stream – Page 12 – derrickjknight

Access Denied

Jackie needed to have yet another headlight replaced this morning. She drove us to Wells Garage in Ringwood where she left the car, she went into the town, and I walked to Rockford End and back.

Hurst Road lies very near the garage. It is a cul-de-sac with a footpath leading off it. I followed this until it joined the Avon Valley Path; crossed the road at Rockford and walked up a minor road to Rockford End, whence I retraced my steps. The sun emerged from grey clouds in time for my return.

The footpaths ran through and around a series of lakes, the main ones being those of Blashford. Access to these expanses of water was very restricted. They were fenced in with wire mesh, cable, or barbed wire. Consequently there were only a few vantage points from which to enjoy the views. Warning notices proclaimed Deep Water, Private Property, a fishing club, and Spinnaker Sailing Club. Followers of the Avon Valley Path were restricted to narrow strips, now largely dried out, criss-crossed with tree roots of varying thicknesses.

At the Hurst Road end, a couple of scattered piles of plumage testified to an overnight reduction in Ringwood’s avian population, and to satisfied predators’ stomachs. This footway, in part, ran alongside a still swollen stream of clear running water heard trickling around the tree roots and over gravel stones. A couple of constructed bridges were supplemented by those formed by fallen trees.

George Hall’s big day, helping to celebrate Queen Elizabeth’s 40th anniversary twenty one years ago, seems almost forgotten. Snowdrops in bloom, and daffodils in bud, pierced the rough hedgerows.

Through the various barriers, I couldn’t see much of the waterfowl I could hear waking up to spring. Of the sounds I recognised, geese were trumpeting and coots piping. The former, in twos and threes occasionally flapped, honking, overhead.

The most open stretch of water, not available to the public, was the domain of Spinnaker Sailing Club, the New Forest’s private provision. Beyond this, a private fishing club had warning notices fixed, it seemed, to every other tree. Here, the footpath narrowed considerably.

On reaching the road at Rockford, I struggled to pick up the Avon Valley Path, walked around a bit, and being unable to find it, took the minor road up to Rockford End. This proved fortuitous, for the wooded slopes and farmland provided beautiful views, especially as the sun had then made it through the blanket of cloud.

I hadn’t got far up this road before a weathered footpath sign indicated a way through a field of dried mud. This was just beyond a still waterlogged stretch containing a knackered old bull. On my approach, he staggered arthritically from the mudbath he had been enjoying, turned to observe me, then sidled off. Even I didn’t consider him much of a threat. Nevertheless, the walker’s way was barred by a gate. Actually five barred. The field was filled with cattle. I continued on up the road to Rockford End. Spinnaker Sailing Club’s expanse of water shone in the distance, and nearer farm buildings soaked up the sun.

The car repaired, we set off back to Minstead. Jackie took a road she hadn’t tried before, and we were soon lost. But, we are retired, we had all day, and the sun was shining. So what did it matter? We drove up and down beautiful forest landscapes and envied characterful, idyllically placed, houses until we came to a spot I recognised. It was the road I had so recently walked across at Rockford. I proudly told my driver where she was headed, and where she would end up if she went in the opposite direction. ‘So it said’, said she, referring to the signpost we had just passed and I, for once, hadn’t needed. Here was I, attempting to show off my newly acquired knowledge, and that was all the thanks I got.

Jackie made up for this by demonstrating that last night’s meal could be just as good revamped. Especially when accompanied by Lussac Saint Emilion 2010. Or even her Hoegaarden.

Finally, episode 7 got us up to date with ‘Call the Midwife’.

Counting My Blessings

Yesterday’s landscapes were invisible this morning, shrouded in drizzle as I went on a shopping trip with Maggie and Mike.

As always, we first visited Mike’s favourite D.I.Y. outlet on the industrial estate outside Bergerac. Maggie and I stayed in the car and put the world to rights while Mike drew a padlock for the shop assistant because he didn’t know the word for it. We went on to LeClerc, the amazing French superstore which has just about everything. My friends bought some ground nutmeg whilst I added to my DVD collection. I would have needed half a day to have explored their complete stock.

Over coffee in the vast emporium Mike spoke of a towering pillar of smoke they had seen on their last visit. It was a paint factory being completely destroyed by fire. His instinct had been to get as far away as possible from the explosions and falling ash. I, on the other hand…….. Sometime in the mid-sixties, from Amity Grove in Raynes Park, we had seen something similar. I got in the car and sped towards it. Nearing Colliers Wood, where an earlier paint factory had gone up, traffic came to a complete standstill. Everyone else in South London was smitten with the same curiosity. Tins of paint had cascaded into the surrounding built-up area.

