Blog 85. “Hi Tweety; So Long Jerry”.

Spring is trying to arrive in Melbury though, because of a storm last week, I had to lash down our newly painted garden furniture (Blog 83) and secure the entire outfit to the house using a large ring bolt and a double sheet bend. The narcissi are up and blooming, primroses and celandine decorate the verges, and trees are starting to blossom. I have been detailed off to mow the lawn, twice. A Great Emergence is upon us. It is also nesting time, and Jane is monitoring the birthing preparations of the garden’s birds with all the maternal instinct of a mother hen. We have great tits, blue tits, long-tailed tits, goldfinches, sparrows and a robin. Plus the odd blackbird and pigeon. There are four nesting boxes (lovingly crafted by self), each with its own peculiar characteristics and features according to the target species. It is fascinating to watch the birds reconnoitre each box, perching on the top, looking in the hole, glancing around, doing a quick internal view, then disappearing off again. The newest bijou residence, in gleaming white pine with modern additions and neat joints, is apparently rejected in favour of a much older box, knocked together over five years ago and covered in green, yet popular every year. The robin box has never been touched. The blue tits also seem to prefer the sparrow box, with its entrance hole on the side. We have no idea where the goldfinches, sparrows and robins nest; they appear to spurn our efforts as far as we can tell. In May we should see the result of courtship and homemaking: mother bringing food to her chicks and then the tiny fledglings appearing at the nest box entrance and trying to fly: the latter always happens on one single day and we always try to be there to witness it.

One window opens and another closes.  Just as we are contemplating meeting new feathered friends, I have to report that our furry long-tailed friends may no longer be with us: I refer to the shed-eating mice (Blog 83) which, I think, are no more.  We laid two spring-loaded mouse traps loaded with the best Cheddar in the shed and they remain untouched.  Of course, they might be Welsh mice who prefer the Caerphilly, but there is more: the poisoned bait in the rodent Green Mile box is no longer being taken away or showing signs of regular depletion.  I think the little critters (or nasty rats) have been defeated.  The shed will breathe a sigh of relief (if a shed can sigh) and we can mark that down as another problem solved, but we are sorry that we had to take such drastic action.  I think that, even if we had found a way to catch the mice (or rats) and transport them to some sort of rodent Devil’s Island, they would still have found a way to come back (they home, you know, as do snails and slugs).  Goodbye Jerry (or was it Roland?).

I am still on the search for a decent pair of smart trousers (Blog 79).  All I want is a pair of cavalry twill trousers, 100% wool, 20 oz cloth, made in Britain, belt loops, no elasticated waist, flat front and no pleat. Can I find a pair?  No luck so far.  I have tried looking at the internet sites of what I thought were respectable British  tailors or gentlemen’s outfitters such as Lewins, Charles Tyrwhitt or Moss Bros and was horrified by the result: such trousers as were for sale were modelled by skinny young men with a month’s bum fluff on their faces, wearing cotton drainpipe trousers without creases that ended above their ankles, as if mummy had failed to allow for their growth.  Worse, many of them wore no socks.  No socks! Can you believe that?   I even tried Gieves & Hawkes, the naval outfitters of Saville Row, and came up with the same result. What on earth is the tailoring business coming to?  What has happened to the British gentleman?  Finally, I did find a site of a gentlemen’s outfitters of Jermyn Street in London that sold just what I wanted.  The price for a pair was £175.  I will repeat that: one hundred and seventy five pounds sterling.  On top of that price you had to pay a further £15 to have the inside leg measurement adjusted to your requirement and, of course, postage and packing.  Someone is having a laugh here.  The supplier nearest to my requirements (at a price I could afford) was a country-wear outfitter in Yorkshire (the supplier also made plus fours – I was tempted, but I don’t play golf); alas the trousers came with a single pleat in the front and that is not flattering to my streamlined profile.  I shall keep looking; after all, what else is there to do?

