Tag: woodland

Sunlight Playing The Forest

Despite the forecast of sunny spells today we were treated to clear cerulean skies and full sunshine throughout the day.

As we set off early to Ferndene Farm shop I paused to admire Jackie’s planting of primulas and violas in front of the garage door trellis.

This was the view from the car as I waited for just a short time for the Shopping Lady to rejoin me.

Long shadows stretched across Beckley Road and the driveway to The Glen;

and knitted knotted skeins across the woodland verges beside the road to Burley, on which

Jackie parked the Modus enabling me to photograph the moorland landscape.

Joggers, cars, walkers, and cyclists competed for space. We had imagined that the rather slow driver of the red car was keeping her distance from the cyclists ahead. She was, however, no faster after those on bikes turned off.

Hightown Lane was my next point of embarkation. Again walkers, cyclists, and other vehicles vied for space on the narrow road. Voices carried some distance.

I began drinking in the delights of the clear, sparkling, stream, revealing glimpses of its bed among rippling reflections; clumps of golden daffodils; bright backlit leaves; and pendant overhanging catkins.

One of the field horses wearing a red rug revealed the need for warmth during the still very cold nights. It wasn’t that warm at 11 a.m. either.

Gnarled trees and sinuous wooden fences cast their own images beneath and beside them;

while those following the contours of mossy banks created concave and convex curves as penetrating light illuminated the soft green cushions and picked out russet autumn leaves.

During her vigil on the verge Jackie spent some time pondering who might live in a cave on the bank.

This evening we dined on further helpings of yesterday’s, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I finished the Merlot Tannat.

“So I Could Get A Photograph Like That”

By lunchtime today I had passed six more of Charles Keeping’s characteristic illustrations on my visit to ‘The Old Curiosity Shop’.

‘Quilp’s Wharf’ is an accurate depiction of such Thames-side area of the period.

‘Richard Swiveller’s companion addressed him with great energy and earnestness of manner’ as we can see.

‘Here, then he sat, his ugly features twisted into a complacent grimace. I once encountered a man who adopted exactly the same position.

‘Before Mr Brass had completed his enquiry, Mr Quilp emerged from the same door’. We certainly recognise Mr Keeping’s portrait by now.

‘A shower of buffets rained upon his person’. as so well presented by the artist.

‘The mean houses told of the populous poverty that sheltered there’. Note the residents in the background, and the dog.

Early this afternoon we drove to Puttles Bridge car park where Jackie waited for me to wander along Ober Water.

In fact the following gallery will show why I decided the bridge was as far as I could go. I was incidentally half way across when these ladies approached. I speeded up so I could step aside for them.

They stepped off the path for me, and we exchanged friendly greetings as I turned my back on them so they could pass.

I hadn’t stayed long, so we drove around a bit more. Many of the

Lanes, like Cadnam, where I disembarked and watched Jackie making waves, were also waterlogged. Because she had two other vehicles in her wake she drove on, since our rule is that that is what she will do in the circumstances and either I will catch up or she will come back for me.

In these particular circumstances I was left pondering the fact that I wouldn’t be able to walk on water. when along came a joyful little boy whose wheels would spray nicely. He was followed by his mother with a pillion passenger. I explained my predicament just as the little lad set off. My voice became shriller as I finished my sentence with “so that I could get a picture like that” as I grabbed the shot, rivalling my subject in joy.

This evening we dined on our second sitting of Hordle Chinese Take Away’s excellent dishes with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Dao.

Much Neighing In The Woodland

This morning I watched the Channel 4 broadcast of the third day’s play of the second Test match between India and England in Chennai.

Today the temperature was a little warmer than of late; the weather just as gloomy yet less wet. After lunch we took a drive into the forest.

A pair of equestriennes wended their way along a pony track bordering Holmsley Passage.

At the crossroads leading the Passage to Bisterne Close, I clambered with camera among woodland with it’s bright, mossy, roots; lichen-coated branches; reflective pools and puddles on the tarmac.

There was much neighing from ponies on the move in the claggy woodland alongside the Close

which bears its own reflecting winterbourne pool.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s flavoursome chicken tikka, plain parathas, and plentiful fresh salad, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank Agramont Garnacha 2019, a smooth red wine.

Damp

On a decidedly dank morning we took a damp drive to Ferndene Farm Shop via Otter and Everton Garden Centres. We didn’t find what we were looking for in the garden centres, but the Ferndene shop was well stocked and not crowded.

We returned home via Holmsley and Forest Road.

Although there were a number of walkers on Forest Road,

where Jackie parked the Modus while I wandered woodland with my camera,

just three sheltering ponies beside Burley Golf Course seemed to be only ponies we would see.

I squelched across the muddy terrain

with its fresh, reflecting, pools;

bright green moss- and lighter coloured lichen-covered woodland, smelling of delicious damp.

It must have been a long-necked creature that nibbled this zipper up a slender trunk;

possibly a relative of this pony that emerged from the forest and crossed the road in front of as we moved off. Naturally I had to disembark once more and pay my respects.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s flavoursome savoury rice; a thick omelette; and a rack of pork spare ribs marinaded in plum sauce, with which she drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Bonpas.

