A Lemon

We bought a lemon tree in a pot, I think because a neighbour said that not only were they very productive but that the fragrant flowers attracted bees and bumblebees.

            Our tree, which I transported back from the garden centre on a bus (attracting comment and some awe), bore one large, fully formed lemon at the end of a branch.

            Alone, this fruit, in its bright lemon livery, looked rather out of place in our garden. But we were proud of it. After all, lemon trees are hardly native to England.

            The lemon had to be dealt with in some way in case it rotted and fell to the ground. And it had to be given the very best of usage – in a sort of celebration if you will.

            I had just sharpened all the scissors in the house, so the kitchen pair, being the nearest to the lemon tree would seem to be the ideal harvesting tool. But the lemon was so well attached to its branch that the scissors were of scant use. Bending and cutting worked in the end. I now had this lovely fruit in my hand to use as best I could.

            I knew that there were some uncooked, greeny-grey prawns ready for use in the freezer. They were unfrozen.

            I grated our lemon’s peel into a frying pan, adding two pressed garlic cloves, some salt, and a good lump of butter. The prawns went on top.

            Ready to eat them, the pan was heated gently. The butter melted. The prawns were then stirred, to coat them with the garlic/lemon peel mix.

            The tails were the first bits to become pink. Then the prawns themselves followed suit. They were turned over for a few seconds. Then we ate them, with our very own lemon peel enhancing the flavour of the dish to its huge benefit.

            Now I had to deal with the bald lemon – zestless - devoid of its outer skin.

            We like to drink whisky sours. I believed that the juice from our large lemon would do for two glasses of it.

            So the lemon was cut. There were no pips in it and it was bursting with juice.

            This juice was divided between two large wineglasses. Some dissolved sugar was added, then Bourbon whiskey, and finally, lots of ice.

            We ate handsomely, and drank a whisky sour toast to our lemon tree and its first and very enjoyable lemon.

Garden Again

I hate to plague you with more aspects of my gardening. But in our very small walled garden, where I know most movements of nature in plant and bird life, I am still surprised each year.

Of course, every year is different in plant and animal life. Some items do well, others not. Even our star variety of a rose, Typhoon, was slow to get going and to flower this spring, when its cuttings in the soil below did so well that I have a new rose to give to a friend and one extra for myself. They will be dug up and find their new homes come Christmastime.

What has been astounding is our “screen” of autumn-sown broad bean plants.

            Old records of mine tell that successful crops of beans depend on the abundance, or not, of bees and bumblebees to pollinate them. This has been demonstrated once more by our October-sown crop of Aquadulce beans that grow from woven plastic “tubs” of soil.

The beans grew to some 8’in height (miraculously with no black-fly infestation), well supported by bamboos and string. When bumblebees appeared, areas of the abundant display of lovely flowers that they frequented produced beans. When there were no bumblebees – no beans. (Only one honeybee was ever seen.)

But just the display of those delightful flowers was a wonderful spring sight, and the crop of beans, when formed and harvested young - delicious.

So how will I be able to attract bumblebees early next year for better fertilisation when my neighbours, in a very restricted alleyway of gardens, do little to produce honey-providing flowers?

Well, it was not until I allowed my sage plant to flower that bees and bumblebees (in particular) discovered that our garden had something very tasty to offer them. They just loved those sage flowers.

So next year a pot of sage will hang among the broad bean flowers – in the hope that both bees and bumblebees will of benefit to us all and be happy.

The only snag will be that sage flowers come a bit later than the strong, autumn-sown broad bean flowers. So I will try and hasten the flowering of my pot of sage by setting the plant on a sunny windowsill in early spring. If Chelsea Flower Show gardeners have control over the timing of nature, why can’t I have a go as well?

A Country Wedding

Invited well in advance, we had time to frame a gift picture from the “Ship Shapes” series and buy rail tickets to a family wedding near Christchurch in Hampshire.

            Arriving at Waterloo Station, we were surprised to have our voices drowned out by the noise from an Um-Pah band from Munich. Just why they were playing on an English station concourse was a mystery that remained unsolved. But it did make rail travel somewhat more interesting.

            A panorama of top-hatted and morning-suited men, and women in skin-tight dresses with disk hats perched on the side of their heads and shod in the highest of heels, appeared also to be on their way to a wedding. But no. We learned that they were heading for a day out at the Ascot horse races.

