Today we begin with this gallery of Jackie’s photographs of me photographing yesterday’s ponies and Ogdens North.
When leaving Brockenhurst on a forest drive we normally pass a small area of woodland.
This morning I spied a pony through the trees, so Jackie parked and I followed the wildlife.
Birds sang in the taller trees; distant dogs barked;
fresh acorns gently thudded onto the forest floor joining last year’s crop,
ageing autumn leaves, this year’s fungus, and moss-covered fallen trunks.
The area is interlaced with dry streams, the beds still soft enough to cross without twisting an ankle, yet not muddy enough to suck off a shoe. Lichen covered tree stumps and russet leaves remain crisp.
A gravelled path links the wood with Rhinefield Road and a stretch of open land. Pedestrians take the path
or, like cyclists, runners, dog owners, cars, and motorcycles, pass on by.
Appropriately enough, I spotted a speckled wood butterfly.
Rudbeckia was the floral decoration to Jackie’s tasty beef pie for this evening’s dinner served with boiled new potatoes; crunchy carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli; tender runner beans, and thick, meaty gravy, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Bordeaux.
being the final novel in the trilogy of the Larkin family, first featured in “Freak Of Fate” in which I described the first book; how I came by it; and the amazing coincidence of the address on the flyleaf, also borne by this Book Club edition published by Michael Joseph in 1960.
In his now familiar rollicking style the author continues to relate the cheerfully energetic romp through life of Pop Larkin, his friends and family. I have now realised that one of the chief pleasures of these stories is the ease with which Bates weaves beautiful bucolic descriptions into his innocently scandalous narrative. For the Larkins, life really is “perfickly” beautiful. Maybe, only 15 years after the ending of the Second World War, that is what the world needed.
This morning we visited Bill and Helen to exchange birthday presents.
We diverted to Abbotswell, near Frogham, on our way home, then decided to lunch at The Fighting Cocks at Godshill.
In the deeply pockmarked gravelled car park at the top of Abbotswell hill a couple of riders were persuading two splendid, reluctant, black horses into their trailered transport which, with their weight, seemed certain to increase the potholes.
I took a short walk among the undulating woodlands overlooking the sloping landscape below.
As always in such terrain it was necessary to tread gingerly over tree roots.
Bees swarmed among wild blackberry blossoms.
Cattle and ponies congregated in the valley below.
A lone cyclist sped along a footpath
and re-emerged on the path to Deadman Hill on the other side of Roger Penny Way. To think that just four years ago I would take that walk without thinking about it.
My lunch at the pub consisted of steak and ale pie, chips, and peas; Jackie’s was mushroom stroganoff with which she drank Hop House lager. My drink was Ringwood’s Best.
Long haired miniature ponies groped their way across the greens beside Cadnam Lane where
an enterprising hairdresser had given a bug-eyed tree stump an impressive Mohican.
The Head Gardener has a little friend in the form of a juvenile robin that follows her around during the day and has taken to joining us on the patio for a drink in the evening. Jackie, on this occasion, drank Hoegaarden, I drank sparkling water, and Robin drank water from a flower pot saucer.
After this, Jackie and I dined on pepperoni pizza and salad; Robin probably finished off what was clinging to his beak.
This morning I e-mailed two more entries to the Wessex Photo Spring competition. These are entitled ‘A Paddle’ and ‘The Hind Leg’. (A paddle is the collective noun for ducks in the water; a garrulous person could be said to talk the hind leg off a donkey – with Jackie’s assistance I couldn’t help myself).
Later I photographed the roses on the front garden trellis.
After lunch Jackie drove me to that photographic outlet in Ringwood to collect some paper I had ordered. We then travelled on into the forest and stopped at the recently opened bird hide at Blashford Lakes.
When I entered the building a man inside mouthed “lapwing” and pointed to the window. As I approached it flew away. I observed that I had that effect on birds. He replied that he had had that effect since he was eighteen. Quick to pick up the innuendo I gesticulated in the direction of the two attractive women in his company and offered the opinion that something must have improved. This was met with hilarity. The said waterfowl was decent enough to return for a forage.
I was informed that two somnolent birds bobbing on the water were great crested grebes.