Walking in Aquitaine

With five more chapters of Little Dorrit under my belt I now present five more of Charles Keeping’s splendid drawings.

‘Mr Flintwinch held the candle to her head’.

‘It was a charming place, on the road by the river’ is reminiscent of the paintings of John Constable. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Constable

In ‘He applied spoons to his eye’, Keeping has ably depicted that Young Barnacle had not exactly engrossed the assembled company.

As the artist shows with ‘Now or never was the time to speak to her’ never would have been preferable.

Charles Keeping will not be constrained by the blocks of type on his pages.

‘The brothers, walking up and down the College-yard, were a memorable sight’, gives him the opportunity for a double spread.

This afternoon I scanned and labelled another set of recently rediscovered colour slides. These are from France in April 2009.

During my sojourns in Sigoules I walked many miles in and around the town.

The blossom trees in the first picture were in the garden immediately across rue St Jacques from my front windows; the white blob receding in the far distance of the garden collecting tyres was on regular five mile circuit; for a while cattle in the field behind the supermarket were displaced for development; the church and war memorial are at Ste Innocence, near Eymet; I would pass the ploughed field on another circuitous ramble. What was built on the development site and the trip to Ste Innocence are described in https://derrickjknight.com/2012/06/10/le-code-bar/

I passed these rape fields on my fairly regular 8 mile walk to Eymet. It was probably a little after this particular time that I began to struggle with this one. The general advice when encountering the marathon runners’ “wall” was to run the through the pain. I had never experienced that particular difficulty, but surely, it seemed, the pain in my left hip would benefit from such an effort. Not so. 6 months later I was fitted with a new one. Although I continued walking very quickly after the operation, I never ran again.

Chris, Frances, and Elizabeth were staying with me that spring. We took the opportunity to visit Chris’s long-term friend Mike Ozga and his wife Oonagh who lived about 30 miles away.

A walk in the Dordogne woodland ensued. I wondered whose fossilised skull had been covered in moss.

This evening we reprised Jackie’s scrumptious beef pie dinner with similar beverages.

Bleeding Heart Yard

After two more chapters of ‘Little Dorrit’ I scanned two more of Charles Keeping’s excellent illustrations.

In ‘He ate all that was put before him’, Keeping has accurately depicted the character Christopher Hibbert described as the ‘one truly evil character in the book’.

‘You got out of the Yard by a low gateway into a maze of shabby streets’. Keeping has accurately represented the yard that Dickens knew.

‘Bleeding Heart Yard is a cul-de-sac leading off Greville Street, near Hatton Garden. The yard’s name probably derives from an old inn sign, the Bleeding Heart of Our Lady, which depicted the heart of the Virgin Mary pierced through by swords. However, the sanguinary imagery has inspired several colourful legends, which Charles Dickens summarises in Little Dorrit (1855–7) – where he also suggests that the name actually relates to “the heraldic cognisance of the old family to whom the property had once belonged.”

One tale has it that a lovelorn young lady, imprisoned in her bedchamber by her cruel father, pined away at her window, murmuring ‘bleeding heart, bleeding heart, bleeding away’ as she expired. Dickens says that this story was “the invention of a tambour-worker, a spinster and romantic, still lodging in the Yard.”

The goriest fable suggests that sometime in the early 17th century the much-wooed Elizabeth Hatton was murdered here by the Spanish ambassador – whom she had jilted – and was found at dawn with her heart still pumping blood onto the cobblestones. Another angle on this story, this time featuring Sir Christopher and Lady Alice Hatton and the Devil, was set to verse by Richard Barham in his Ingoldsby Legends.

“Of poor Lady Hatton, it’s needless to say,
No traces have ever been found to this day,
Or the terrible dancer who whisk’d her away;
But out in the court-yard – and just in that part
Where the pump stands – lay bleeding a large human heart …”

Richard Barham, ‘The House-Warming!!’ (1840)’ (hidden-london.com)

The Elizabeth Hatton story is thoroughly dismissed in https://d33c33.wordpress.com/elizabeth-hatton-and-the-legend-of-bleeding-heart-yard/

My own acquaintance with this historic street is detailed in https://derrickjknight.com/2017/12/06/changes/

The lamp in my photograph is very similar to that in Mr Keeping’s drawing.

This afternoon, the winds of three day storm Christoph having desisted, Jackie drove us to Ferndene Farm Shop. So smooth was the shop that my wait in the car was just a four page one, after which we diverted on our journey home via Forest Road, giving me the opportunity to wander among the ponies in

the soggy woodland alongside.

The damp, muddy, matted shaggy haired animals bore the effects of days in the wind and rain,

one adding the battle scars of torn out tufts.

Jackie photographed a helicopter flying overhead as I approached the ditch I needed to cross to enter the woodland.

The minute I returned to the car heavy rain set in once more.

This evening we dined on roasted sturdy chicken thighs, extremely tasty parsnips, and crisp potatoes; Yorkshire pudding, sage and onion stuffing; firm carrots, cauliflower, and broccoli, and flavoursome gravy, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank vin de Bourgogne Macon 2019.