            After a leisurely journey picnic of foie gras and then cheese and pickle sandwiches – both downed with cold white wine and then red, we reached our harbour-side hotel. Here we were installed in a pokey room, where the window led directly, and at arm’s length, on to an unadorned, stucco-faced wall. Some action was needed.

            Moreover, The array of electric tumble-switches was so complicated that even help from a hotel receptionist failed to solve all the problems – one being scorching heat in the internal shower room cubicle and this room’s inability to extract air.

            Margreet, being Dutch, unlike the English who tend to exert stoicism and acceptance in life, arranged that we would have a far nicer room for our second night’s stay.

            We strolled around the verge of the tidal Christchurch Harbour, that was pleasantly clear of the usual kiss-me-quick seaside adornments.

            An unusual sight was to see off-shore dredgers lifting sand from the sea bed.

            A winter storm had swept a quantity of sand along the coast and away from its original and rightful position. This sand was being reclaimed, and returned to where it belonged.

            Unaware of the reasons for such an operation, it seemed, to the casual observer, to be a rather expensive way to reverse the course of nature.

            The noon wedding in our hotel was conducted by a Scotswoman who, in her address, mentioned “our country”. Presumably, now that our two countries are redefining themselves, she meant Scotland.

            There was a break before the “wedding breakfast” at three o’clock in the afternoon. And after the three course “breakfast” there was a rest gap before evening disco dancing in the hotel’s basement. This was a huge success with the children of the wedding, who had been acting and dressed for a smart occasion and could now, at last, go wild with much noise and acrobatic dancing activities.

            It was here that we wished the bride and groom well, said our farewells to family, and were able to retire and sit by our new room’s balcony/window to watch darkness fall over the harbour, and to sip wine left over from our railway picnic.

            Fading evening light, seen through the branches of an ancient cedar tree, and with gulls moving silently inland from sea water at dusk, we relaxed after a well-ordered country wedding that had a charmingly parochial Hampshire/Dorset flavour to it. 

A Dream Word

I’m sure that I have written on dreams and why I dismiss them immediately as being fiction and nothing of consequence. Forget them. Waking is a pleasure.

Then there is the matter of small problems becoming major ones in one’s dreams and night-time thoughts. Forget them. Waking is a relief.

My dreams often make me run things, usually way beyond my natural abilities - which is stressful. There again, forget the dream. It is a pleasure to get rid of them on waking and return to a simpler life.

But I have occasionally made a point of remembering a funny dream to tell and laugh about.

And a recent dream was interesting enough to remember. In it I was reading the headline of an obituary concerning a foreign lady (I think American) who had been living in England. It was such a simple line, and said it all so succinctly.

SHE WAS OUTLIVED BY HER CHARITABLE WORK IN BRITAIN.

How could that description be bettered with more words? “Outlived by her charitable work”. How nice.

But who wrote that obituary headline? I was full of admiration for the anonymous scribe.

And yet… It was my dream.  

A World of Silence

For some reason, my excellent hearing aids were beginning to screech at me (and bystanders). So off I went to my local hospital’s audio clinic where they kindly diagnose and rectify trouble.

            I was told that an excess of ear wax was the cause. A nurse told me to use sodium bicarbonate liquid ear drops for five evenings, then a monthly regime of olive oil. I was pleased.

            After a day or two a hint of deafness appeared. On the fourth day I woke in the morning to find that I was almost totally deaf. I had suddenly entered a completely different world, one lacking an essential and vital sense.

            I walked silently to do my normal morning ablutions, realising, as I conducted them, that I was much reliant on sounds in the normal course of events. Was my electric shaver on or off? Did the lavatory actually flush? Were any taps still running that might flood the place? Sound is needed in such matters.

I made breakfast. Had the kettle boiled? Had the toaster worked? Did the key unlock the back door? Had I locked it again?

If Margreet shouted into an ear I might just understand a bit of what was being said – to some mutual amusement. But I could speak normally. Conversation was one-sided.

I chose to walk to the audio department once more, taking the river path where dogs didn’t bark, bicycle bells not work, seagulls flew silently and aeroplanes throttling back to land at Heathrow might well have been engineless gliders.

