Sway Manor Hotel – derrickjknight

Sails

In the shelter of the pergola this morning, a large fat spider was tucking into a breakfast that should last a fortnight.
A new clematis and what we think are ginger lilies have now come into bloom.
Leaving Flo to await the arrival of Becky and Ian who have come back for the night, we drove off to Sway Manor hotel to collect Sheila for a day out. The idea was to begin at Christchurch for a boat trip. Forget it. We drove around the various car parks, following other streams of vehicles searching for places. None were forthcoming, so we gave up. As we left each set of parking spaces, we noticed streams of cars pouring in, but no pedestrians coming to retrieve their vehicles and leave a space.
Our next stop was at Barton on Sea for lunch snacks. Slightly out of the way, not on the beach, we found Sails Coffee Shop. We enjoyed coffees with toasted sandwiches and a breakfast baguette. Elaine, the proprietor, and Sandra offered excellent friendly service, and it was noticeable that in this holiday venue, many other customers were regulars known by name. One of these was the woman, once a cricketer who played for Middlesex, who updated us on the state of play in the Oval Test match between England and India. Newspapers and magazines were on offer in a rack. This establishment is to be recommended. Elaine bade me farewell as she drew back the curtain at the entrance.
We then went on a driving tour of all our old haunts from last year. Sheila was particularly delighted to see ponies with their foals. Rain began to fall as we arrived at St Margaret’s Church at East Wellow to show Sheila the tomb of F N, which is how Florence Nightingale wished it to be inscribed. This tower stands proud above the more ancient stones that surround it.
I was particularly intrigued by the land beyond the kissing gate. This is a gate that swings within a curved barrier, kissing it as it turns. There are a number of the modern version of these entrances and egresses around the area. These tend to be much more cramped than the slender iron version in the churchyard. From the church entrance runs a well-trodden footpath which ends abruptly at the gate. Immediately after it comes a barbed wire fence and a row of newly planted trees. What was obviously a public right of way and a route to the place of worship is no more. What is the story, I wonder?
From there we drove back to Sheila’s hotel where she treated us to an excellent meal of chicken and chips with pavlova to follow. I drank the house white wine, a good chardonnay. Jackie drank peroni and Sheila, sparkling water.
Back at home we spent the rest of the evening with Becky, Flo, and Ian, with whom I later watched the cricket highlights.

Scarecrows

Something dawned on us as we sat drinking our coffee this morning. Doctors. You see, I mostly keep away from them, but have recently had a few trips for minor stuff. Maybe, its because, as Prof. Johnny Lyon-Maris said yesterday, ‘[I’ve] never been 71 before’. However, this got Jackie and me reflecting on our respective mothers’ reluctance to call in the GP. Yes, they used to visit in those heady early days.

Jackie, a second child, was born in 1948. One of her contemporaries was the National Health Service. I was born when the NHS was not even a twinkle in Beveridge’s eye. Then, if you wanted a doctor, you had to pay for it. No wonder parents of slender means thought twice about risking the rent money.

Soon after ten Jackie drove us to Sway to collect Sheila Knight and spend the day giving her a tour.

We began with the Bisterne Scarecrow Festival Trail. This involved a trip around Bisterne and its environs following a map plotting scarecrows created by local people. Some were easier than others to spot. We never did find two of them.

A great deal of thought and humour has gone into the creation of rustic works of art reflecting topical and cultural themes.

The recent birth of Prince George was celebrated in at least three displays, notably ‘George and the Dragon’ which would have appealed to Flo, our family dragonologist.

Nearby laze the tortoise and the hair (sic).

The wit of ‘Scarecrow Ashes’ appealed to me. The scarecrow is a cricketer, fronted by a dustbin containing wellies beside which is a small shovel of ashes, suggesting other scarecrows have been incinerated. ‘The crow’s nest’ puts one in mind of a bird cocking a snoop at those meant to scare it off.

Sheila’s favourite was ‘The Gruffalo’.

The performance of ‘Scarenam Scy’ would no doubt rival that of Jessica and Imogen in their new kitchen on June 16th.

A maid with a tray of mugs stood outside a house we are interested in, advertising tea in the Village Hall which abuts the house, and which will be the beneficiary of donations received by the artists.

These images all bear titles in the galleries.

After exhausting this splendid display we travelled to Christchurch where we lunched in the excellent Old Mill cafe/restaurant. Meals were plentiful and well cooked. I ate a full English breakfast; Sheila had a toasted teacake; and Jackie chose two fried eggs on toast. I was given a free pot of tea. This happened by default. Ordering, as is normal, was done at the counter. There was a queue. I ordered the tea for me and cappuccinos for the ladies. The young lady serving asked whether chocolate was required to top the coffees. I said I didn’t know, but I would go and ask while she made the tea. I returned very quickly. The tea lay on the counter, alongside the coffees, which I placed on the tray provided. As I reached for the tea, she said it was for the man on my left, that is next in the queue. ‘Did you order tea?’ she asked. I confirmed I had, so she pushed the one on the counter towards the other man and said she’d make me one afterwards. He said I should have his, which I did. I offered more money, as I had already paid for the coffee and meals. She waved me away, indicating she wouldn’t bother with it. The other chap then joked: ‘Oh, that one’s mine then’. As I turned away the young woman pushed a yellow plastic duck towards me, saying: ‘You’ve forgotten your table number’. The duck was emblazoned with the number 17.