On my return to rue St. Jacques, Saufiene, still with no car, having been driven over on a non-work day by a friend, called in with the paperwork and a date for the detailed measurement of my home improvements.

The rain having cleared up and the clouds begun to disperse, I took a walk. I rounded the murky, swollen, waters of the fishing lake where the terrain was soggy enough to have been at home in England. The surrounding, normally dry, gully had become a torrent. Beyond the lake I followed the chalky stone path up the hill and along the top of the field the donkey shares with his goats. He tracked me as usual and, accompanied by a pack of dogs in the garden of one of the new houses opposite, let out a cacophany of sound. The rock concert planned for the bar tonight would no doubt have been enhanced by it. There were also sheep on this upper level. I was able to separate them from the goats. Reaching the crossroads at the top, I remembered the last time I had climbed up there, with Jackie in 2010, just before I was given a replacement hip. Then, I had been barely able to descend. This time I counted my blessings. I continued along the track, following a sign to Mautain. The downward stretch had become the bed of a clear stream cleaning the white stone. At the quagmire at the bottom my way was barred by an announcement from the town hall. I retraced my steps.

Last night in Le Code Bar I had felt honour bound to consume as much as I could of the food Maggie and Mike had been unable to manage. This was especially so when Frederick brought us an extra portion of duck, and, in response to my friends’ protestations that they could eat no more, patting me on the shoulder, said ‘this boy will help you out, I’m sure’. Consequently I didn’t need a meal today.

Blonds Burn More Easily

From the garden room whilst having our morning coffee. Jackie and I watched a pigeon in the process of landing and take-off in the bay tree beside us. Apparently being a poor judge of available space and the weight-bearing capacity of a slender twig, this large, ungainly, bird flopped onto its chosen perch which was neither long nor strong enough. The result was a lot of flailing about, such as one might expect from a tightrope walker about to fall off. The twig broke, the bird fell and dropped as if it had no parachute, suddenly remembered its wings, stopped in mid descent like a cartoon character, steadied itself, and flapped off, probably looking a bit sheepish.

Jackie drove me to Cotswold in Hedge End where I at last bought some Wellington boots. Still reluctant to encounter much mud again I decided to follow a road. We travelled to Blackwater car park on the Rhinefield ornamental drive where Jackie left me and went off to the deer sanctuary car park at Bolderwood in order to meet me after I had walked there. I walked roughly parallel to the road, sometimes on dryish gravel paths, sometimes on more soggy terrain. It was a beautiful, crisp day.

At one point I heard a rhythmic clatter approaching from round a bend. As I looked up, four ponies came careering round the corner headed straight for me on the path. Their leader was a splendid white beast, bearing down on me with nostrils flaring. It had got quite close before I realised it was not likely to lead its companions to one side of me, whereupon I deftly stepped aside, feeling like an ace matador, and watched the animals canter off into the forest. Pondering on discretion being the better part of valour, especially when faced with stampeding ungulates, I heard a further clattering approaching from the same direction, this time on the opposite side of the road. I watched four more ponies rush by from a safe distance. In truth, far more frightening were the two groups of racing cyclists who followed soon after, possibly breaking the speed limit of 40 mph. I suspect they had spooked the horses.

As I neared my goal I watched a small boy repeatedly throwing his Woody (the character from Toy Story) into a tree. There were no conkers or nuts which could serve as a target, so I was rather puzzled as to the nature of his game. When Woody eventually stayed in the tree, the answer became clear. The boy’s mother had to lift him up so he could shake the branches vigorously until his toy descended. Naturally this had me thinking of socks and rugby boots (see post of 10th October), the story of which I told the boy’s Mum.

The ground dappled with the woodland sunlight took me back to July 1967. It was in a wood in Sussex that Michael and I had stopped off for a play en route to Brighton where, the summer after Vivien died, I planned a bed-and -breakfast tour of the south coast with our son. The photograph I took of that scene could well have been captioned ‘Where’s Michael?’. After our break we travelled on to Brighton to find a bed and breakfast establishment. Of course we had to spend some time on the beach first. Although the weather was hot and humid the sky was completely overcast, so I thought a short time would be safe enough. Not so. After 50 minutes Michael was covered in blisters which required dressing in a hospital casualty department. The nurse there was very understanding and gentle in her explanation to this rather daft Dad that the sun can penetrate cloud cover and blonds burn more easily than people with dark hair. That was the end of our holiday. Michael was safer whilst I was able to receive the benefit of advice from Veronica Rivett, my future mother-in-law, with whom we then stayed.

This evening’s meal consisted of Jackie’s flavoursome Cottage pie followed by Sainsbury’s berry fruits trifle with Fitou for Eizabeth and me and Hoegaarden for the cook.