When I reached the very busy rush-hour roadway, cars and lorries passed by silently, as if all had at last been converted to electric or hydrogen power (this really would be progress). To cross the road was rather frightening without the guidance of sound. I had to look both ways several times.

Back again at the hospital’s audio department, with sign language and pen and paper, the verdict was that I had a conglomeration – or something – of wax that should be extracted as soon as possible. But, as a specialist member staff was unavailable to operate their microsuction machine, I was to take two busses to a walk-in clinic some distance away.

            Without sound communication I was given a map on which the bus numbers were written. So off I went, only to be asked the way, when I, myself, was rather lost in a soundless world.

            Near to my destination at last, but unable to see the walk-in clinic, I showed my rather indistinct map to a passer by who was a foreigner (I felt like one, too). But then a young lady came to my aid, and although I could not understand her instructions, her pointing out directions was enough.

            At the clinic, the nurse and I could see the funny side of the situation, but their de-waxing facility was not to be used on patients like me who took warfarin.

            So, unheard by me, she made an appointment with those at my original audio clinic for a “micro” de–waxing in a few days. No time of the day had been fixed. That information would come by telephone to my home. But as I would be unable to answer it or even be able to listen to the message, was there anyone who could take the call? Margreet could, and did.

            One ear did suddenly come partially to life a day later and we could converse. But this did not last for long.

            I write this on a silent keyboard.

            Having to cope with deafness permanently must be dreadful. Sound, which we take for granted when combined with our other senses in the normal way, would, if deprived of it, diminish one’s enjoyment of life considerably – and other people’s, too.

            Now that I have experienced deafness first hand and in coping with it – even momentarily – has been an enlightening experience. And in doing so, it has been a fascinating challenge – and sometimes a most amusing one. Those of us with this faculty intact should be very grateful for it.

             

Garden update, Spring 2015

The more that I see it happen, the more I am convinced that two varieties of the same plant in the same pot doesn’t work. The stronger will dominate to such an extent that it will probably kill the other.

            Three times have I planted asparagus in the same pot (forgetting the name of the previous kinds) and each time I have expected spears of the previous variety to re-appear. But no. Even my new lot of seeds have taken and sprung up, but of the old varieties there has been not a sign.

            This state of affairs has happened with other plants, like lilies and shrubs. I should really know better by now and give each variety of plant its own pot to prevent this under-soil battle taking place.

            Our main success so far this spring has been our autumn-planted broad beans. Actually I planted four kinds in each container to see which turned out to be the strongest. It was Aquadulce. Their leaves drooped after each frost but recovered quickly. They have grown to nearly 6’feet (no blackfly), producing lovely columns of black-eyed white flowers (they are tied to bamboos). Bumblebees have done their bit in pollinating the flowers to produce lots of lovely little beans - so far.

            Our fourth sprouting of mistletoe appeared from the bark of our single, potted apple tree – four years after I “planted” the seed.

            A lemon tree (well, a small one in a pot and re-potted) sustains two lemons with more to come. As it is making some vigorous new growth, it must be happy – though it does look rather out of place in an English town garden.

            Not all saved runner bean seeds have taken. But they were planted in pots of rather freshly made compost, which may have been a bit too strong for them.

            A lovely fern appeared from the soil of a hydrangea pot, and has taken upon itself to cover and hide our two fruit tree pots. How did it get there? How did it know that I wanted that cover?

            Making compost each year naturally increases the volume of soil in a small and mostly paved garden. So from a nearby demolition site I managed acquire a stretch of Victorian coping bricks, and with them made a low wall to accommodate a deep bed of soil for used soil to be invigorated with compost and re-cycled thereafter.

            With a small section of cast iron Victorian water main, acquired when the cast iron pipe in our road was replaced by a plastic one, I now have two local 19^th century items in the garden.

            I sing the praises of a rose called Typhoon, which is extremely difficult to find, for some strange reason.

            As it was much admired by a nearby resident, I put a couple cuttings of it in the ground two years ago. They took and grew. During the winter they retained their leaves when all others fell. In the late autumn I will be able to give this local lady one of the roses. The other I will pot-up and keep for myself.

            We will both be lucky with these roses as the variety is vigorous, disease-free and flowers (show-bench quality tight red buds becoming orange and rather blowsy as the summer progresses) the summer long. And it is scented, too. To me it is the best rose ever, and because I have grown these two examples of it from cuttings, there will no suckers to cut away.