A pair of ducks sharing a spit with a black headed gull soon took to the water. I trust one of my birding blogging friends will help me with identification. (The consensus seems to be Tufted Ducks – see arlingwoman and John Knifton’s comments)
We stopped for a drink at The Royal Oak, North Gorley where the avian propensity for taking flight at the sight of my lens did rather pay off. Two jackdaws perched on the chimney pot were possibly protecting a nest. One decided to decant to the TV aerial when I was in mid-click.
Since we last visited the eponymous Quercus has had to be felled. The pub landlord quipped that they should now be called “The Royal Stump”. Jackie suggested that the slice might attract the attention of a dendrochronologist.
This evening we enjoyed our second sitting of Hordle Chinese Take Away fare with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Garnacha Syrah.
INDIVIDUAL IMAGES CAN BE ENLARGED BY CLICKING ON THEM, REPEATED IF REQUIRED. CLICKING ON ANY OF THOSE IN A CLUSTER ACCESS ITS GALLERY, EACH OF THOSE IN WHICH CAN BE VIEWED FULL SIZE BY CHECKING THE BOX AT BOTTOM RIGHT
We are experiencing a little colder spell at the moment, and, this morning drove out to the forest in bright, crisp, sunshine
At the top of Mead End Road, on the outskirts of Sway, lies Boundary car park, leading to a wooded area
overlooking moorland on which, today I spotted just two distant ponies – a grey and a chestnut.
Flecks of ice still lay on the reflecting surfaces of recent pools
and crusted the muddy paths trodden by the horses
on their way down the slopes.
One pair of riders chose to keep their mounts on the road.
The lengthy log stacks, with the application of saw cuts, splits, lichen, fungi, moss, ivy, and painted lettering, contain much abstract potential.
This two-faced stump looks both jubilant and resigned at having evaded the final felling.
Reflections in waterlogged terrain, such as this at Wootton enhance much of the forest floor.
At this point an extended area sported the silvered flounces of a can-can skirt.
This evening we came back for a second sitting of Jackie’s splendid pasta arrabbiata with which I drank Reserve des Tuguets Madiran 2014.
Why would I go out to photograph a churchyard on such a dull day as was this one?
All will become clear later in the post.
Here are some of the gravestones in the churchyard of St Mary the Virgin, Bransgore;
many ivy clad, like this one bearing an anchor chain,
or this already sporting its Christmas holly.
A few are upright,
some less so,
and others had given up the battle with gravity.
The stump of a fallen tree was in good company.
This roller hid round the back of the church.
As in most of our churches today, the front door was locked.
Fortunately for me, Jenny was working in the small office accessed by an open side door.
This very friendly person showed me into the church, currently set out for the various community activities offered, that can be found on https://bransgore.org.
She put on the lights so that I could photograph the stained glass, much of the original of which has been lost.
In particular, climbing on a chair to do so, Jenny was keen to show me the preserved panel from July 3rd, 1822, bearing the etched date in the bottom left hand corner. To the left of the bottom of the orange cross the name of R. Carter, glazier, Priory Glassworks can be discerned when the image is enlarged.
Wikipedia tells us that ‘the church of Saint Mary the Virgin was erected in 1822 as a chapel of ease.[10][11] The church is of brick with stone dressings,[11] with a tower and originally a spire.[12] However, the spire was removed in 1967. The early 16th-century font, which is said to have come from Christchurch, is octagonal, with a monogram J D, perhaps for “John Draper,” the last Prior of Christchurch Priory.[11] The ecclesiastical parish of Bransgore was formed in 1875 from parts of Christchurch and Sopley.[11][13]Henry William Wilberforce, son of William Wilberforce (known for his campaign against slavery), was once the vicar of Saint Mary’s church.’
When we visited MacPenny’s Garden Centre two days ago we were given this brochure:
We would always welcome an opportunity to try out a new curry restaurant. When the proprietor had the courage to open the venture on Friday 13th, this proved irresistible. Jenny explained that the church had the facilities and was there to help local activities.
The evening in the church hall was most convivial, and the food served by the Bartlett family quite superb. Jack was a splendid sommelier who assisted his sister Sophie with the waiting tasks.
From the moment of entry our nostrils were enticed by the authentic aromas emanating from the kitchen on full view of diners. Everything was cooked to order.
Dave’ s cooking was a marvel. We began with superb crisp popadoms with a variety of chutneys. The prawn puris that followed were as good as any we have ever tasted.
