Remembering Giles

Regular readers will remember https://derrickjknight.com/2025/11/09/giles-remembered/ posted on the day our longest lasting friend died.

Today we enjoyed a celebration of his life at Milford Sailing Club. His son, Ben, in his tribute, spoke of Giles’s determination to experience a good death. It is possible that the following poem from 2020 which formed part of the comprehensively apt programme put together by Ben, his daughter Hannah, and Jean, was written with that in mind.

dead easy poem.

a poem about my death,/ could well be soon/ in the next three or four years, /I’m not that fit.

like reaching the last line of the poem,/ no more carrying over/ unfinished sentence to the next verse – / what’s the term for that?

pause while I get up and spray a noisy fly./ time is rather close to my lights-out/ I won’t sleep with insect flying in the bedroom./ it would plague my thoughts like death-bed guilt.

can’t hear the fly, lying somewhere,/ maybe still twitching/ so feeling guilt anyhow – / for gratuitous painful death of poor fly.

the other day at a lunch I was attending/ some very fat old geezer keeled over./ silence, everyone gasping,/ everyone thought he’d carked it.

but he’d tripped over a step,/ three or four people helped him up./ good lad, he wouldn’t want to spoil the lunch/ we’d forked out for.

my dead ringer this bloke?/ over seventy, nuisance, costing the government,/ complication and distraction for loved ones,/ slow driving, slow at cash machines,

[one stanza redacted for modesty]

try to be positive, no more nutty work./ dosh inside the cash machine,/ money ready for the care home./ hey, another fly, or probably the same one.

to do the job properly this time/ I have to get the right specs,/ find the fly, dish out more spray

dying fly almost lands in my coffee,/ then there it is on the carpet./ squash it this time, using my alarm clock./ dead certainty.

It does ease me to think of me dead,/ maybe my main calmative, my dead centre./ hey, I’ve not saved this stuff on the laptop/ I could lose it all, young life taken away.

saved. what shall I do tomorrow?/ help lame dog over it’d style (sic, joke)?/ chuck out some more house clutter/ (save loved ones the effort later)? tedium.

what I’d enjoy is just to shamble about/ clucking at the hirundines/ above my house right now mid Oct/ house martins soon to fly south, go well.

it’s a long journey. no map./ hope you don’t drop dead on the way./ I’m not really wanting to die either,/ and no guilt to speak of or even to hide,

so finish the pome, ducky,/ print it out,/ put in file,/ happy to be useless.

‘there Mr Darvill shall we call you Giles?/ all these nice rhymes!/ aren’t you a lucky chap?’/ he was such a plucky fellow.

This may well have been Giles’s last poem.

We stayed on at the Sailing Club for socialising and partaking of wine, delicious sandwiches and other finger food, which Hannah had enjoined us to relish with her father’s favourite mango chutney, which she says goes with anything.

Autumnal Banks

This morning I read four more stories in ‘Our Village’, and later posted

A Great Farm-House; Lucy; The First Primrose; Violeting

This afternoon Jackie and I took a forest drive.

Much of yesterday’s rain remained on our verges; swelled streams

such as that flowing under the ford spanning Holmsley Passage; and

brightened mossy trunks, roots, and banks lit by all-day sunshine.

Outside Burley damp and shaggy ponies nuzzled into fallen leaves on undulating autumnal banks.

This evening we dined on tender roast pork with crisp crackling; chestnut and apple stuffing; boiled new potatoes; crunchy carrots; firm cauliflower; and meaty gravy, followed by Christmas pudding and custard, with which Jackie and I repeated yesterday’s beverages.

A Great Farm-House; Lucy; The First Primrose; Violeting

Today I covered four more of the stories in ‘Our Village’.

From ‘A Great Farm-House’ I have selected three examples of alliteration, demonstrating the subtlety of Mitford’s use of this literary device: “Of all odd fashions, that of dark, gloomy, dingy flowers appears to me the oddest. Your true connoisseurs now shall prefer a deep puce hollyhock to the gay pink blossoms which cluster round that splendid plant like a pyramid of roses.” “The butterfly is also a dilettante.” “Death and distance have despoiled that pleasant home.”

From ‘Lucy’ I have picked a couple of similes: “…..her singing! it rang through one’s head like the screams of a peacock.” “…..one who was the handiest and most complaisant of wooers, always ready to fill up any interval, like a book, which can be laid aside when company comes in, and resumed a month afterwards at the very page and line where the reader left off.”

