Archive for the ‘Journal’ Category

Easter on the Benacre Estate

Sunday, April 24th, 2011

Tini was down for a few days, so yesterday we once again jumped into the car and drove the 90 miles or so to the Suffolk coast. She hadn’t been to Benacre and its estate before, and I hadn’t seen her for almost five years (she hadn’t even met Nik), so although a long day was ahead, it didn’t matter, and in any case, it would get us away from the computers. Leaving before breakfast, we made good time and arrived in time for late – but not too late – eggs and muffins, washed down with coffee and tea. Strangely, poached eggs were a new thing for Tini, but I’d have thought that at some time in her 80+ years she would have come across them. Maybe they’re just not that common in the Netherlands.

The day had dawned bright, but we weren’t quite prepared for what that brightness would become. A day of full-on heat and sunshine, we ventured out to explore the walled gardens. Tended and nurtured carefully, numerous small patches of land back onto each other, and are separated by old brick walls, reminding me of more formal gardens at a country house, something which Benacre Hall must have had at some point in its rich and varied past. Sitting in the shade of a tree on a bench chatting to mum and Bart was more of a social time than we thought; it was soon time for lunch, and once Tini had strode across the grass to join us, an impromptu picnic beckoned.

A veritable feast was laid out before us, and while two of us sat on the white sheet that masqueraded as a rug, three of the party sat on the bench, talking about history, culture and how really beautiful the day had turned out to be. Post-lunch, mum, Nik and I headed to Southwold and the brewery shop where we ooh-ed and aah-ed at all manner of expensive kitchen gadgets on display, before taking coffee in the newly-built coffee shop. A quick around the town followed, before we jumped back in the car and weaved our way up the long Bencare Estate drive, narrowly missing the sheep and their just-born lambs. Being a meat eater – but increasingly less often – the cute lambs are enough to put you off, all large ears and gangly thin legs, with the odd tiny black face making an appearance.

More tea was made and preparations for dinner were started. The pair of us ventured out for a walk around the grounds of the estate, and as the evening sun descended through the trees, we took pictures of the countryside scenes and the fog and sheep-filled fields, before going indoors to eat. We had to be back in Essex today, so bid out hosts goodbye after the evening meal and a couple of thoughtfully-played hands of cards. What with the hot weather and the abundance of lambs on the estate, it really had felt like the start of spring. Maybe the best start for a long time.

Benacre picnic: mum, Tini, Nik, me and Bart

Benacre picnic: mum, Tini, Nik, me and Bart

Benacre picnic: yum!

Benacre picnic: yum!

Benacre Hall, Suffolk

Benacre Hall, Suffolk

Benacre Estate, Suffolk

Benacre Estate, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sheep, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sheep, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sheep, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sheep, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sheep, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sheep, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sunset, Suffolk

Benacre Estate sunset, Suffolk

Hall Place and Gardens

Thursday, March 24th, 2011

All of a sudden the weekends have gotten very busy. Sociable but very busy. Since Ross and John visited in mid-February, we almost haven’t stopped. And we thought last Saturday would be much of the same, but our journey to London threw up some very pleasant surprises. There to celebrate Sheila’s birthday, we drove down with Andrew, too, and met Sal, Dan and William in Sidcup before going on to lunch at Miller and Carter, in a Jacobean barn just behind the picturesque Hall Place and Gardens.

I don’t know why, but we really weren’t expecting a 16th-century Grade 1 listed small mansion house just behind the A2 on the outskirts of the big smoke. (Yes, I know, it’s technically Kent, but even so…) But, Hall Place is pretty and has small formal gardens with beautifully laid-out flowers and topiary bushes sculpted into dogs, dragons, horses and unicorns, ideal for little ones to run in and out of and hide behind. All very tranquil, I’m sure the sunny, bright and almost warm weather helped us appreciate the countryside-like (and very green) surroundings.