Twilight Haze

On a dull and frosty morning Jackie photographed some aspects of the garden.

A perky dragon was garlanded in frosted ivy; the ‘Autumn’ sculpture vied with winter;

euphorbia, cordyline Australis, and rose leaves bore fringes of frost and lingering water drops;

some potted pansies were rather limp, while iris reticulata and tulips broke the soil in defiance.

By the time we drove over to Pilley to present Elizabeth (in our bubble) with a tub of Jackie’s substantial chicken and vegetable stoup, the skies had brightened.

In the woodland alongside Undershore a soft toy had successfully scaled the wall that is the undercarriage of a fallen tree.

The decorated postbox in Pilley Street now bears the year date 2021;

the icy old quarry lake bears branches and reflections.

At Walhampton I photographed a pheasant on the verge and Jackie focussed on a silhouetted wood pigeon;

on Monument Lane while I caught the lowering sun behind trees Jackie picked out its tipping the monument railings.

Finally the Assistant Photographer caught me

focussed on the dying sunset and twilight haze shrouding the Isle of Wight and The Needles at Milford on Sea.

This evening we dined on succulent fillet steaks; crisp oven chips; moist mushrooms; nicely charred onions; cherry vine tomatoes; and a colourful melange of peas and sweetcorn, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank Patrick Chodot Fleurie 2019.

I Had Seriously Overdone It

Now we are back in full lockdown I took a walk along Christchurch Road to the

field leading to Honeylake Wood.

So far so good. I was not quite the only walker leaving footprints on the muddy track leading to

the leaf-laden undulating path down to the bridge

over the fast running stream. Reaching the bridge was the trickiest bit. As I slithered down the muddy slopes I grasped at branches rather too flexible in order to keep my balance, hoping they would hold and not dump me in the morass.

On the way down I was able to take in the surrounding woodland.

Soon I was on the upward, firmer, track,

bordered by undergrowth containing mossy logs, a discarded welly,

and bracken-covered woodland.

At the top of this slope I turned for home – just carrying myself and the camera was all I could manage, let alone use it, as, head down and gasping, I retraced my steps and staggered home, aware that I had seriously overdone it. I collapsed into a chair and rested for quite a while.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s spicy pasta arrabbiata with which she drank more of the Rosé and I drank more of the Malbec.

Waterlogged

This afternoon we took a crisp sunshine forest drive.

Jackie waited in Brownhills car park while I wandered along the

largely waterlogged roadside verges for a while.

This was a day for family walks. While certain spots were decidedly overcrowded, lesser known areas like Bisterne Close, where Jackie parked the Modus, were safe enough.

I trampled on the waterbeds that were the soggy autumn leaves.

As always, some trees were lichen laden; others stretched gnarled limbs to the skies; many, broken, lay where they fell – among them

basking ponies slumbered or chomped on holly leaves.

One fallen giant gathering foliage was decidedly waterlogged.

Many roadsides, like this one at South Gorley, were more like lakesides.

Nearby, I was soon surrounded by silently demanding donkeys desiring to supplement their diets with anything I might have brought them.

One solitary Gloucester Old Spot sploshed, salivating over squishy mast, at the bottom of Gorley Hill, well irrigated by a Winterbourne stream running down it.

Throwing long shadows, cattle grazed on the slopes above,

while hazy sun picked out inquisitive field horses and slender willow sprays.

On our return along Hordle Lane lingering sunset illuminated lines of leafless oaks.

This evening we dined on crisp oven fish and chips, green peas, sage cornichons, and pale ochre pickled onions, with which we both drank white Cotes de Gascoigne 2019.

Silhouettes At Sunset

We set out for a drive in the forest an hour before sunset.

There were a number of people out riding, such as this young lady on Barrows Lane. They were usually in no particular hurry. Neither were we.

As I emerged from the Modus high on Holmsley Passage, a dog in a Land Rover fixed me with its baleful beady eye.

A number of dog walkers, like this woman with her pair, were also taking the air.

A couple of motor cyclists followed a fast moving car, the driver of which did his best to splash me as he sped past. Fortunately I had anticipated the shower and (with poetic licence) nipped over the bank in the foreground.

The late sun burnished both landscape and ponies. The second black and white subject stretched its neck whilst emitting an extended whinnying.

Alongside Bisterne Close a group of ponies seemed intent on stripping the holly branches until, with one accord, they trooped off into the woodland and out of sight.

We just had time to catch

sunset at Barton on Sea where groups of well distanced visitors provided me with a choice of silhouettes. A young family played cricket on the green. The ball was struck in my direction, my reflexes kicked in, and I bent at the knees in an attempt to scoop it up. I couldn’t get down far enough and had to plead dodgy pins. My pride hurt the most.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s savoury omelette-topped rice served with a quartet of prawn preparations, namely salt and pepper, hot and spicy, tempura, and skewered in a skein of shredded potato. The Culinary Queen and I both drank Greco di Tufo 2019, a most mellow Italian white from Lidl.