Disappearing restaurants

Why do some of our favourite restaurants just close up and disappear?

            An excellent Turkish-kind of place nearby, where the food ordered arrived with several other dishes that were not ordered or charged for, became one of our favourites – phut - gone. It was replaced by a fish and chip shop where we ordered and then had to wait three quarters of an hour for our meal to arrive.

            A small Chinese place, run by a charming couple who would bring a live crab to your table for you to touch before it arrived cooked (was it the same crab?) lasted a while – phut – gone.

            A pub in the district where the manager’s girl friend made stupendous pizzas and served them with a free bottle of wine on Tuesday evenings, seemed to be a winner as the place was very popular. But not so – phut – gone.

            A Portuguese place, run by a family, who threw in an unusual bottle of wine if you ordered two main courses on certain occasions, lasted a while – phut – gone.

A tube trip away was another Portuguese place where the food was not only excellent but very reasonable in price. Their above average “house” wine was so cheap (by restaurant standards) that people flocked there. This “wine-without-greed” policy was a brilliant move by the owner who, sadly, retired – phut – gone. An Indian took over the premises.

An oriental restaurant owner where the dishes were cooked in full view and the white wine as high a quality as the food, clearly had difficulty in keeping his always charming staff. Perhaps the owner was a bit too attentive – phut – gone.

Nearby to where we live was a place that could easily have been a hotbed of Middle Eastern radicalism. Their food was cooked over charcoal in the middle of the room. The staff would stop all restaurant activity at prayers time. Then we might find ourselves sitting in smoke, coughing and with streaming eyes. We were often the only customers. It was a fun place and an experience. The food there was delicious. – phut (cough) - gone.

Perhaps these places were just too good value and their income could not cover the cost of staff, and ever-increasing rents and rates. Perhaps there are just too many restaurants in our district to justify the existence of so many. Are people eating out less? Or where they not run professionally enough? One way or another, we really miss them.

Food and drink meanderings

We like to celebrate (almost anything) with Champagne cocktails.

            We do not use the cheap Champagne that we lay down for a few years to  mature, but almost any other sparkling wine that seems at the time to be good value. In a large wineglass goes a slug of Cognac, a shake or two of Angostura bitters, some ice and the sparkling wine. Some sparklers might call for a bit of sweetening. Varying quantities makes for added pleasure. A much cheaper, summer long drink edition can be made with cider as the sparkling bit, ordinary brandy, and then the Angostura bitters and ice – but its not nearly as good.

            I had never thought that uncooked sweet corn, cut from the cob and added to beef stew, would be a delicious addition. But it is. Other stews benefit from this addition when sweet corn is in season.

            Any leftover mashed potato, that I usually fry with an egg for breakfast, is wonderful if turned into croquettes. Just add the yolk of an egg, stir, form balls or disks, coat with crisp breadcrumbs and cook on a hot, oiled surface.

            But before I even think of making croquettes, I now use cold, or warm mashed potato to surround scallop shells – like a wall. It’s quite a job to do, and time-consuming. But it is worth it when you fill the centre with chopped-up scallops with their coral, and over the scallop meat pour a white sauce to which you have added Dijon mustard, some anchovy essence (optional), a bit of a fish or chicken stock cube, and possibly grated cheese. I sprinkle a little paprika over the top. These delicious, filled shells can be frozen individually and then bagged up in the freezer for future use. Just unfreeze them (keeping them separate and upright as you do so), heat them through in the oven for 5-10 minutes and finally put them under the grill so that the sauce bubbles. I have done the same with dressed crab, but the crab flavour gets a bit lost.

            Another recent recipe (one that I have revived from years ago) involves belly pork. Bone and skin belly pork and cut it into thin slivers (well, as thin as you can manage, unless you can get the butcher to do it for you). Make a marinade of tomato ketchup, Worcestershire sauce and chilli-con-carne powder. Add some pepper and salt and mix it up with the fingers. Add the pork slices and coat them well. This dish of marinated pork can now lie happily in the refrigerator until wanted (turning it over every so often). When its time comes to be eaten, allow the meat to reach room temperature and grill till crisp. Scrumptious, however served.