After this we took a trip on a ferryboat that took us on a figure of eight route to Mudeford and Tuckton. A very friendly pair of boatmen

informed us that the ‘sheds’ or beach huts at the picturesque Mudeford quay now sell for £240,000 each. And that is without utilities, running water, or lavatories.

The peace and calm of this nautical journey was disturbed by the excitement caused by the exhibition laid on by the Red Arrows who were performing at the Bournemouth Air Display. The passengers regarded this as a bonus.

While Jackie went off to move the car, Sheila and I visited Christchurch’s historic priory church. Before returning to Sway we showed our friend the outside of Highcliffe Castle.

We dined with Sheila at the Sway Manor Hotel. The food was excellent. Sheila and I enjoyed a creamy vegetable soup while Jackie’s starter was a prawn cocktail; Jackie and I tucked into tender, non-fatty, pork belly, while Sheila praised her large slow-roasted duck leg. That was enough for Sheila and me, but Jackie ate a wonderful slice of lemon meringue pie. I drank a glass of red Chilean wine.

After Jackie drove us home I set about the mammoth task of uploading all these pictures.

The Good Samaritans

Jackie and I set off bright and early this morning to collect Sheila from her hotel in Sway and take her back to Castle Malwood Lodge for lunch.

On the way we had a look at the outside of a little semi in Manchester Road that had seemed interesting on the website. Sheila came with us to Ferndene Farm Shop to gather supplies. She discovered three pigs kept in a clean and comfortable pen beside the shop, making her question, very fleetingly, whether she should ever eat pork again.

I wandered across to have another recce of the house that had brought us here in the first place (see post of 2nd of this month).

It still looks good.

Everything had gone smoothly. We had found our way to Sway via Brockenhurst and were confident of the route from Ferndene. The A35 was flowing freely. So was the car. Until it went berserk. Two sudden beeps, repeated, seemed to be requiring attention. A red light came on, illuminating the legend STOP. So Jackie did. The engine was reported to be overheating.

Then it was jacket off, sleeves rolled up, search for the lever to open the bonnet, stare at the contents. There was a semi-transparent container that looked significant, especially as it bore a warning icon indicating that scalding was a possibility. Tentatively, very gingerly, I unscrewed the cap and stood back as if I had just lit the blue touch-paper on Guy Fawkes night. There was no steam, which wasn’t surprising because there was no fluid inside. Jackie then found the instruction manual which confirmed we were looking at the engine cooling system. Okay. We needed to ring the RAC, membership of which came with her Barclays Bank account. Check that out.

Ah! No signal. Well,that meant we had to find one.

Before that, it seemed it would be helpful to know where we were. Which we didn’t. At that moment, a group of very hot girl hikers complete with backpacks appeared bearing an Ordnance Survey map. They were able to tell me they had just passed Blackwater Bridge. I was unable to reciprocate by showing them how to enter the underpass on their chart. The water looked brown, but I dare say it is sometimes darker in hue.

Clearly, as I was the one most likely to be able to walk back to the car, I had to go in search of the signal. Then, suddenly, a small black car swooped past and skidded to a halt in front of us. Out stepped Chris Hunt. He had been driving in the opposite direction and noticed our plight. Carrie Smith, his delightful companion, had lost the signal on her mobile phone and realised we wouldn’t have one either. They turned around and sped back to us.

Chris drove me back up the road to find a signal. When he found one, I didn’t, so he began to use his own device. I think this was an i-Pod, but it was hard to tell because it had a shattered windscreen. They decided Carrie’s was the best bet. She entered the number and handed it to me. The call was successful and they drove me back to Jackie’s car. Carrie even proffered their water bottle because we were going to have to wait an hour and a half or so.

The RAC had asked for a phone number, so I had to walk back to a signal anyway. When I reported back Jackie brought the now somewhat cooler car up to that spot and I phoned again to report the new position. Soon afterwards an RAC van sped past us. Another call was made. The man turned around and came back. He had been told the silver Modus was red. Anyway, he fixed it, and followed us home to ensure we got there without further mishap.

Lunch was a little late but we all enjoyed the Ferndene provisions and after a bit of a break set off again for a tour across country to the coastline, there to take in Milford and Barton on Sea and Highcliffe before returning to the Sway Manor Hotel where Sheila had booked a table for our evening meal. At Barton we were entertained by a group of people hang gliding. So engrossed was I in photographing the adventures that I only just avoided walking off the cliff. Which would have been somewhat messy.

We had ice cream and coffee in the garden of the Beachcomber cafe, where the low tone of a black labrador’s complaint startled a starling that had the temerity to drink from one of the dog bowls so considerately kept filled by the staff.

The cooling system in the hotel dining room was also rather problematic. It took some time for the staff to work out how to turn off the fan which kept us in a draft. Even after they managed this we had to ask for a French door to be closed. Sheila then enjoyed a large dinner of excellent chicken and a variety of vegetables and potatoes; Jackie’s ravioli was good; my lasagna was of adequate quality with plentiful well cooked chips and a reasonable salad. Jackie drank Beck’s, I appreciated a very good merlot, and Sheila consumed sparkling water. We soon found the room rather too hot and dared each other to ask for the fan to be set going again. No-one took up the challenge. Good coffee was taken in the lounge. After a chat we left Sheila there and returned home where I got down to writing this.