sunset – Page 10 – derrickjknight

Rosie Lea

This afternoon Jackie drove Becky and me on a recce through the waterlogged forest. On another reasonably warm day, we enjoyed a little sunshine and a lot of showers.

The first stop was near Wootton Bridge on the way to Brockenhurst.

There we encountered expanding pools of water on the forest floor,

a swollen stream,

intermittent sunshine,

and moody clouds above.

Becky’s red coat brightened the landscape a bit.

Soon after we continued our journey, I spotted a pony mother and child foraging by the roadside, and prevailed upon my driver to stop. As I emerged from the car, my potential subject, completely oblivious of oncoming traffic, stepped into the road and made a beeline for me. Wary of the ticks these creatures carry, I returned to the passenger seat.

Becky photographed our friend through the back window.

The beast then walked round to my door and I took over the camera.

Our continuing progress was then briefly impeded by another pony in the road.

Eventually we arrived at Brockenhurst where the sun now shone on oaks

and lichen alike.

It was time for Rosie. A cup of, that is.

For those readers unfamiliar with Cockney Rhyming slang, tea is Rosie Lea, truncated by omitting the second word.

The proprietors of Rosie Lea’s have chosen the full version in naming their tea shop which won the 2014 Hampshire Food and Drink Awards best tea/coffee shop and customer service awards. Incidentally the Bakehouse, that had the queue across the road yesterday, was the best baker. This photograph also doubles as a selfie for Jackie and me.

The cups and saucers in the cabinet photographed above are those used to serve tea in this establishment which also plays ’50s pop music for the customers.

Shortly before sunset we returned via Sway Tower, otherwise known as Peterson’s Folly.

Before building his monument, Judge Peterson erected a trial model, which is shown to the right of this picture.

Sunset was in its prime above Christchurch Road when we arrived home.

We will be eating rather late this evening. This is because Becky and Ian went out earlier and have been held up in traffic. But, fear not. I know what we will be having so I am able to include it and submit this post in reasonable time. It is beef hotpot, carrots, green beans, and cabbage, followed by profiteroles. I will drink more El Sotillo, Jackie will imbibe Hoegaarden, and I expect Ian will have a beer and Becky rose wine. The food will, of course, be cooked to perfection.

Around The Island

On yet another rain-slashed August day, I spared a thought for those holidaymakers who had come to the forest and the seaside for their long-awaited summer break. The last ten days hasn’t bothered me, because my chest infection has kept me indoors anyway, but they can’t have had much fun.

Needless to say this was another day for scanning colour slides, this time from Barbados in May 2004. If nothing else they remind me of sunshine. This set of photographs was made a day or two before Sam was expected to reach the island, having rowed The Atlantic solo from the Canaries.

Both Jackie and I think we ought to recognise this plant, but we don’t. Fortunately Mary Tang has identified it as frangipani.

Bougainvillea brightens every landscape.

A golden sunset is almost a cliche. Not in Port St Charles.

Jessica watches as Louisa shows her photographs to another member of the waiting group.

Birds like the Yellow breasted Sunbury,

and the Barbados Bullfinch, the only indigenous species, which is found nowhere else, take advantage of nature’s camouflage,

as does the land crab.

The grackle

and the sanderling don’t seem to need it.

This gentleman demonstrates the method of releasing milk from a coconut.

Just before the expected arrival time even the previously bright blue Caribbean Sea darkened,

and a rainbow arced over Port St Charles.

I was regularly in touch with Radio Nottingham to deliver live updates from my mobile phone. That night, I opened our balcony doors so that listeners could hear the deafening waves crashing in from the Atlantic.

This evening we dined on barbecue pork ribs, savoury rice, and green beans. Jam tart and custard was to follow. Ian drank Heritage de Calvet cotes du Rhone 2014; Becky drank lime cordial; Jackie, sparkling water; and I, another glass of the pinot noir.