            Runner beans, purposefully left on the vine to become long and stringy, can be autumn harvested and then kept in a thin layer on a rack indoors. When the skins are dry and crisp, pod them. Allow the podded beans to dry further in a bowl on a window sill. When wanted to eat in the fingers (or with sticks or fork) with winter drinks, boil newly-harvested beans for 15 minutes in a pressure cooker, or dried beans for 30 minutes, drain them, and to them add some pressed garlic, olive oil and salt. Stir and serve. They are astoundingly good, and unlike other beans.

            Lamb chops marinated in mint sauce grill well and are tasty.

            Sliced tomatoes and ripe figs in a vinaigrette make a good combination for a first course, as does sliced cucumber with sliced avocado – again with a vinaigrette.

            To use oven space when it is being used for a main dish, put into an oven-proof dish chopped onions, chopped tomatoes, chopped peppers, garlic, capers, olive oil, vinegar, salt and pepper. When cooked through, this dish can be eaten hot or cold.

            Also in spare oven space, and in an oven-proof dish, put sliced large tomatoes, or halved small ones with olive oil, vinegar, plenty of pressed garlic, pepper and salt with a coating of breadcrumbs. This vegetable dish can also be eaten hot or cold, but it does need cooking until the tomatoes are soft and shrivelled beneath their crisp topping. The dish will probably need to be taken out of the oven before the main dish is cooked.

            Both of the above dishes can have oil added and be re-heated under the grill.

            Another variation of this theme is to scoop out some flesh from a halved aubergine. Into this boat-shape put a mixture of your choice, making sure that onion (or shallots), garlic, and plenty of olive oil, go in with chopped tomato, pepper and salt. Think of adding flavours, like oregano, coriander, mint, capers, chopped gherkin and so on. Over-cook rather than under-cook.

            The above are small items that I have wanted to write about but have been too busy painting.

A Restaurant Lunch

There is a restaurant on a bus route or Underground that runs from us to where we sometimes go to celebrate. It is not an ordinary place, but a special, treat one.

            This time, with no special reason, we decided to eat there.

            It is a restaurant with no menu, where the food is provided by the chefs direct and just cooked from kitchen to table.

            The “front of house” lady is jolly, and speaks with a charming foreign accent. Lunch starts at one o’clock.

            We combine our visit to buy coffee in a nearby shop that smells strongly of its product. We buy a quantity, and have it ground finely for immediate use and for freezing for the future.

            With the usual hugs and kisses we were greeted at the restaurant.

            Sitting near to us was a couple of distinguished gentlemen of artistic demeanour.

            Being known, so without even ordering, a bottle of excellent Puglia Primitivo red wine was placed on our table. But we wanted to start with a glass of white, which was then poured for us – when I made a grave mistake.

            During and ever since I wrote extensively on wine, I carry a corkscrew in my pocket. This I used on the proffered bottle of red to surprise and amuse the bubbly lady host. The patron/owner appeared at that very moment and scolded her for not having opened the bottle at the time she poured the white wine. I apologised for my poor behaviour.

            We had probably only consumed the first two courses when a jolly crowd of six men appeared with full intent to also enjoy a gourmet lunch.

            The two distinguished men nearby asked us to slow down our consumption as they, like us, knew that there was lots to come and didn’t want to be rushed. We concurred – with words of friendship.

            So, with much pleasure in the enjoyment of good wine and food, we made friendly contact with the six closely related men, whose profession was to advise on climate control in offices.

            The meal proceeded – two, three, four, five, six courses. Then seven, eight …

            By this time we had become firm friends with the six, who were laughing, hugging each other, animated in gestures and in high, manly spirits. At one time they sang in unison as do football followers, but without alcoholic inducement, being just happy fellows on the spree.

            We had taken flyers of my 17 pictures in Guildhall Art Gallery’s exhibition of artists’ depictions of London’s Tower Bridge since its inception in 1894.We gave one of these to a neighbour of the six.

            The meal continued – nine, ten, eleven courses and onward toward the final one (no.15) of profiteroles.

            No course had been too much, all fascinating in their way – none that one would cook at home.

It came to coffee, when Sambucca was offered as an addition. Then, would we like a liqueur? We chose Limoncello.

