sunset – Page 11 – derrickjknight

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.

‘You’re Not Going To Believe This, Miss’

Steady drizzle dripping from dreary skies had, by the time I returned home from my Hordle Cliff walk, developed into the deluge that would continue throughout the day. Crows cawed from the telephone lines above the coast road and slugs slithered across the tarmac.
We were without internet access until mid-afternoon, and even then it was erratic, but I was able to scan a batch of colour slides from 1975, and wait until then to upload them, and to load the above photograph into iPhoto. In order to download photos from my Canon SX700 I must be on the web, so whether I can do this or not is touch and go.
In the 1970s Jessica’s parents lived in Bulcote Lodge, near Burton Joyce in Nottinghamshire. We often visited, and Michael liked to bring Pete, his friend from Islington Green school, to spend time there. In April 1975 the boys played football on the immaculate lawn.
At that time Islington Green was a flagship comprehensive school and the headmistress, now Professor Margaret Maden, was considered one of the leading educationalists of the time. She had a soft spot for Michael, which was just as well when he brought his cousin James to lessons. James’s half term holiday in South London was a week earlier than my son’s. The boys thought it would be a good wheeze to pass Michael’s cousin off as a French exchange student. He sat ant the back of the class and they thought they had got away with it until Ms Maden summoned Michael at the end of the week and asked him who the uninvited guest had been. ‘You are not going to believe this, Miss…..’ began Michael. Too right, she didn’t. Neither, presumably had any of the other teachers. But it was all treated with good humour.
In May 1975, when I took the rest of the photographs, we were living in Lloyd Baker Street in Islington. From there I took two more St Pancras skyline sunsets.
Matthew was amused to be asked to pose by his sister’s side. Becky sits in a rocking chair that now furnishes our spare single bedroom. It was one of Jessica’s twenty first birthday presents.
Much more serious was his approach to chess, which we played with my replica of the famous set found on the Isle of Lewis some time before April 1831. They are thought to be Scandinavian from the twelfth century.
Across the road from our balcony lay blocks of flats, in one of which lived Pete. Mat and Becky liked to watch the street from the safety of our railings.
These two shots of Jessica, in one of which she examines the contents of her purse, were also taken that May.
I will close this entry, as I did yesterday, by saying that we will dine on a Chinese takeaway meal, and that I will send my post whilst I have a precarious grasp on the internet.

Farewell To Chris

Today was the day of the funeral of my brother, Chris. Jackie drove Louisa and me to join family and friends at St Joseph’s Catholic Church, Wroughton, for the requiem mass; to the other side of Swindon for the cremation service, and back to Wroughton for the reception.
Both the church and the crematorium were packed out with family and friends from his various walks of life. They came from all over the UK and from France, bringing together all the strands of his life.
Here is just one example. My brother was a much-loved member of The Catenians, a group of Catholic laymen who met monthly to enjoy each other’s company and to:
Pray at meetings
Look after members and families in difficulty
Enjoy life with families and friends
Raise money for charities
Support vocations.
Such was their respect for him that his group, about to set off on a coaching holiday, began by attending the mass.
Dylan Thomas, in perhaps his most famous poem, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’, advised his father to ‘Rage, rage, against the dying of the light’.
Chris, more at peace with himself than was the troubled poet, did ‘go gentle’, and was thus, as in so many other ways, an example to us all. The poem that I was honoured to be asked to read, reflected this, by advising mourners to ‘do what he would want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on’.
During the reception Frances presented me with a splendid fob watch, wrapped in a box she had made herself. This was his gift to me.
Arriving home towards the setting sun, it seemed appropriate to watch this phenomenon in silent thoughts from the clifftop at Barton on Sea.

Islington

Early this morning an engineer came to fix our Kenwood dishwasher. Apart from a minor gap in its intelligence, there was nothing wrong with it. The problem was a kink in the pipe letting out the water. The machine didn’t know how to tell us this, so it informed us that there was some loose wiring and we should unplug it and call in an expert. After what was probably the man’s easiest job of the day, Jackie drove us to Christchurch in search of a small lawnmower. We reconnoitred both Stewarts and B & Q. As is was pensioners 10% discount day at the DIY centre, they won. We bought a small Bosch model. On the way back my lady dropped me in New Milton where I deposited a jacket at Johnson’s cleaners, and walked back via Ashley.