Giant Jenga

Last night at sundown I took an amble down to Roger’s field and back. On Downton Lane the light glinted behind the secret garden gate. On a glorious morning, Jackie drove me down to the cashpoint in Milford on Sea, and left me at The Beach House so I could take my usual walk home. The bright blue Solent, tuned into a yachting marina, reflected the skies above; the sun shone; still streaks of salmon clouds had risen to the surface above the horizon; a white-haired jogger plodded, solitary walkers strode energetically, while those with dogs paused periodically for a sniff along the clean gravelled footpath; butterflies fluttered; crows and gulls flew overhead; a small shrew scuttled out of the undergrowth; and thrift and other wild flowers glistened in the sunlight on the clifftop. A passing woman greeted me with ‘it’s a lovely morning’. ‘It is, said I, and I’ve left my camera battery at home’. ‘Oh, no’, she replied, reflecting my own feeling when I discovered I had left the energy supplier on charge overnight. Families leaving Shorefield teemed down to West Road. Younger joggers were out in force. Two small boys, in their eagerness to reach the sea, ran down the slope, the larger lad leaving the smaller panting in his wake. The breasts of another, sadly overweight, wobbled beneath his mesh-fronted T-shirt as he painfully waddled along. In the Country Park itself, basking holidaymakers breakfasted or read on their chalet balconies. A barking dog protected its temporary residence. On Downton Lane, speeding cyclists played chicken with cars, many open-topped, preventing them from travelling at their own preferred speed. In a recent post, Geoff , thebikinggardener #can i eat nasturtiums wrote of his ambivalent relationship with these plants. As we watered the front garden we were presented, in the form of hairy black and yellow chomping caterpillars, with ample evidence of what he was saying. The older section of our brick path, set almost 100 years ago, has, with the passage of time, soil movement and the incursion of tree roots, become uneven, and dangerous for visitors ending the support of walking sticks; although the bricks themselves remain sound. During the morning Aaron and Lee have made excellent progress in the task of lifting and levelling them. The original, fiddly, pattern has been lost, but that is a small price to pay. Before setting off to Shelley and Ron’s home in Walkford for a barbecue lunch we drove to Everton Nurseries to buy an aluminium bench for the south west corner of the rose garden, and put it in place on bricks we have yet properly to embed. The barbecue was also attended by Helen and Bill, Neil, Donna, and Anthony. We had a splendid afternoon of convivial conversation, superb sausages, lamb and chicken satay kebabs, salads, followed later by fruit salad, strawberries, lemon cake, and cheesecake according to choice. Red and white wine, coke, cider, and beer were all on offer. A surprisingly long section of the mid-afternoon was occupied by a game of Giant Jenga. It didn’t seem possible to me that this precarious pastime could last any longer than a few minutes. A tower of long wooden blocks is built to begin with. Each player must remove one block without upsetting the structure, and place it on the top. Gradually the lower levels are depleted, but the height remains the same, until the increasingly tottering tower finally collapses. The person who made the last successful placement is the winner.

After a few early extractions, Bill is seen here making another.

Quite early on Neil appeared to go to sleep on the job,

but recovered to make a flamboyant removal later on, when wobbling was under way.

Ron, with a flourish, applied his structural engineering skills to the task,

while Shelley undertook careful all-round investigation

and slid one out from the bottom, starting another top layer.

Helen couldn’t believe her luck.

As the tower began to sway, I didn’t really fancy my chances,

even after the withdrawal the tower was likely to topple.

Bill’s penultimate attempt warranted considerable contemplation,

as did Anthony’s final one.

I always followed Bill, and each time increasingly prayed that he would upset the structure.

Finally my luck was in. This was just as well, because Bill almost managed to withdraw the last block that would have been at all possible.

For the second evening running, we had no need of dinner.

The Beach Fortress: The Definitive Illustrated Edition

Anyone caring to scroll down the comments on ‘And What Came Next?’ will be able to see several suggestions for the ending of the story. On Facebook, Becky has offered ‘The fly said ” Your wings are MASSIVE!” and the butterfly replied “How rude! You smell of poo. Shoo Fly!” And the fly buzzed off to find a nice cow-pat for his tea.’ And Sara Head: . ‘And jumped back in shock! “You’re real” each exclaimed, “I thought you were my reflection.”‘ Two rather good ones, I thought, but each a little more inventive than those of the two small grandchildren: Emily: ‘And they got married’. Oliver: ‘And the butterfly ate the fly’. Neither of my daughters is at all demanding. Therefore, when Becky put in a plea for seeing The Beach Fortress in the process of construction, it has been my pleasure to comply. Not being able to lay my hands on the negatives from August 1999, today I scanned a mere selection from the printed record. Here it is:

Sam, Louisa, James, Gemma, Lucy, and Nick start on a pile of sand on the beautiful beach of Instow, whist boats ply the channel between this and the former fishing village of Appledore,

and Canon Henry Pearson leans against a moored boat surveying the scene.

At this early stage it is possible for passers-by, like this mother pushing a pram, to be unaware of what is happening.

Gradually, however, the young of Instow gather round.

Louisa and Lucy smooth the surfaces,

and Lucy employs the services of a little local helper.