As we rose to leave we engaged in conversation with the distinguished gentlemen, who turned out to be retired professors of chemistry and science – with one of them having once experienced a major “eureka” moment in his career.

With more hugs and kisses all round we left – full to the gills, to rather stagger toward our bus stop for home – and a digesting “feet up” as befits those of our increasing age.

Do lunches like this happen elsewhere, we wondered?

Wartime and some experiences

 

Those who came through WW1 seldom spoke of their experiences, so dreadful were they.

            My father came into this category. So, as children, we knew almost nothing about how he suffered when fighting the Turks in Mesopotamia (now Iraq). It was not until well after his early death that his letters home from the battlefields about his experiences and how he was shot, then found to be alive among the dead bodies, and brought back to England from the Middle East, did we know some details. He never really recovered.

            In my case, WW2 was a much cleaner affair.

            My children, I believe, never enquired about my part in it – until now, when my younger son, Pete, not only asked me about my experiences but wanted a printed account. I think that most of what I now write is in my unpublished autobiography. But here it is in essence, mainly for him.

            A lot of what I did is of little account, so I will tell only of my near contact with the enemy – which wasn’t much.

            Having crossed the Atlantic in The Duchess of Richmond (which was fairly safe as the ship was fast and submarine warfare still not a major force), and reached the USA in 1940 as a refugee, I was anxious to return to join the RAF to fight for my country. So, when old enough, I boarded a Swedish vessel (Axel Yohnson) in New York to sail north to Halifax, in Nova Scotia. There, in 1942, we were assembled as part of a convoy to cross the now far more dangerous Atlantic.

            Convoys are slow – as slow as the slowest ship involved. So, at some 10 knots we set off with a Canadian destroyer as escort. This escort left and we were on our own.

            I awoke one morning to find our few passengers and crew standing by the lifeboats. The convoy had been attacked by U-boats during the night. There were now far fewer ships in the convoy. I had slept through all the excitement as Nazi sub-mariners beneath the waves nearby had been attacking us with considerable success. Although unseen, I had now been a bit too near to the enemy for comfort, and unable to fight back. Eventually a British destroyer appeared to see us into Liverpool.

            I joined up almost immediately on landing. It was 1942.

            Instead of starting my flying training right away I was told to return to civvy street until I could be fitted into the system. As the weather was so bad in England, trainee pilots had to wait for vacancies in airfields abroad where the climate was more conducive to elementary and advanced flying training.

To fill up this waiting time I took a job as a farm labourer. Rationing was strict and food scarce. So it seemed to me that working on the land might, in a small way, help the national effort.

One day I was in the middle of a field hoeing turnips or swedes or something, when I heard the roar of approaching aero engines. And overhead, banking over the field so low that I could see clearly the pilot’s and gunner’s faces, was a German JU 88 hugging the ground contours on its way to bomb the railway yards at Reading nearby. Why the gunner didn’t just pop me off I don’t know. Perhaps being off course he was too worried about navigation to bother. They did bomb Reading, but missed the railway and killed many young people at a school. I later took a job as a prop swinger to be nearer aeroplanes and gain some flying experience.

Now in the system, I was posted to RAF Davidstow Moor in Cornwall to be made aware of what was involved in operational flying. From this high altitude airfield we flew Warwick aircraft in Coastal Command. Slung beneath these rather cumbersome, twin-engined aircraft was a specially-designed lifeboat. Our job was to fly over the Bay of Biscay to drop the lifeboats on their multiple parachutes near to aircrew who had bailed out and needed to be rescued. My job in the second pilot’s seat was solely as another pair of eyes. Whereas others were looking down to the sea, my job was to search the sky for Focke-Wulf Condor aircraft. These fast, four-engined aeroplanes were bristling with cannon (we only had the much smaller 303 Browning machine-guns) and with mines in the bomb bay to attack Allied convoys at sea.

With wonderful eyesight I saw one of these Nazi aircraft in the far distance. We were as mincemeat had any of its crew seen us first. I switched on the intercom and shouted: “Focke-Wulf….” when the communicating wires somehow parted. So the crew had heard the warning call but had no idea of the enemy’s position or distance. So I pointed it out to the Skipper by my side who alerted the rest. There was considerable apprehension in that aircraft. We dived to just above sea level and at full throttle headed back to base. And what was our reward? We were guaranteed a fried egg. And I suppose we were also rewarded with our lives.