Sat on the banks of the river Cray, Bexley, Hall Place was built in 1537 for wealthy merchant Sir John Champneys, Lord Mayor of the City of London from stone recycled from a former monastery, Lesnes Abbey, closeby. A manor house was recorded some 300 years earlier on the site. Now there is also 65 hectares of parkland (where we fed the ducks and geese their lunch) and a tea shop, which overlooks the river, as well as traditional glass houses, which house and sell a bewildering array of colourful plants.

It was something of a green-fingered afternoon. After Hall Place, we stopped off at Ruxley Manor Garden Centre, where we wandered along the aisles festooned with all manner of plant life, books, patio furniture and pet paraphernalia (how did we miss the chickens for sale, though?). One orchid, one succulent, two pots and a bit of minor celebrity-spotting later, we were back at Sal’s enjoying tea and handmade birthday cake. An enjoyable day all round, not in the least bit rushed busy, and it even showed that south east London has something to offer on a day that isn’t a work one.

A short, but happy life

Wednesday, January 19th, 2011

It’s not been a good month for our chickens. Just before Christmas 2010, one of them developed a prolapse (not pretty, either to describe or see), and days of rubbing her behind with hemorrhoid cream combined with isolation in the cat kennel seemed to do the job. She was soon mixing back in with the flock, the slightly whitened and matted feathers the only sign of her ever having been ill.

Then a couple of weeks later, as 2010 went into 2011, Nik was cleaning our flock of eight hens out and he spotted another poorly bird. Another week of the very same treatment resulted in the very same outcome. And while the second patient was noticeably and visibly more distressed than the first, she seemed to recover well.



We thought we’d tracked down the problem. One hen in particular seemed to be pecking out beakfuls of feathers from her seven sisters, so we kept a closely-monitoring eye on the group and although still a matter of concern, once we’d put new wood chippings into the compound, the problem was less pronounced.

The reason why? We think they were alleviating boredom by pecking at each other; the new chippings gave them plenty of material to scratch and turn over. You only had to look at how much enjoyment they were getting from dustbathing once we’d turned the mud over to reveal dry earth, ready for the chippings to go down.

We thought all was well. We obviously thought too soon. Imagine our surprise when on Monday morning, I found Gabby (so-called because her left eye was smaller than the right one due to an encroaching eyelid) standing out on the chippings shivering, and puffed up just like Barbara was when she was poorly.

Recoiled into herself, Gabby showed little sign of wanting to do anything, and had not gone into the house the night before. We suspect now that it was due to a lack of energy, and although her rear end was a little, shall we say, messy, it showed no sign of a prolapse. So again, the cat kennel was called into service as a chicken isolation ward and we left the poorly hen for the afternoon.

After I’d been out doing the routine weekly cleaning of the compound in the afternoon, Gabby wasn’t looking well at all. Barely responding to my touch, her head was hanging low, she was hunkered down, puffed out, and hadn’t eaten a thing. With colour drained from her comb, face, and wattles, she was definitely slowly but surely dying.

We left her alone until the others had gone to bed, and then removed her gently empty sleeping carcass and, with nothing else to do, wrapped her in two bin bags and placed her gently into the refuse bin. Sudden yes, but probably all the better for it. She arrived last March with two more Rhode Rangers in our second batch of hens, and so sadly wasn’t even a year old when she died.

And, although it was only her misshapen and distorted eye and her honking noise (she never clucked and probably thought she was a goose) that endeared her to us, we were disappointed that it was her who happened to be the one who was chosen to go to the big henhouse in the sky. Silly, a chicken should be just a chicken after all, but some, occasionally, are a little more than that.

Film review: The King’s Speech

Saturday, January 15th, 2011

*Warning: contains spoilers*

We haven’t been to watch a film at the cinema for over two years. Why? We don’t really know, as there have been films we’ve wanted to see after all, so there’s no real reason for our non-attendance. But, Thursday night saw us at the Odeon in Chelmsford to watch the five-star reviewed The King’s Speech.

There with three other members of my Starfish Project stammering recovery group and their other halves, we didn’t really know what to expect from a two-hour film depicting King George VI’s struggle with his stammer, played out against a subtle backdrop of the abdication of his brother Edward VIII (who was to marry Wallis Simpson), the ensuing accelerated ascension to the throne, and the outbreak of World War II.