Bigger lads look on.

Jim shares a joke with Lucy, whose assistant has wandered off

to see if Louisa has any requirements, whilst his sister examines the footings.

Sometimes it’s not exactly clear who is in charge.

By the time the sun begins to sink below the horizon, the crew are able to position the flambeaus, and delight in their creation.

Jessica and Judith prepare refreshments, evening wear is donned,

and the village begins to assemble.

Jessica sports her trademark Monsoon skirt.

‘David Robert Shepherd MBE (27 December 1940 – 27 October 2009)^[1] was a first-class cricketer who played county cricket for Gloucestershire, and later became one of the cricket world’s best-known umpires. He stood in 92 Test matches, the last of them in June 2005, the most for any English umpire. He also umpired 172 ODIs [One Day Internationals], including three consecutive World Cup, finals in 1996, 1999 and 2003′ (Wikipedia).

He has observed the proceedings from very early on.

As night closes in, the torches are lit, and the crowd dwindles away,

eventually leaving the field to three proud mothers: from left to right, Ali, of James; Jessica, of Sam and Louisa; and Judith, of Lucy and Nick.

Anyone clicking on these images for enlargement will notice that I haven’t done any retouching. After all, there is only so much one can do in a day. Not that anyone would believe that, seeing what this lot achieved.

Fast forward to this evening, when Jackie and I dined on her potent spaghetti arrabiata, followed by sticky toffee pudding and custard. She drank Hoegaarten and I drank Louis de Camponac cabernet sauvignon 2014.

The Beach Fortress

This morning Jackie drove me to Molly’s Den and left me there to hunt for a birthday present for her, whilst she carried out various other errands. I didn’t find anything satisfactory, but the journey was worth the excellent brunch that the antiques and bric-brac centre provided.

Mine was, as you would expect, a fry-up – a first class one. I trust you can see the quality of the meaty sausages,the wedge of non-fatty black pudding, and the lean bacon. Everything was cooked to perfection, and the thick toast was probably home-made bread. Jackie enjoyed an equally well-cooked baked potato stuffed with prawns. We knew we would eat sparingly this evening.

For much of the day winds gusted at more than 30 m.p.h., and diagonal, driving, rods of rain beset us as we left Molly’s.

By mid-afternoon, The skies had cleared, and the downpour had ceased,

raindrops dripped from the clematis Carnaby,

a Cabbage white butterfly slaked its thirst on a geranium,

and I changed Jackie’s birthday present into a garden shed ordered from Purewell Timber Buildings.

The fourth of my Five Photos – Five Stories, is inspired by one of our fairly frequent Instow holidays with Henry, Judith, Nick, and Lucy Pearson.

Instow is an old-fashioned, carefully preserved, village lying opposite the former fishing village of Appledore in North Devon. The beach and the village lie within the Instow Conservation Area. It was all the more remarkable, therefore, that within the space of one day in August 1999, a magical construction emerged from the pristine sands.

Led by nineteen year old Sam, a team including Louisa, cousins Nick and Lucy, and friends Gemma and James, had created a vast turreted fortress of sand, complete with defensive wall and moat, and embellished with flags. Local children became willing navvies, and the word soon got about. David Shepherd, retired England cricketer and international umpire, gave his support.

I am not sure what exactly was originally envisaged, but an idea of the scale of what was produced is indicated by this photograph of Louisa posing against the setting sun.

By nightfall, the flaming torches lit up the darkness, and what seemed to be the complete population of the village turned out to enjoy the celebration, naturally enough toting an ample supply of liquid sustenance. I expect we all eventually got to bed.

Yesterday I had published my invited story with five photos rather than the suggested one. This was because the book was a tale in pictures. The photo above, as with so many of the single shots I feature, was one of a series that followed the process of the project. Maybe one day I’ll cover the rest.

This evening we dined on Spanish omelette, bacon, and crusty bread and butter.

Becky Cracks The Conundrum

I have received observations about yesterday’s post ‘Revealing The Ancestors’ from Becky, Helen, and Jackie. These have been added to the story of the photograph. Becky, in particular engaged in some exciting and informative research, which Jackie eagerly followed up.

This information is all so staggering that, although it emerged today, it belongs to yesterday, which is where you will find it, by clicking on the above post.

