As we sat in a queue at the Brockenhurst level crossing this morning I photographed the dry grasses alongside.
We were on our way to Streets, the shop which has everything. Jackie took this location photograph, whilst I
focussed on the windows when we parked outside it.
My more able bodied Chauffeuse also photographed the fungus decorating the oak tree shown above because that required a disembarkation.
Jackie was able to buy wasp foam and wasp powder; and surgical spirit, which may flummox our American readers as it did most of the staff of Streets until one said “isn’t that what they call rubbing alcohol?” “Yes”, replied Jackie who had begun by Googling “rubbing alcohol”, which had been what Dillon had requested.
Our now sparse open tracts of land, normally occupied by grazing ponies, are left empty, except for this one on the edge of Beachern Wood which hosts
just one mare and foal perhaps taking a chance on being able later to
squeeze among the others already clustered for shelter among the trees.
Others, like these in The Coppice at Brockenhurst, find individual shade.
Beside Beachern Wood ancient banks of high hedgerows enjoy diffused light.
On our way towards Wilverley a determined troop of ponies advanced, perhaps in search of their own refuge.
This afternoon I read another couple of chapters of Naipaul.
We dined this evening on Jackie’s well-filled beef pie; crisp fried potatoes; firm carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli, with meaty gravy. The Culinary Queen drank Hoegarden; I drank more of the Bordeaux; Flo and Dillon drank water.
