somewhat.
Crossing a road along the footpath I entered the Nature Reserve through which it ran, leaving it on a slope up to Woodland Way on the left. This led to Delaware Road, and thence the cliff top. 
The path, beside which cyclamen blooms among dandelions, does extend further, and one day I may explore it more.
Tonight we dined at our old haunt, The Family House Chinese restaurant in Totton. We ate our favourite set meal, and both drank T’Sing Tao beer.
Like many Asian restaurants they juggle, very successfully, with serving diners and taking down takeaway orders.
The UK Citizenship Test
2.9.14
Early this morning I wandered around Sigoules. Despite the fact that the last few days have been gloriously sunny, yesterday was the official ending of summer in France. Today the children returned, surprisingly eagerly, to school. They were certainly not, as Shakespeare put it, ‘creeping like snail unwillingly’.
Signalling autumn, the low sun cast long shadows from fallen leaves. Conkers looked ready to drop. Morning glories mingled with the ivy climbing the walls of the 
War Memorial garden, and flowers still bloomed in the old cart resting in the grass around the community centre.
I discovered a wooded footpath I had not noticed before. Signed ‘rue de la Moulin Cave’, it ran along the backs of houses until it emerged on the outskirts of the village on the road to Bergerac. A stream accompanied it on the final stretch. Beyond this, stone steps led up to a private garden.
On my return to the house, the female partner and one of the young men who had been occupying it, were waiting to collect their clothes and shoes. I helped them carry out the eleven bin bags, two travelling cases, and one briefcase. I also handed the woman a batch of letters I had managed to extract from the box on the wall outside.
Later, Brigitte drove me to Bergerac airport.
On the day of Michael’s Shampers birthday celebration, Tess was also rejoicing in having passed the UK Citizenship Test that day. She is now officially one of us. The flyleaf of Iain Aitch’s ‘We’re British Innit’ claims that unlike Tess’s test, ‘this is the real Britain’, that of mushy peas, haggis, corner shops, Coronation Street, horse racing, and fox hunting. Those of us around the table struggled with some of the historical questions Tess reported, but all would have recognised what goes with fish and chips.
Aitch casts his humour over all levels of society and all corners of Britain. He mixes clearly invented facts with those that are accurate, in a most amusing, often rather scurrilous, way. The book’s title had made it impossible for Becky and Ian to resist buying it for my birthday. It provided welcome light relief over the last harrowing week. I finished reading it in the airport lounge.
The Mole Catcher
One of the benefits of writing a daily blog over a period of more than two years is that it can be used to jog one’s own memory. Quite often we have checked something by using the search facility. Struggling to remember the name of the architectural salvage outlet where we had bought a door knocker on 9th April, we looked up ‘The Knocker’, and there it was – Ace Reclaim. Actually, I had remembered the Ace bit, which I thought rather impressive. Unfortunately they were not open today so we couldn’t visit them for something to contain a rose that is straying across the main brick path.
There was, therefore, no excuse to go for a car ride instead of gardening. 
When I had cut down the last of an invasive privet, I had finally reached the corner of the boundary under siege from next door. (My computer, or maybe WordPress itself, delights in deciding it knows better than I which words I wish to use. It changed the ‘finally’ in the last sentence to ‘fatally’. I do hope the machine is not prescient.) The foliage on the right of the photograph is to be repelled when necessary. The two edges of IKEA wardrobe sections roughly central to the picture mark my assessment of the boundary line, based on metal stakes stuck in the ground. The facing metal poles with worm-eaten wooden struts wired and ragged to them continue along the South side of the back drive. Once I round the compost heap and enter that stretch there are metres and metres of similar bits of wood, metal, and wire marking out territory, between a number of mature trunks of felled trees. Decisions will have to be made about a number of shrubs that line this drive, among which 
are blackberries coming through from the deserted garden, that are so scrumptious looking and such thick stemmed as to make me think they are cultivated. If anyone does move into the empty house we will need someone like the cartographic decision-makers of nineteenth century Europe, who drew lines across uncharted territory around the globe, to do the same for us.
During recent weeks Jackie has been removing unnecessary composite paving stones from the mess that is the system of paths in the kitchen garden, and transferring them to her work area to use as stepping stones from there to the new shrubbery, rather like, but longer than, the system I had inserted at The Firs. I helped a little with that today.
It was possibly when prising one of these slabs from its original position that Jackie extracted her dandelion trophy. This had such a magnificent root that she was minded to nail it to one of the pillars of the wisteria arbour where she sometimes takes her rests. She pointed it out to me today. We were both under the erroneous impression that the countryside tradition of nailing moles, regarded as vermin, to fences was in order to keep others away. She thought her action might deter other dandelions. However, that is not the reason rows of moles are lined up like the heads of unpopular members of opposing factions in mediaeval England. They are there to demonstrate to the farmer that his freelance professional mole catcher has done his job. Maybe crows hung in trees could serve as a deterrent to others. There does not seem, however, any consensus on the reason for this practice.