Majid, the manager of the Akash in Edgware Road that I regularly frequented for more than 35 years, would remove from the table any onion bhajis that his eyes told him were not up to scratch. He, and I, would have given Dave’s full marks, for their perfect crisp texture and exquisite taste.
My main course was prawn jalfrezi, and Jackie’s prawn bhuna. Both were succulent, and superbly flavoured. We shared delicate pilau rice and soft chapatis. Encouraged to bring our own bottles, we brought an Argentinian white wine that I can’t remember. Jack kept it in the fridge for us and kept our glasses replenished. That’s probably why I can’t remember what it was.
Two days ago views along the kitchen window and bed opposite featured a sawn tree trunk at the far end. Here Aaron is with the last of the stump he further sawed and removed. As usual, I printed him an A4 copy for his collection.
This has provided a little extra space at the end of Jackie’s current work area.
Here is another view of the gap, taken from a hebe on the corner of the Dead End Path.
Removing a tree is always a last resort. The branches of this one, however, were very brittle and constantly breaking when strong winds beset this whirlpool of a corner. The extra foot of space is also needed for the expected greenhouse.
To the right of the above picture the yellow bottle brush plant has now turned brown. On the other side of the gazebo path a bright red variety has drawn its attention.
Swarms of bees gather in the attempt to transfix themselves on the beds of nails that are its blooms.
Other strong reds of snapdragons, geraniums, and petunias blend in the plastic troughs forming the barrier at the start of the back drive.
Equally vibrant are the marigolds and black-eyed Susans now clutching the orange globe.
It is almost a relief to encounter the cooler hues of this foxglove,
these hostas,
or the hebes, this example of which has attracted a tiny flying insect I can’t identify.
Although its floor is of gravel, the patio at the South end of the garden is termed the Concrete one. That is because the surface beneath the pebbles was probably where the Post Office vans were parked.
That is where our mid-afternoon water was taken and we enjoyed views looking towards the Rose Garden;
towards the potting shed;
of this cluster of yellow day lilies flanked by geranium palmatums;
and the New Zealand flax that has flowered for the first time since our arrival.
I haven’t mentioned the wind in the last few days. I thought that if I ignored it it would go away. It hasn’t.
A couple of hours after we had been sitting beneath this parasol a sudden gust wreaked havoc. Admittedly the parasol had not been fitted tightly into its base, but it took off like a kite, smashed down into the bed, tipped over the stand supporting the recently planted red geraniums, and dragged down the string of overhead solar lights.
We began by lifting the parasol over everything and slotting it securely into its stand. Then picked up the pot and pedestal. Chucked broken bits onto the compost, and placed what would be salvageable onto one of the tables.
It was, I thought, very sensitive of the owl not to give me the benefit of his wisdom as I placed him on a chair and used his table to take the gravelly earth I scooped up and, with fingers and sieve, separated the two ingredients, so The Head Gardener could repot the remains.
This evening we dined on a fusion of more of Hordle Chinese Take Away fare with vegetable samosas. Jackie drank Peroni and I opened Jessie’s delicious Georges Duboeuf Fleurie 2016 and drank some of it.
At Burley ponies had been engaged to mow the outfield of the cricket green.
Some took a break,
and, for one, the task had become all too exhausting.
It being the grockle season, only the narrower lanes like Braggers were free of cyclists and other cars designed to send drivers onto the verges.
More common were crocodiles like these escorted children wobbling along
opposite the irises blooming in Whitemoor Pond.
Mauve foxgloves stood proudly erect all over the forest.
On the slopes on other side of the road leading into Bolderwood, where the first two of these pictures were taken, wild orchids clustered among the curling ferns.
Someone had lobbed a bottle into this lovely landscape.
Logging had been carried out in the vicinity of this stump with its moss-covered exposed roots.
The A31, that bisected the forest into North and South, spans the road through Bolderwood, bringing the modern world into stark contrast with the historic home of this equine family whose ancestors grazed the forest floors for centuries.
One of two riders crossing the heath on the other side of the main thoroughfare gave me a pleasant smile, after which we exchanged waves.
For our dinner this evening Jackie produced tasty chicken thighs marinaded in lemon and herbs and roasted with peppers; boiled potatoes, carrots, and green beans.