We are trying to get out more for country walks now, despite the pain of Jane’s leg.  Last week we ventured over into Wiltshire for a walk – a practice discouraged by the police, but perfectly legal – and parked near a spot on the Kennet and Avon (K&A) Canal.  From there we walked to a little hamlet called Huish, nestling in the southern slopes of the Wiltshire Downs.  We had been before.  In the days when we had a narrowboat and cruised the K&A Canal, we once moored, at random, near where we now had parked the car.  Feeling the need to stretch our legs after standing for so long on the boat, we glanced around the beautiful countryside and saw, in the distance, the tower of a tiny church – apparently in the middle of nowhere.  Curious, we set off towards it along the deserted country lanes and found the small church of St Nicholas, on its own, in this hamlet of Huish.  There was only one house and a farm nearby and the site was so peaceful and tranquil that we went into the churchyard to rest and absorb the silence.  As we entered, we stumbled over the first grave in the churchyard and found, to our great surprise, that it was the grave of the wife of the late film star and actor, David Niven.  We were completely taken aback.  If you have ever read Niven’s autobiography, The Moon’s a Balloon (highly recommended),  you will know that he married a woman called Primula Rollo during WW2 when he was serving in the British Army.  After the war he took her back to his home in Los Angeles, but she died shortly after arrival, in 1946, after falling into the cellar during a party game. He must have arranged for his wife’s body to be brought back to the place where she was born, there to lie peacefully with her ancestors (I think the Rollos were, or maybe still are, local gentry).  The discovery of the grave was remarkably touching and sad.  On this return trip, Jane and I sat, once more, on a bench in the churchyard, in the lee of the church, and just immersed ourselves in the sunshine and tranquility.  It was absolute bliss to be out of the house.

Yesterday we drove to the nearby village of Abbots Rusk and went for a new walk around the area, taking us to the nearby village of South Vauxhall.  Entirely coincidentally (of course), we happened to meet a couple of our friends there who had planned to take the same walk, so we strolled together. He walked with me two metres apart, and his wife with Jane, same distance, the quartet marching like a brigade of British Grenadiers in square formation.  It was a sunny Spring day and quite mild.  Amazingly, Jane and I had never been to Abbots Rusk before, despite it being only about five miles away, but we found it to be a lovely place: picturesque, historic, friendly and (dare I use the cliché) unspoilt.  We walked mainly on the country lanes and what little traffic there was actually slowed down to pass us and the drivers gave us a friendly wave: something we very rarely encounter elsewhere.  Our stroll took in two manor houses and culminated in a long walk – maybe a mile – up a straight, broad, grassed avenue leading directly to the second manor that stood majestically at the end, gazing down the swathe.  I could just picture myself owning that place and having friends around for the weekend, taking a sherry before dinner and a port afterwards; perhaps a morning ride before breakfast down that avenue, wearing my cavalry twill jodhpurs…I have no idea who lives in that manor house now, but I have my eye on it for when we win the lottery.  If we get it I will take bids for who wants to come for the weekend.  Bring a stout pair of shoes and wear tweed.

Thinking of manor houses and the nobility, the Navigating Officer in HMS NONSUCH, my last steamer, was The Honourable Percival Calthrop (not his real name) and he was a lovely down-to-earth man despite being the son of a Lord who (as far as I could make out) owned half of Scotland.  I should, perhaps,  explain for the benefit of any reader who is not British that the title, ‘The Honourable’ is bestowed on the sons of Barons and on the younger sons of Earls.  Percival decided to buy an ordinary modern house, partly for rental income, but also as an investment for when or if he married.  While on leave, he mentioned to his father, Lord Calthrop, that he had bought a house on an estate, but the poor old gentleman must have misheard him, for he responded in a very concerned manner:
“But my dear boy, how on Earth will you be able to afford the servants?”

Of course, yes, England is still locked down despite the continuing success of the vaccination programme: over 25 million people have now received their first dose and all those over 50 are now being called forward.  The number of deaths in the UK in the last 24 hours is currently down to 95 (still dropping 34% weekly) as are hospital admissions (426 yesterday, dropping at 26%).  As anticipated in my last blog, the active testing (as opposed to just testing those with symptoms) of all schoolchildren has increased the number of tests taken and the number of positive results has increase correspondingly, so that curve has almost flattened.  I still think we should exploit the success of the immunisation programme and start opening up earlier than planned, but the government is adamant about sticking to its declared plan (the British government never listens to me).  There is currently something of a brouhaha going on because the Metropolitan Police broke up a meeting of women holding a public vigil in London, despite the Covid lockdown, to protest about the recent murder of a woman on Clapham Common.  The protestors seemed surprised and outraged that this should happen while not, apparently, considering the fact that the virus takes no account of moral causes when it comes to spreading and infecting people.  I am no fan of lockdown, masks or the ban on public demonstrations (a scientist has pointed out there has never been a single case of anyone being infected on the beach or in the open air), but it seems to me that if you have a law, then it should be enforced without grace or favour.  The police were criticised for being far too lenient with BLM protestors last year (also demonstrating unlawfully) and so – this time – took a harder line when the Clapham Common passive vigil turned into an active rally, possibly hijacked by political activists.  While some police officers in this epidemic have undoubtedly been over zealous (as narrated in these blogs) the British police force, overall, is in an invidious position: they are damned if they do enforce the law, and damned if they don’t.  Interestingly, a recent opinion poll, undertaken to test the waters on this incident, found a majority of people in favour of the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police.  Mind you, other polls have shown that the British public simply love lockdown – provided, of course, that it is not applied to them or to their causes.