This afternoon I ambled down to Shorefield, and, after spending some time leaning on the railings of the bridge over the sun-dappled stream that runs alongside the holiday chalets, returned home. Damselflies flickered iridescent blue over the water seeming to reflect their hue, and coots, keeping well out of fleeting sight paddled in the ochre shadows. So quick were the insects that only when they took a rest in the sunlight was I able to focus on them. I couldn’t actually see this one when I pressed the shutter, but I had seen it land and hoped for the best.
Later, I picked some of the blackberries. As they were mostly emerging from the top of the jungle, I had to teeter on top of the stepladder to reach them. 
A bird has already started on one of our three Braeburn apples, but we will probably need to buy some cookers anyway for blackberry and apple crumble.
Jackie worked all day on further clearing the patch she had begun yesterday. The exposed root in the picture is a euphorbia about to be clipped and discarded. These are attractive plants, but they self-seed and tend to crop up in the wrong places. Those in our garden have been given a free rein for a number of years, so they must be culled in order to free up what they have choked.
Seeking somewhere different for our dinner tonight, we tried the Rivaaz Indian restaurant in Milton Station Road. The initial disappointment at being informed that they do not serve alcohol, but that we could bring our own, was somewhat assuaged when I remembered we had parked opposite an Off-Licence. It was completely quashed when we noticed that both naga and phal were on the menu. The food was marvelous, and the service friendly, efficient, and unobtrusive. The lamb in my nagin was lean and tender, and Jackie thoroughly enjoyed her chicken jabajaba. Both meals were flavoursome. The rices were cooked to perfection, as was the parata and the mushroom and spinach side dish. We both drank Kingfisher, and neither of us could quite finish our meals.
Elizabeth Chose Her Moment
4th April 2014
Refreshed after the first good night’s sleep I have enjoyed in weeks, I went on an exploratory walkabout this morning.
Setting off down Downton Lane towards the sea with what I think was the Isle of Wight visible in the distance, I took a footpath leading across a field to the right. I then followed a left turn along another with a ploughed field on the left and a wooded area to the right.
As I passed a couple of Countryside Watch signs, I hoped I didn’t look too suspicious.
I leaned on a bridge across a gently flowing stream, and, as I walked away, I noticed a deposit on the palm of my hand, indicating that a bird had been there before me.
This track led me to a narrow winding road on the other side of which was Taddiford Gap car park. The road was quite busy, and therefore rather dicey to negotiate. I was consequently relieved to see another footpath to the right just past Taddiford Farm. I took it. It led through woods and, like the curate’s egg, was good in parts. It others it was a bit muddy. I crossed what I hoped was the same stream I had encountered earlier. It was, and led me to Christchurch Road opposite a rape field I had seen before from a distance, and within sight of our house.
Back home I tackled some phone calls. Today was the date of the activation of our landline and broadband. BT’s letter indicated that this could happen at any time up to midnight. I phoned a very helpful woman called Gaynor who told me the engineers were working on it. She put my mind at rest on the question of the hub working through floorboards. Apparently hers does. I had been invited to take part in a customer survey to which I had agreed. When the call about that came later, I was asked how easy or difficult it had been to obtain the help I required. I had a choice of 1 to 3 to press. Having been happy, I pressed 1 as required. The message was repeated. Three times. After which I gave up.
Pippa at Spencers had told us she could provide us with names and phone numbers of suitable people to carry out practical tasks. Since we were still getting nowhere with our Neff hobs and the Logik built-in multifunctional oven hasn’t been built in anywhere, I obtained a name from her of a man who would be able to deal with both of these and fit the washing machine. I left him a message.
Jackie worked on cleaning and sorting the kitchen whilst I cleared more space around the washing machine. This led to a major blitz on the garage. The shelf above the plumbing for the machine contained a sand-tray once, no doubt, used for potting plants, now a spawning ground for spiders, the white clusters of whose eggs lined the crevices. One heavily pregnant creature staggered away seeking shelter underneath. Having noticed the handle of a small shovel protruding from beneath garden shrubbery, I thought this might be useful for collecting up the sand. Upon extracting it I discovered it had been used for clearing up after an elderly dog. The morning’s guano was far more attractive.
On a roll, I then decided to drag out a rolled-up carpet Michael had given us. This would enable me to place some boxes of books under the shelves. However I had to reach the relevant end to tug, and clear various items lain upon it. My way was blocked by the legs of a desk balanced on top of the Safe Store book containers. It wouldn’t budge. This was because a box of books was wedged underneath it. I pulled the whole structure towards me, intending to lean the desk against the garage doors whilst I extracted the now seriously maimed box, spilling as few of its contents as possible. Elizabeth chose that moment to telephone me. Now propping myself against the desk teetering on the boxes, I fished in my pocket for my mobile phone and we had a pleasant conversation. After speaking to my sister, I completed the task and came in for lunch.