Today, I can refer you to Adrian Barlow’s blog post of 21st January 2012: http://adrianbarlowsblog.blogspot.co.uk/2012/01/in-search-of-martha-edith-shotbolt.html

Jackie’s cousin on the Dove side, Adrian shares with her their Great Great Grandmother Martha Edith Dove, nee Shotbolt. His post, suitably illustrated, tells the story of this amazing woman. We think it is Adrian himself, and his mother, Jackie’s Auntie Doreen, seated on the church wall opposite the schoolhouse. Another of his illustrations establishes that Great Great Grandfather Albert Edward Dove is the second man with a cigarette, seated between his two daughters.

Given the profession of these great great grandparents, it is fascinating that they now hang on our wall beside my paternal grandparents and Great Aunt Evelyn in their own Norwood School for the Sons of Gentlemen.

We had great fun unravelling all this this morning.

Sunset is coming later each day. This one at the front of the house was soon after 5.30.

Albert Edward Dove’s great great granddaughter served up a beautifully matured liver casserole with fresh, crisp, carrots, cauliflower and new potatoes for our dinner this evening. I drank more of the Lussac Saint-Emilion, and Jackie didn’t.

As I set about posting this missive I found a comment from Adrian Barlow at the foot of yesterday’s post. It provides even more fascinating detail.

Spring According To Susan Hill

This morning I ambled gingerly down to the Shorefield post box and back. My right knee remains sharply painful. Perhaps I am stuck with it. A few sturdy daffodils, such as this one alongside snowdrops, cyclamen, hellebores, and pulmonaria in the shady bed, swayed bravely in the strong breeze blowing through our garden. Our several varieties of camellia shrubs are now quite full of blooms. Primulas and celandines adorned the hedgerows on Downton Lane. Stick-insect-like Lichen clinging to budding branches, and golden gorse glowed above them. Susan Hill’s ‘yellow season’ is arriving.

At the other end of the day heavy rainclouds over the garden were given a peachy tinge by the setting sun. I was showered by peach juice whilst shooting the scene.

I am becoming addicted to antiques programmes on daytime TV. Is this the thin end of the wedge?

This evening’s dinner was Jackie’s flavoursome cottage pie with crisp cabbage and carrots, followed by custard tart. She drank Hoegaarden and I imbibed Chateau Clos Renon Bordeaux superieur 2012.

Mitcham Fair

This virus plays cat and mouse with its hosts. I didn’t feel quite so well today as I had done yesterday. A couple of weeks after Christmas Jackie took down most of the decorations and placed them temporarily in the library. I carried the tree to the wood burning pile. Now the library space is being shared with Easter eggs, we really had to find the energy to start boxing up the Christmas decorations and putting them away until the end of the year. The bulk of this task has fallen to Jackie. The lights stretching from the window in one of the spare bedrooms had still not been brought inside. That was rectified this morning.

Continuing with my 1960s scanning, a set from September 1967 featured a trip with Jackie and Michael to Mitcham Fair, which, although I believe its venue has been moved, remained an annual event in this part of the south London Borough of Merton.

Michael was clearly lulled into a false sense of security by the gentler Merry-go-Round. He was far less comfortable on the dodgems, which even perturbed Jackie a little. The youngster had to be let out of the shared car and leave Jackie to continue alone, because all the young men in other cars constantly bumped them. She tells me that the dress, in which I thought she looked rather good, cost 39/11, i.e. £1.19.11 in pre-decimal sterling currency. That was marginally less than £2 today.

It is many years since I attended one of these leisure activities which still grace areas of common land across the country. There, you can be scared out of your wits by ghost trains, and undulating rides at breakneck speed which can also make you sick; try your hand at impossible feats, such a knocking dried up coconuts from clinging stands, or throwing hoops around worthless prizes on bases that are too wide; and indulge in sickly sweet spun candy floss or hot dogs, onions, and mustard, according to taste. Many a goldfish, proudly carried home in a plastic bag, has not survived the night. The fairs remain very popular, and are eagerly awaited by youngsters across the land.

Among the stalls that we later visited, was a shooting range at which my fiancee excelled.

The setting sun lent a star to supplement the coloured electric bulbs embellishing the skyline of stalls, and focussed unforgiving spotlights onto rather dubious spelling on the other side. For 1/-, the abbreviation for one shilling, equating to 5p today, you could buy a ride on the big wheel.

It was almost by default that we dined at the Rivaaz in Lymington this evening. I had been feeling quite dull-headed and wobbly throughout the day, so, had it not been that Jackie had an appointment for a knee scan at Lymington Hospital, and I wished to accompany her, I would not have left the house. Having got out I thought I could manage a curry, but, wishing to remain anonymous with no expectation to chat, thought to avoid the excellent Lal Quilla. This left the Rivaaz, which is another first class establishment. We learned that it was not the same concern as the restaurant of the same name in New Milton. Apparently our host of this evening had begun with that one, sold it to the current owners, and set up this rather more up-market one in Lymington. We enjoyed our meals, mine being king prawn Bengal naga, and special fried rice. We shared a very good onion bhaji and parata, and both drank Kingfisher. I was pleased I had made the effort.