What we got was certainly deserving of the much-praised five-star reviews in the press; a brilliantly honest, and, at times, emotionally touching account of ‘Bertie’s’ stammer and how he overcame it with Australian ‘speech defect’ specialist Lionel Logue. Tom Hooper’s film starts with George VI reluctantly and uncomfortably addressing the 1925 Empire Exhibition at Wembley Stadium, and chronicles his and Logue’s journey, resulting in his 1939 three-page radio speech declaring the start of World War II.

What’s interesting is the close friendship that the two men developed. Through a mixture of honesty and trust (much like that of a speech therapist and a patient), the viewer sees them go through ups and downs, and scenes both hilarious and hysterical, all accurate portrayals of how nearly all stammerers feel during the varying degrees of their recovery.

A stellar cast certainly helps the film tells its story. Colin Firth is breathtakingly accurate in his portrayal of ‘Bertie’, while Geoffrey Rush plays the part of the understanding Logue brilliantly. Helena Bonham-Carter is the ever-supportive Duchess of York (later the Queen Mother), while a supporting cast of Guy Pearce (Edward VIII), Michael Gambon (George V) and Timothy Spall (Winston Churchill) make sure that all the pivotal characters play their part.

With beautiful cinematography depicting a 1930s London, the film’s script was reportedly updated after the discovery of some of Logue’s original notes. Years in the making due to the late Queen Mother’s apprehension about its release, it’s one of the best films I think I’ve ever seen. And while that may in part be down to personal reasons, The King’s Speech shouldn’t be overlooked. To enchant an audience with what could be a particularly difficult or dry subject for two hours is something both truly special and inspirational.

Boxing Day at the Benacre Estate

Saturday, January 1st, 2011

Happy New Year! Christmas 2010 will be noted as the one where family arrangements changed. Mum and Bart wanted to stay in Suffolk for a change (they usually come down to us in Essex), so we made tentative plans to take Geoff up the A12 on Boxing Day, so that he could spend the day with us after being will Sal, Dan, and Will on Christmas Eve. At one point, it even looked like those tentative plans were too too planned, as Ean developed the winter vomiting bug, casting our journey and day in Benacre in doubt.

 Unpleasantly ill for a couple of days, Ean soon felt better, and so a Suffolk Boxing Day was – thankfully – back on again.

So, at around 08.30 on Sunday morning we started our uneventful zizz up the A12, and prayed that the weather stayed dry, as a walk around the Benacre Estate was in the offing. We were rewarded with clear-ish skies, and so after an egg and muffin arrival breakfast we pulled on our best wellies, gloves and hats, and set about our stomp through the grassy meadows, tree-lined and leaf-covered avenues, and damp back roads. Out for an hour and 40 minutes, we all certainly felt like we’d done more than a fair distance.

It was back to Bart’s apartment for tea, homemade ginger biscuits and presents, although the man himself took himself to bed. During the walk, he started to feel quite nauseous and unwell, and as we suspected, he hadn’t quite avoided Ean’s bug and it developed at an accelerative pace during the afternoon. So, only five of us ate the Tasty Fish Bake mum had found in one of Mr Oliver’s books, and went to a large and indulgent selection of cheeses followed by a game of cards. And as the darkness grew ever darker, we said our goodbyes and wended our way home.

As is usually the case, we’ve had somewhat of a social festive season, what with Andrew and Sheila’s for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, Bart’s for Boxing Day, and Geoff’s for a buffet lunch on the 27th. Then there was Andrew, Sheila and Viv at ours on the 29th and my 37th birthday yesterday, New Year’s Eve. Creatures of habit, we spent that as we usually do, with warmed camembert, French bread and the cat, all on the rug on the lounge floor; a sort of an indoor picnic if you like. We’ve still got a couple of social gatherings to go before work calls us back on Tuesday, but by then we should hopefully be refreshed and ready.