Having freed the desk, I had to find a home for it. It had always been my intention to have an office in the hall, but it was full of assorted belongings. so we cleared that, which, of course meant cluttering up other places. Never mind, it was a job well done. For there, in the middle of the wall under the bay window, just where I would have wanted it, was a lovely telephone point. Not so quirky after all.
I retrieved the home hub and telephone from the bedroom, and set it up in my now established office, this time with my iMac attached. Now all there was to do was to await the connection by BT. Then there was a shriek from Jackie. We had no electricity. The loss of power coincided with her having turned off the hobs at the wall. Fortunately we had found the fuse box. One fuse had tripped. I turned it back on. Not only did we have light and power, but the child lock had disappeared. And we had broadband. Magic.
Coincidentally, my on-line friend Jane, had sent an e-mail telling us that turning off the hobs at the wall would free the lock.
The bad news about the hobs is that they work by induction which means the pans used with them must be magnetic, so, until we buy some more suitable ones Jackie will be forced to use my heavy iron pots.
We dined this evening on microwaved fish pie and mushy peas, with which I drank Isla Negra reserva Cabernet Sauvignon 2012.
They Do Pick Their Moments
Unerringly, this morning, I picked my way from the farm underpass to the Sir Walter Tyrrell and back, using a different route each time. Almost.
I was on a mission to measure the oak I had found recently. Berry had replied to my e-mail by asking me how many hugs it was. A hug is apparently a metre, give or take a bit of wingspan. So off I went and, in full view of anyone who happened to pass, ignoring the bramble growing up the trunk, tenderly grasped the bark. Untangling myself each time, I did this three and a bit times before reaching the point at which I had begun. Unfortunately this means I have not found my first ancient tree. An oak, to qualify, must be 4.5 metres in girth, and my arms are not long enough for three and a bit hugs to stretch to that. My one consolation is that there were no witnesses to my act of dendrolatry.
On my outward journey I was less confident than I expected to be on the way back, because I have not made the trip in that direction before, and even fallen trees and streams, which I am beginning to try to use as markers, look rather different the other way round. Actually, enough of one or two of the dead trees remain upright to serve as rather good milestones.
The day was changeable, the occasional sun brightening the view. 
The recent rain, however, has made everything soggy again. I set off on clay, which meant it was still hard underfoot, pitted with small round cups of water pressed into the surface by the feet of ponies. I could step on the rims. Where there was no clay, I was soon sinking halfway up my shins in shoe-snatching mud. Sometimes I could skirt round these patches, but that wasn’t always possible.
Every now and then I fancied I heard a chuckling in the woods. If I peered through the trees I would see shadowy light brown figures dart across the way, and on one occasion a still, erect, creature that gazed in my direction, then, with all the stateliness of the high-stepping horses of the guardsmen of two days ago, strode off with its entourage in tow. My mockers were an enormous mottled white stag and three dingy little does. Maybe they weren’t making fun of me. Maybe they were just rustling the leaves.
Taking a diversion around a fallen tree, an unmoving flash of colour caught my eye, and I went to investigate what turned out to be possible remnants of an orgy. 
Several sets of discarded clothing were arrayed on another prone trunk. Perhaps some optimists had hung them out to dry, and couldn’t get back through the surrounding quagmire tio retrieve them.
Now I have to explain the one word second sentence of this post, that flouts all the rules of grammar. I did not mean to indicate that I didn’t quite manage the walk. Far from it. It was extended a wee bit. This is because what I do mean is my return trip wasn’t exactly totally devoid of error.
Saufiene picked a rather less than convenient moment to telephone me from France. I have to answer my mobile within three rings. This was rather difficult when it was in my jacket pocket and I had one foot in the water and the other half way up the bank of the stream I was intent on crossing. I did manage to answer the call and fortunately the Frenchman didn’t ask me where I was. I mention this here because I would like to blame him for what happened next. Yes, he did distract me, but it wasn’t his fault that once across the stream I forgot I had forded it and followed it dutifully, according to my newly discovered rule of thumb. In the wrong direction. It wasn’t until I glimpsed through the trees the cottages on the outskirts of the village of Brook that I realised my slight mistake. So back I went along the brook, seeking the ford by Castle Malwood Farm. The truth is, I cannot pretend Sofiene put me off. I’d have gone the wrong way anyway.
Now it is all very well following a stream until you come to a fork in it that you don’t recall having seen before. 
It is especially inadvisable to take the wrong fork, which is of course what I did. I never did find the ford, but I found the roar of the A31 an increasingly friendly sound. I was soon walking under it and up the steep climb to home. Elizabeth chose to present me with the second inconveniently timed call of the morning as I was ascending the almost perpendicular stretch of this.
Lyndhurst’s Passage to India provided our evening meal with which Jackie and I both drank Kingfisher. We had to drive out there and sit down in the restaurant of course.