‘Lucy’ also contains fine description: [Her] “pleasure is in her house; mine is in its situation. The common on which it stands is one of a series of heathy hills, or rather a high table-land, pierced in one part by a ravine of marshy ground filled with alder bushes, growing larger and larger as the valley widens, and at last mixing with the fine old oaks of the forest of P ——. Nothing can be more delightful than to sit on the steep brow of the hill, amongst the fragrant heath flowers, the bluebells and the wild thyme, and look upon a sea of trees spreading out beneath us; the sluggish water just peeping from amid the alders, giving brightly back the bright blue sky;…..”

In ‘The First Primrose’ I turn to metaphor: “They have no child to all this money; but there is an adopted nephew, a fine spirited lad, who may, perhaps, some day or other, play the part of a fountain to the reservoir.” “….the poor place is so transmogrified, that if it had its old looking-glass, the water, back again, it would not know its own face.”

The third story is the only one of this foursome that has an illustration by Joan Hassall.

‘Violeting’ includes a description of Social History of the writer’s time: “I always hurry past that place as if it were a prison. Restraint, sickness, age, extreme poverty, misery which I have no power to remove or alleviate – these are the ideas, the feelings, which the sight of those walls excites; yet, perhaps, if not certainly, they contain less of that extreme desolation than the morbid fancy is apt to paint. There will be found order, cleanliness, food, clothing, warmth, refuge for the homeless, medicine and attendance for the sick, rest and sufficiency for old age and sympathy, the true and active sympathy which the poor show to the poor, for the unhappy. There may be worse places than a parish workhouse – and yet I hurry past it. The feeling, the prejudice, will not be controlled.”

Published
Categorised as Books

Our Village

On another day of unceasing droplets bouncing from circling spirals enlivening our paths and patio paving I began reading ‘Our Village’, a collection of stories by Mary Russell Mitford.

The author of this delightful classic of Georgian bucolic prose, a competent playwright and poet, is best known for the warm light thrown on her decades of residence focussed with a close-up lens on the people and home environment that she loved so much.

My Folio Society edition, published in 1997, is a selection from those first issued from between 1824 and 1832.

Ronald Blythe’s introduction is knowledgeable and informative and the excellent wood engravings of Joan Hassall true to the style of Miss Mitford.

As I make my way through the book, starting with ‘Our Village’,

‘Hannah’,

“At sixteen, Hannah Wilson was, beyond a doubt, the prettiest girl in the village, and the best. Her beauty was quite in a different style from the common country rosebud – far more choice and rare. Its chief characteristic was modesty. A light youthful figure, exquisitely graceful and rapid in all its movements; springy, elastic, and buoyant as a bird, and almost as shy……. Her mind was very like her person; modest, graceful, gentle, affectionate, grateful, and generous above all….”

and ‘Frost and Thaw’,

Without my own analysis, I will let the work of author and artist give evidence of the wonderful descriptions they bring to us, either by the pages with text framing the engravings, or my separate extracts from the writing.

This evening we dined on wholesome cottage pie; sweet, crunchy, carrots; and firm Brussels sprouts with which Jackie drank sparkling Prosecco Treviso and I drank Natalia Problete la Fortuna, Merlot 2023.

Lady In The Lords

Sadly, but inevitably, our grandfamily set off early this morning for their own home.

I finished reading ‘Lady in the Lords’ by Jane Ewart-Biggs.

This is the second volume of memoirs of this talented, self-effacing, woman who I came to know briefly as she was nominated by Westminster City Council to join the Committee of Beauchamp Lodge Settlement which I chaired for fifteen years in the 1970s to ’80s. She never politicised her contributions to the business of the charity – so much so that I had not realised she was the Labour Party spokesperson on Home Affairs.

She tells the story of her grief at the murder by the I.R.A. of her husband, Ambassador to Dublin, and her struggle as a committed mother of three then young children while striving for a career in politics. Definitely human she exhibits profound humanity in the causes she espouses. Honest, endearing, and compassionate she tells of her fears while performing, yet her determination to make the best of her role as a woman catapulted into the largely male enclave that was the House of Lords.

She answers questions about the meaning, the purpose, the membership, and the operation of the upper house, largely through the meaning of anecdotes; pointed, candid, and humorous.

Her writing is straightforward, conveying both her thoughts and feelings in manner that strikes straight to the heart.

