yew tree – derrickjknight

A Frosty Morning

On a crisp-cold frosty-bright morning we drove early to Saint John the Baptist Churchyard to make photographs showing it in a better light than yesterday.

Bramble stems and various leaves in the hedgerows opposite the cross-carved entrance gate were outlined in bright white pigment. The gate picture is Jackie’s.

We both made general views. The more colourful three of the last four in this gallery are by Jackie, who tended to look out to

the views beyond; and up to

a singing blackbird trilling to the crescent moon.

We also photographed each other,

and grazing ponies in frosty fields. Mine is the third image.

I focussed on the colours and textures of the lichen

and moss.

We each had a different take on the ancient yew tree.

A frosted wreath, an autumnal oak, and a fallen stone, caught my eye.

Jackie’s individual tombstones included

that of Hetty Ada Plumbly and her 3 day old son, Frederick. Hetty was the wife of Archibald George Plumbly (1895-1970). Was the death of the mother occasioned by little Frederick’s birth? Did Archibald, who had no more children, never marry again?.

Jackie also found two stones framing death medals: those of Theodore George Cooper, joined later by his father, George; and of Edward Drodge who shared his mother’s grave. Death medals were sent to the relatives of every casualty of The Great War. Given that Edward’s mother, Alice Emily, predeceased her son. we wonder who inserted the medal.

Two among the Canadians who died in the Second World War, namely Flying Officer E Stollery and Sergeant B.W. Turner lie in the war graves section.

We were unable to decipher the wording on the gravestone of an 8 1/2 year old girl also photographed by the Assistant Photographer.

Her last gravestone detail consists of a hand, despite missing two fingers, grasping a feather and a glass ball.

Jackie also produced images of the church roof and weather vane.

On our return home we enjoyed the play of light on Church Lane and the playfully decorated postbox on Pilley Hill.

I spent the rest of the day drafting this, and was certainly ready for dinner consisting of baked gammon and herby pork chipolata sausages; creamy mashed potatoes; juicy ratatouille; crunchy carrots and cauliflower, with which Jackie drank Hoegaarden and I drank more of the Recital.

A Stag Party

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Becky and Ian returned this morning to their home at Emsworth. This afternoon Jackie drove Flo, Dillon and me out for a drive in the forest.

On the way to Beaulieu, Flo spotted a row of antlers among the gorse on the moors. They belonged to a string of stags. Jackie turned the car round and returned to the spot, where the animals still congregated. As long as we stood still and kept our distance, cervine curiosity kept them interested. When I edged forward, slowly at first they turned tail and suddenly rushed back into the golden covert.

In the foreground of this landscape are some of the many pools springing all over the forest at the moment.

As we approached Beaulieu an obliging pony put on a display of disrupting the traffic for our family visitors.

We visited The Yachtsman’s Bar at Buckler’s Hard for refreshments.

A number of yachts and motorboats were moored in the harbour.

We made a small diversion down to the beach at Tanner’s Lane where we watched a helicopter flying across the Isle of Wight.

The next stop was at Lyndhurst where, in the churchyard of St Michael & All Angels, Flo and Dillon were shown the grave of Mrs Reginald Hargreaves, otherwise known to the world as Lewis Carroll’s Alice. Dillon produced these selfies, while I photographed the stone commemorating Anne Frances Cockerell which I suspect was that of a 23 year old who probably died in childbirth, leaving her husband to live on into the next century.

I also photographed roofs of the Crown Hotel and adjacent buildings,

while Flo crouched to focus on the street below, before she and I photographed each other.

The next grave to be visited was that of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, complete with pipe. It was Flo who captured these images whilst I focussed on her and Dillon.

This was in the graveyard of

Minstead Parish Church. Only the first, vertical, picture of these last seven is mine. The others are Flo’s. The list of rectors, beginning in the thirteenth century, bears out the age of the shattered, regenerated, yew tree to the left of the last photograph, said to be at least 700 years old.

Back home, we dined on Mr Pink’s fish and chips with mushy peas, pickled onions, and gherkins.

There’s Some Corner Of An English Churchyard

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Over breakfast this morning, I photographed two more angles of view through the kitchen window;

and afterwards, The Rose Garden.

We have many banks of aquilegias.

Compassion blooms on the Dead End Path arch,

And we have our first bottle brush flower.

A Painted Lady butterfly availed itself of the gravel camouflage.

This afternoon we visited St Nicholas’s church in Brockenhurst. Jackie and Sheila led the way into the exhibition inside;

Jackie pausing to inspect the eighteenth century gravestones.

I wandered around the beautiful landscaped graveyard, where light glinted through trees and the ground fell away allowing the monuments to ramble down the hillside.

After my following exploration, I joined the ladies inside where a couple of volunteers within were giving them an explanatory history of the World War One burials in the churchyard.

They told Jackie that this yew tree dated from the twelfth century.

This sculptured stump must also have been a substantial giant.

Past the tree I came to a set of steps and a path leading down to level ground.

Flashes of red against clean, cream background suggested I was approaching the memorial symbolised by the sculpture at the entrance to the church. This was a brilliant fern cut out from weathered metal, familiar to anyone familiar with an All Blacks rugby jersey. The brilliance lay in the figures silhouetted in the work. I crouched a bit to ensure that the background grass made this clear.

Indeed, I had. Ninety three members of the New Zealand Expeditionary Force soldiers from World War One lie buried in the Commonwealth War Graves Commission Cemetery attached to this church.

The farming village of Brockenhurst soon became a World War 1 hospital village, from 1914 caring for wounded and sick Indian troops, and from 1916 the No. 1 HQ New Zealand hospital. Those who died therein were buried in this churchyard.

Of the 93 New Zealanders, 12 were Maoris, only one of whom died from wounds. This was Private Kiri Rapona. Clare Church’s book, which I bought, gives this young man five more years of life than does this gravestone. One other drowned and the rest succumbed to illness.

One Indian is Sukha.

There are also three unknown Belgian civilians who share a plot.

These plots are very well tended and maintained by New Zealanders in UK.

Of the three hospitals from those years, the only one still standing is now the Balmer Lawn Hotel, which keeps its own living lawnmowers.

The very friendly couple who were very informative about the church and this particular section of its history, pointed out the Victorian stained glass in the twelfth century stonework of the windows.

This evening Jackie produced succulent chicken Kiev, creamy mashed potato, and crisp carrots and runner beans for our dinner. Sheila’s dessert was rice pudding, and Jackie’s profiteroles. As I had consumed two pieces of chicken I passed on this. But I did drink more of the Fleurie. Jackie drank Hoegaarden, and Sheila, sparkling water.

It was Rupert Brooke, an Englishman who did die in 1915, who is immortalised by his own verse: ‘And if I should die, think only this of me, that there is some corner of a foreign field that is forever England’. I have adapted his words for today’s title.