On this day of sunshine and showers I was hit by a deluge in Lower Ashley Road.

As raindrops formed expanding circles in the pavement pools a group of road menders gleefully continued their work in the refreshing downpour.
By the time I was walking along Christchurch Road the rain had stopped and the sun shone. Jackie had stopped off at Tesco’s for some shopping, and passed me. I did not decline her offer of a lift, and squelched into the car.

Our vine path sparkled in the sunlight.
This afternoon I delved into my slide boxes in order to produce another in my posterity series of photographs. When, on 16th March last year, I first wrote about our time at The Peel Institute I had reproduced a photograph of myself with a bunch of roses I had just picked from the garden that was taken by Jessica on Christmas Day 1974, I could not find the slide and used a rather poor copy of the picture. Here is today’s scanned version:

We had moved into the building in Lloyd Baker Street in August of that year.

A children’s playgroup could then be seen in the garden, and in

May 1975, Jessica was reflected in the window of the youth club. We learned later that the second husband of Jessica’s Aunt Elspeth had previously taken parties of boys from the club to climb Snowdon from the cottage in which we were staying when the photograph featured on 7th July was taken.

In August 1974 I photographed a sunset over the St Pancras skyline which is now changed beyond all recognition.
This evening’s dinner consisted of Jackie’s superb sausage casserole (recipe), mashed potato, and crisp Brussels sprouts and carrots, followed by choux buns. She drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Rawnsley Estate red wine.

The Walking Stick

This morning I wandered round the garden and did a bit of weeding and dead-heading before delving into my colour slide archives to add a few pictures to the ‘posterity’ series.

This is what the Houses of Parliament looked like in August 1964:

Not very different to today, when, on my trips across Westminster Bridge I am inclined to focus elsewhere.

In that same month I took this reflective photograph of Vivien in 18 Bernard Gardens:

In April this sunset across the garden had attracted me:

The following month, clutching tightly onto Michael at his baptism, Auntie Gwen seemed afraid she might drop him:

My sister Jacqueline was more relaxed as she held her son James in August 1965:

Finally, here is another of the photos I took of Jackie on Wimbledon Common in April 1966:

Before heavy shower brought us in later this morning, I lopped off the invasive brambles in the back drive and Jackie helped me to take out the final dead trunk from the snake bark maple; to prop that between two other trees for it to carry a mature clematis Montana from one to the other; and to take out a high branch from the weeping birch that was pushing its way through the maple. This latter operation involved standing on the upper platform of the stepladder and hooking the branch down with a walking stick. I pulled down stick and branch together and Jackie held them while I amputated the limb. Fortunately I didn’t need the walking stick afterwards.

The stick was, however, to come in handy during the post-shower operation. One of the trees supporting the Montana is half dead. Because of its very attractive yellow foliage, we would like to keep it. One complete side of the trunk is dead and eaten by some insect we have not seen. It was also playing host to a great deal of dead Montana that we had heavily pruned earlier in the year. I took out one long, completely dead, upright branch, and we set about extricating the clematis. Most of that was very high up. This is where Jackie brought the walking stick back into play. Even then, the Montana was very resistant, and we failed to remove it all. But at least the tree, which we still haven’t identified, looks a little more healthy now.

This evening, following a recommendation from Giles and Jean, we dined at The Crown inn at Everton. The food was really excellent and the atmosphere homely and friendly, the decor being a good mix of ancient and modern. We both enjoyed our starters – dressed crab salad for me and deep fried brie in a crispy breadcrumb coating for Jackie – and main courses, but had no room for desserts. My main was steak and kidney pudding, and Jackie’s was mushroom pasta. She drank Peroni and I drank Ringwood’s Best. I needed to take a second photograph of my dish after I had cut into what I thought was a neat mound of cabbage. Inside the cabbage leaves were slices of carrot and cubes of turnip. The chips came as standard.