P.S. Barrie tells me, re the sunset picture. ‘The smoke is coming from one of the engines powering the electric generators. Almost certainly a Gardner 6LW.’

The Litter Nest

My first walk today was through the woodland. After a while, I diverged from the footpath, and, although I kept it vaguely to my left, found it difficult to regain until I noticed a rope with strips of coloured cloth lying on the ground and leading off in the right direction. I had seen the other end of this a couple of days ago, so I followed it with success, and returned home in time for Jackie to drive Becky and me to Emsworth, so our daughter could keep an appointment in Havant and I could take a further amble around the quay.

From North Road I took the path through St James’s Churchyard to the A259 which I crossed and turned into Bath Road. I followed this alongside the Mill Pond as far as the Sailing Club and walked around the pond, along Fisherman’s Walk and down the jetty. This occupied me until the light changed as the dazzling sun gradually made way for the gentler moon. It had grown dark by the time my chauffeuse and Becky picked me up again at the corner of Bath Road. I had hoped to photograph the ‘litter nest’ which, for the last three years has been found beneath the bridge over the pond at that point. It was no longer there, so I have used Rosemary Hampton’s illustration from 2013. Becky told me the story. The nest, made from assorted pieces of litter, has been home to a pair of mute swans and their intended progeny. There has been much local concern at the failure to thrive of eggs that have been laid there, because the nest has regularly become waterlogged. This year, for example, of a clutch of six, only one has survived. It is seen in the foreground of this photograph I took today: Conservationists have cleared away the nest and will place a nesting raft on the site. Any home built on it will float on the rising waters. In the bright afternoon sunshine seagulls squabbled over food that was being thrown to the waterfowl, by numerous walkers along the banks. Ducks, swans, gulls and coots played, paddled, drank, and fished in the pond. The tide was out on the far side of the well populated Fisherman’s Walk and under the jetty. Water dripped from their beaks as swans waddled, paddled, and slaked their thirst among coots, egrets and other wading birds among the silt and shallow stretches. One flapped its wings; another managed admirably on its one leg; and a seemingly inseparable pair formed curving patterns as they danced along.

Pleasure boats lay apparently stranded.

A gentleman on the jetty pointed out godwits to his female companion.

Honking of geese at times filled the skies, at others dominated strips of water.

Jackie produced a splendid penne bolognese, with which she and Ian drank Peroni, for our evening meal. I finished the Cotes du Rhone Villages.

Painting The Solent

This morning we drove into Milford on Sea for some Christmas shopping. I walked back via Park Lane, the cliff top, and Shorefield.
An unsheathed sun slashed The Solent in front of the Isle of Wight. A new shelter had been moved from an older site, at a safer distance from the crumbling cliffs. Crows, of course can fly, so they are perfectly comfortable on the precarious edge.
I wondered what had provided the green streak transforming The Solent into a Mark Rothko canvas.
Dog owners have a number of amusing methods of calling off their canines sniffing at, or attempting to mount, my trouser legs. Today’s ‘You can’t eat that’ rivalled the cry of ‘Leave it’, with which I had been greeted in Colliers Wood two years ago.
On my way back through Shorefield I enjoyed a long conversation with a family of Indian origin who sought directions to the beach. They had just moved here from Romford in Essex. The father had arrived there forty years ago from India. He had been born in Tanzania. He was still a child when he moved to England where all his children were obviously born. Such is our cosmopolitan world.
Tanzania was formed from a merger between Tanganyika and Zanzibar in 1964. When I was a child I collected postage stamps, and prized those circulated from 1935 to 1963, by the joint postal services of the then British colonies of Kenya, Uganda, and Tanganyika. So much has the global map changed in my lifetime. King George VI, whose image appears on this illustration, ruled between the abdication of his brother King Edward VIII in 1936 and his death in 1952, when his daughter, our present Queen, crowned in 1953, took over the mantle.
Winter irises are now blooming in our garden. The evening’s striated sunset skies seemed to have mixed their colours.
Tonight we dined at The newly reopened Royal Oak pub. My choice was the mixed grill, apple tart and custard, and Hobgoblin beer. Jackie’s was gammon steak, death by chocolate, and Becks beer. We were happy with it.