” ‘I am ringing to tell you that your name has been suggested as one of the Labour nominations for the House of Lords in the next political honours list.’ At that point, my mind went spinning off and I stopped listening….”

She tells of the reason she chose her territorial location for her title as Ellis Green was because it was an Essex “love-nest” she shared with her husband Christopher and later, their children. Hence Lady Ewart-Biggs of Ellis Green.

This was established with Garter King of Arms, Sir Colin Cole, who also proposed a coat of arms and ceremonial robes.

“I felt I was letting Garter down when in the end I declined both coat of arms and robes. But, after all, I had the sensitivities of my children to consider. Already the visit had transformed me from an ordinary mum into what seemed like supernatural being: …… If on the top of that they were asked to swallow the elaborate fancy dress and a mark of privilege such as a coat of arms, they might rebel”

“Reading the guest list [for the introduction ceremony] …, Henrietta exclaimed, ‘Black Rod, Garter, Chief Whip – sounds like a bunch of perverts to me!'”

“….whatever the changes or crises which erupt in a person’s life, that person remains the same inside. Their ideas, fears, hopes, values are unchanged.”

“I declared, hoping my voice sounded natural, but doubting that it did…” is an example of the nervousness she always felt.

Lady Ewart-Biggs tells of the issues of the day as they are debated and her contributions; for example when addressing the need to help working mothers she pointed out that her own daughter (Kate, 14) was [through her own choice so as to avoid having a series of au pairs] a latchkey kid.

Preparing for the first televised session in the House she writes: “…. the strangest question came on the morning the experiment started. ‘Lady Ewart-Biggs,’ said the voice with unmistakably Daily Express-ish note to it. ‘I understand you are taking part in the debate this afternoon. What will you be wearing?’…..I said rather snappishly, ‘Wouldn’t your readers be more interested in what I am going to say rather than what I’ll be wearing?’ ……..’And what perfume will you be using, do you think?’ I said I had no idea and in any case had not known modern technology was so far advanced that my eventual choice could possibly affect the audience.”

Sadly, this remarkable woman could not have known when advocating for mobile cancer checks for women to be located in the Houses of Parliament, that she would at short notice succumb to the condition at the age of 63.

This evening we dined on Jackie’s wholesome chicken and vegetable stewp and crusty rolls.

Reading In And Dinner Out

I spent most of this day of relentless rain almost finishing reading ‘Lady in the Lords’.

This evening we all except Ian dined at Blossom Chinese Restaurant where the friendly and efficiently attentive, yet unobtrusive, service and gentle ambience of this finest quality establishment welcomed the children and recognised that we were four generations present. Jackie and I drank Tsing Tao beer, Becky Diet Coke, and the others, soft drinks.

Trans-Generational Creation

This morning I read more of ‘Lady in the Lords’.

On this dull, damp, afternoon Jackie and I took a forest drive.

A cyclist led his dog for a run on Forest Road,

on the verges of which trees reflected in pools.

Donkeys occupied the green outside Burley, where

ponies foraged among autumn leaves, and I

photographed a couple photographing them.

Later, different donkeys approached us on the road,

and different ponies cropped different verges.

Along Hordle Lane a previously elusive sun put in a tantalising appearance announcing it was about to set.

Today’s delightful trans-generational culinary creation consisted of chicken and vegetable stewp which we enjoyed with crusty tiger rolls.

Cooking With Great Grannie

I spent much of the day reading ‘Lady in the Lords’, by Jane Ewart-Biggs. Later, I culled just one picture from my iPhotos featured in

Full Marks To Globe Removals

This evening’s dinner, a repeat of yesterday’s pork casserole according to Becky’s recipe, was cooked by Ellie and Jackie. We repeated our beverages.

Equine Varieties

After a Tesco shop this afternoon Jackie and I took a forest drive.

Although the day was cold New Forest ponies basked in sunshine; a

friendly equestrienne rode gently along Church Lane, where a pair of

field horses chomped on hay left for them;

a herd of Shetland ponies played chicken with the traffic on Bull Hill

until they diverted to a cul de sac alongside.

Cattle occupied the top of the hill.

Afterwards, I deleted from my iPhotos file all but two of the pictures featured in

‘Time To Go’

This evening we all dined on Becky and Ellie’s tasty pork casserole; creamy mashed potato and tender green beans with which Jackie and Ian drank Col de L’utia Veneto Bianco, I drank GaloDoro red wine 2023, while the others drank fruit juices.