I see that P&O Cruises will accept passengers later this year, provided they can prove that they have had the requisite two doses of vaccines and accept regular testing. However, social distancing and mask-wearing will still be practised onboard.  Now there’s a treat: that will be fun.  Sign me up.

Well, the repairs on my boat in Dartmouth are now finished and she now has a new paint job, and beautifully polished sides and propellers (according to the photographs).  She will be back in the water on 26 March and we hope to visit her – just for the day – when travel is allowed on 29 March.  The new floating marina is now said to be almost finished but, as far as I can discover, APPLETON RUM will not initially be moored in her proper berth (perhaps it isn’t there yet), so we have that to look forward to.  New buildings are going up on the site and, eventually, there will be a facilities block, a restaurant, a hotel and several riverside properties.  It should all be rather nice, if a little busier than hitherto.    Travelling down to Dartmouth should be quite an adventure, as we have not moved further than 20 miles from our house (except to Huish)  since October.  Jane is already drawing up plans for a little al fresco lunch or picnic, to be taken en route: it will be just like those days in the 1960s when the whole family would drive off into the hinterland every Sunday in the family car, taking a picnic hamper, a tartan rug and raincoats. I must remember to ask Jane to add Gentleman’s Relish to the shopping list.

Déjá vu.  Illusory feeling of having already experienced a personal situation [F = already seen]. Concise Oxford Dictionary. 
I mention this apposite French term to introduce the news that, yes, I have been let loose in the kitchen again, a voluntary act with the best of intentions but, sadly, with disastrous consequences.  It was all because of my naturally generous and helpful nature, overlaid with waves of guilt that Jane always does the food while I languish in an armchair reading an improving book or doing the jigsaw while sipping a Horse’s Neck.  It was the one of our fast days (a day limited to 800 calories as part of the 5:2 diet).  We are still doing the diet, by the way,  as part of my drive to recover the slim figure that I once had some time in 1972 (vanity of vanities; all is vanity…) and, overall, it hasn’t been too bad.  On this particular evening supper was Lamb Sag, a concoction comprising spinach, onion, spices, tikka masala paste and a minute quantity of lamb, supported by cauliflower rice.  I had offered to help.
“Y-e-s”, said Jane doubtfully, in that tone that mothers use when their toddlers ask if they can help with the pastry or the meringue. “That would be lovely”. 
I could almost see her mind desperately considering one option after another to identify the task with the least risk.  Finally, the mental bell rang.
“You can slice the onion”.
“Excellent”, I said. 
I like chopping onions, you see.  It is a dynamic thing that involves knife skills and I completed a knife skills course back in 2015, or whenever.  I can do ‘the fist’ and the sharpening and, though I say it myself, I am a dab hand with the Cook’s Knife.  I plonked the onion on the chopping board (still labelled “Vegetables Only” after that time when I prepared the fruit salad on it) and prepared to carve.
“It has to be finely sliced”, said the Head Chef, watching me nervously.
“Precision work”, I thought.  “Oh yes, I’m up for that”.
I peeled off the skin with a flourish, chopped off one end, cut it in half, and started as I had been taught: fine slices up the onion axis, then make ‘the fist’ and finely slicing across the grain.  Chop, chop, chop and not a drop of blood to be seen.  A fine pile of onion shavings lay on the board and, with a discreet cough, I drew the Head Chef’s attention to it.  I awaited my One Minute Praising, as advocated in all the best management books.  It would be a long wait.
“I didn’t say finely chopped, you clot”, she said exasperatingly.  “I said finely sliced.  Look at it! It’s like a pile of wood shavings”. 
I pondered.  I hate it when she’s right.  In truth, I had become a bit carried away.  Time for a stout defence as part of a damage limitation exercise.
“Well it is finely sliced.  It’s just that it’s been finely sliced in two directions”
She sighed.
“You’re hopeless.  Give it here”.
“Right”, she said briskly, starting on a new tack.  “You can do the cauliflower rice.  You can’t cock that up”.
