Tuesday 23 October 2012
Cold snap coming
Yellow adorns trees, not yet clothing, nor yet the year's floor shrouding. Large forest mammals wear their thickened coats, proof against frost's fingers, that catch the low sun glowing. Our adopted, suburban, festival of the dead marks this fall, but also the kick back of the clocks bringing colded and stilled wildlife to our road verges.
Wednesday 17 October 2012
All roads, not created equal
Bloodied by yesterdays confluence of road works and accidents I swore off the nearest town route to work this morning, clogged as it already is by gas-main repairs. I was lucky yesterday to avoid the worst effects of the traffic mess, in part because I had chosen my route to pass a petrol station in case my recollection of the level of fuel in the tank had been a little optimistic.
This morning began with a plan to avoid everyone else by selecting my longer route to work and, after a couple of turns, and before I had left the village, I was confronted with a broad patch of road inundated to about 8 inches. Such is considered no barrier to navigation and so I simply drove sensibly, avoiding the bow wave of others (more suitably dressed in 4x4 vehicles) until the tarmac came to the surface again. The road carried the marks of yesterday's chaos. Tracks on the verges marked the departure of many a heavy vehicle from the hard standing, and coated the paved surface with mud. This will take a few weeks to mend at this end of the year in contrast to the New Forest Show traffic peak in July, which grasses over in a couple of weeks.
Half way and my route was disturbed again by a diversion with, rather than against my direction of travel; many vehicles that would otherwise simply cross my path now joined me for a stretch commonly blocked by wandering herds of cattle. Fortunately today there were only a few animals on the road and so the flow was steady, if busy, to the next junction where normality was resumed. I saw some deer, including a white fallow I think and a small herd calmly grazing the rain-soaked heath at Ocknell. The sky was clear in patches here though the clouds grouped into a small fleet to the East, already stacking up in height, though quite narrow.
Lunchtime was sunny, but in the afternoon it has rained cats, dogs and antelope. The antelope were mostly on the roof I think. In the usual way the car-park drains backed up after a few minutes of deluge and a lake formed over them. The intensity was such that it caused me to wonder what would happen if an inch of rain fell en-bloc. A big splash I expect, but not as pretty as the sweeping, soaking curtains that patterned the ground today , forming twisty linear shapes and paisley shapes in the gusty wind that accompanied the squalls.
This morning began with a plan to avoid everyone else by selecting my longer route to work and, after a couple of turns, and before I had left the village, I was confronted with a broad patch of road inundated to about 8 inches. Such is considered no barrier to navigation and so I simply drove sensibly, avoiding the bow wave of others (more suitably dressed in 4x4 vehicles) until the tarmac came to the surface again. The road carried the marks of yesterday's chaos. Tracks on the verges marked the departure of many a heavy vehicle from the hard standing, and coated the paved surface with mud. This will take a few weeks to mend at this end of the year in contrast to the New Forest Show traffic peak in July, which grasses over in a couple of weeks.
Half way and my route was disturbed again by a diversion with, rather than against my direction of travel; many vehicles that would otherwise simply cross my path now joined me for a stretch commonly blocked by wandering herds of cattle. Fortunately today there were only a few animals on the road and so the flow was steady, if busy, to the next junction where normality was resumed. I saw some deer, including a white fallow I think and a small herd calmly grazing the rain-soaked heath at Ocknell. The sky was clear in patches here though the clouds grouped into a small fleet to the East, already stacking up in height, though quite narrow.
Lunchtime was sunny, but in the afternoon it has rained cats, dogs and antelope. The antelope were mostly on the roof I think. In the usual way the car-park drains backed up after a few minutes of deluge and a lake formed over them. The intensity was such that it caused me to wonder what would happen if an inch of rain fell en-bloc. A big splash I expect, but not as pretty as the sweeping, soaking curtains that patterned the ground today , forming twisty linear shapes and paisley shapes in the gusty wind that accompanied the squalls.
Wednesday 10 October 2012
Hygrometer Gate
Our front gate; our new front gate, although if I measure in sensible units, a few years old now, has a pony latch. Essential where we live; all gates have either a folding buckle latch or a sprung hook. This latch, installed by the employed rather than someone like myself, who cares about the result, is attached to the bolted gate. In my opinion, and from experience, it would be so much easier to use if it were attached to the swinging gate. Correctly installed such a latch can be managed one handed, ours may not. With loaded hands, a foot is required to steer the swinging gate to the latching point.
This latch is pinned by a coach bolt with a domed nut that tends to undo itself unless monitored by someone who cares, rather than the employed or the young. Continued attention has maintained the combination of bolt and nut through the few seasons that needed to elapse before corrosion started to do the job of holding the two in a secure embrace. The bolt passes, uncolleted, through the oaken timber.
When the timber is dry, the latch swings freely. It opens with a clank, as the latch handle digs ever deeper into the bolted gate's top rail. It closes on the swinging gate with a similar sound; useful when gardening in the back, to alert the arrival of guests. When wet, the latch will stay, stable at almost any angle, but happiest vertical. This is my hygrometer. A glance out of the kitchen window will tell me if there was rain in the night, but the pony latch will tell me how wet it was.
Most summers, the pony latch swings free, clanking and chipping the rail for several months. This summer it has been better behaved except for a broken period of about 5 weeks. According to the gate, autumn has been here for over a month, yet, the leaves are only beginning to fall now and there is much green remaining. Only the bracken seemed to turn early with the latch's sticking point.
This latch is pinned by a coach bolt with a domed nut that tends to undo itself unless monitored by someone who cares, rather than the employed or the young. Continued attention has maintained the combination of bolt and nut through the few seasons that needed to elapse before corrosion started to do the job of holding the two in a secure embrace. The bolt passes, uncolleted, through the oaken timber.
When the timber is dry, the latch swings freely. It opens with a clank, as the latch handle digs ever deeper into the bolted gate's top rail. It closes on the swinging gate with a similar sound; useful when gardening in the back, to alert the arrival of guests. When wet, the latch will stay, stable at almost any angle, but happiest vertical. This is my hygrometer. A glance out of the kitchen window will tell me if there was rain in the night, but the pony latch will tell me how wet it was.
Most summers, the pony latch swings free, clanking and chipping the rail for several months. This summer it has been better behaved except for a broken period of about 5 weeks. According to the gate, autumn has been here for over a month, yet, the leaves are only beginning to fall now and there is much green remaining. Only the bracken seemed to turn early with the latch's sticking point.
Tuesday 2 October 2012
what inner wolf?
Middle son alone joined scouting peers for a walk in the deep dusk yesterday evening. Youngest was guest at a Birthday party, oldest confined to snuffly bed.
Called out from work to be a taxi, whilst DW went out to practise her bowing muscles, proved to be an uncommon pleasure; otherwise I might have not gone out in the moonlight and had time to watch the stars and to drive the dark forest.
The moon was less than 24 hours past fullness and yet I met it with a gentle, reflective mood; no thought of howling. My inner wolf only surfaced behind the wheel, splashing through the flooded railway bridge and flying across the heaths, eyes peeled for large mammals on the way, but only finding a strolling toad to steer around.
Called out from work to be a taxi, whilst DW went out to practise her bowing muscles, proved to be an uncommon pleasure; otherwise I might have not gone out in the moonlight and had time to watch the stars and to drive the dark forest.
The moon was less than 24 hours past fullness and yet I met it with a gentle, reflective mood; no thought of howling. My inner wolf only surfaced behind the wheel, splashing through the flooded railway bridge and flying across the heaths, eyes peeled for large mammals on the way, but only finding a strolling toad to steer around.
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