I don’t know if you have ever had cauliflower rice.  Contrary to what you may think (cauliflower not being the most universally loved vegetable), it is actually very nice and is served as an alternative to rice when you wish to avoid carbohydrate.  It basically consists of  raw cauliflower florets that are shredded into fine particles in a liquidiser, then heated up in a frying pan with a little seasoning.  It is very palatable and simple to make.  Or so I thought.
Finding the cauliflower in the fridge was easy (I had adult supervision), as was hacking it into florets and discarding the white stalks.  I moved to the liquidiser: something mechanical.  Excellent.  Now, we have an extremely expensive, rinky dinky, mega powerful Vitamix liquidiser bought in a moment of drunken weakness at a BBC Food Exhibition years ago.  Vitamix is the king of all liquidisers.  I sometimes think it would liquidise steel bolts if you gave it the chance.  It is the sort of liquidiser that DeWalt would produce, and paint yellow.  I love it for that reason.  I plugged it in and warmed it through.
I am not totally inept in the kitchen department.  I knew that if if I bunged the complete cauliflower into that machine it would just whirr mightily and convert the whole thing into fine dust, like flour.  No, a more delicate touch would be required to yield the little fluffy particles of cauliflower rice, like rice grains, that we desired.  I activated the machine and wound it up to full power so that it screamed like an F35B Lightning about to take off from the Royal Navy’s latest aircraft carrier (I forgot to mention that the noise it makes matches its macho capabilities).  I think Jane said something to me, but I didn’t quite catch it.  Into the whirring and screaming abyss of the machine I dropped a single cauliflower floret.
“BRRRRRRRR…RUP!”,  said the machine and simultaneously I cottoned on to what Jane had been shouting:
“Put the lid on!”
You would be amazed at how many molecules there are in a single cauliflower floret.  Assisted by the angular kinetic energy imparted by the Vitamix, this single piece of vegetable disassembled into its component parts and distributed itself liberally all over the kitchen. It was the finest illustration of Brownian motion – the phenomenon of molecular excitation in a gas when heated –  that I had ever come across. Tiny bits of cauliflower were in the sink, in the toaster, on the floor, over the bread bin and (worst of all) all over Jane as she was dismembering the lamb.  The work surface looked like a street after a hailstorm.  I switched off the machine. There was a palpable silence. “Best I downplay this”, I thought.
“Oh dear”, I said. ”Bit of a mess here”. 
Jane was typically more forthright.
“You idiot!  You are supposed to be helping me”.
I ineffectually started dabbing at the mess with the washing up sponge, but she clearly didn’t trust me with that either, as she took it from me and started dragging kitchen utensils to one side to track down every last crumb.  Twenty minutes later, we were finished (I had remained in order to give moral support and point out bits she had missed).
“It says in this recipe that the meal only takes ten minutes to cook!”, said Jane. ”We are now into forty minutes and nothing is in the pan yet”.
Amazingly, I was allowed to continue with the maceration of the cauliflower, such process going well after the essential addition of the Vitamix lid.  After heating the (excellently prepared) cauliflower rice in the frying pan I was dismissed to select a suitable programme on the television to watch while we ate – it was one of our relaxed “meal in front of the television” days.  I left the kitchen and headed for the drawing room with lively anticipation.  As I was half way up the hall a voice followed me,
“….and it had better not be that blasted Tora, Tora, Tora either…”
Damn.  I revised my television programme ambitions accordingly.  As I took up the remote control I could have sworn I heard someone laughing nervously in the kitchen, a sort of hysterical ‘more in sorrow than in anger’ sound, but it must have been my imagination.  One of the television channels was showing His Finest Hour.  I thought that would be just about right.

18 March 2021

PS. By the way, the Lamb Sag with Cauliflower Rice was excellent, it really was.  The next morning I found bits of cauliflower on my pillow, where it had fallen from my hair.  Gosh, what a meal that was.