Still waiting to go abroad for my pilot’s training I was posted to RAF Skellingthorpe, near Lincoln. It was a bomber airfield of Lancaster aircraft. Evening after evening these magnificent aeroplanes and their crews would fly to bomb Germany – not always entirely with bombs but sometimes with added cargo such as fake ration books, money, and other disrupting matter.

One day a Lancaster was to go on an engine test up to Scotland and back before leaving that night for Germany. As the rear gunner was unavailable, would I like to fly in the rear turret? Would I? You bet I would.

So, fully kitted out, I found that, surprisingly, I had enough room to squeeze into the turret in reasonable comfort. It would have been quite different had I been strapped in there for many hours on end.

I was allowed to be in the turret for take-off. And away we went. Despite my helmet the noise was deafening. I could spin the turret around from side to side and raise and lower my four, fully armed-up Browning 303 machine-guns. So, had an enemy aircraft appeared from over the North Sea, I was fully prepared (with no training, I might add) to have a go at shooting it down. It never happened.

            My only job in the turret was to occasionally, when asked to on the intercom, tell the navigator the drift. For this I lined up the guns on the landscape below and read the number on a drift scale down on the right.

            Returning to Skellingthorpe all crew except the pilot had to leave their allotted stations and gather amidships. The aircraft left as usual that evening. Many did not return. And the rear gunner was the most vulnerable person aboard. It was not unusual to have blood and parts of him hosed out of the rear turret on the aeroplane’s return.

            On leave in London we were in the thick of it. Trains were brought to a standstill in a raid, searchlights swept the sky, sometimes holding an enemy aircraft in their beams. Then anti-aircraft guns would roar. The sound of bombs was commonplace. V1 Buzzbombs would fly over at any hour. If the pulse jet engine was alive when the craft was overhead you were safe. If its sinister and distinctive drumming noise stopped before it reached you, it was a case of diving for any cover available. But I never got out of the bath for any of them, even though one once stopped overhead in Victoria as I was bathing and hit Buckingham Palace nearby.

            The other nasty weapon was the V2 rocket. When still waiting to go to America I was stationed at RAF Hornchurch in Essex. I had volunteered to mend bombed roofs in Plumstead on the other side of the river. I had been given an hour’s training by a roofer and provided with the equipment and a mate. With very poor quality slates we mended several roofs in such a poor district that I remember a pretty girl smile, only for her to reveal a mouth full of rotten teeth. It was when on a roof (the accumulated Victorian slate dust and dirt was choking) when there was an explosion in the distance, followed by a very strange rushing-of-air noise. It was one of the first V2 rockets to hit London.

            At last I was sent to Oklahoma in the USA (in Mauritania and crossing the submarine-infested Atlantic for the third time) where, after primary and advanced training, I was awarded my wings and a commission.

Few commissions were awarded. But after crashing an aircraft (not my fault) and visited in hospital by the Commanding Officer and Adjutant, who thought that I might want to give up this flying business, I had my chance. “No sir,” I said, “I want to get out of this bed and FLY.” I thought I’d overdone it, but the C.O. on leaving the hospital, was heard to say: “That’s just the kind of young man we want in the Air Force.”

I did sustain one war wound. When having my wings pinned to my uniform by a Wing Commander who had one arm in a sling, the pin on the wings penetrated my uniform’s material and drew blood on my chest. I suppose this might be construed as “friendly fire”.

It was the end of the war in Europe. Fortunately we had enough skilled pilots to fly for us in the Pacific Campaign. So I was grounded to become a Photographic Intelligence officer.

            So you see, my part in the war was very minor and of not of great interest.

            I often think that had I been born but a year earlier I would almost certainly have lost my life, probably as a bomber pilot. I was extremely lucky to have timed it so well.

                       

 

Guildhall Art Gallery Tower Exhibition Reopens

The exhibition entitled Tower Bridge. A Celebration of 120 Years, in Guildhall Art Gallery in the centre of the City of London, has reopened and will remain open until 5 January 2015.  Seventeen of my paintings are on view.

            I suppose it was because I have so many paintings in the show that I was asked to give a speech and open the exhibition on the 2^nd of June 2014.

            This I managed to do ( http://youtu.be/cIe3kVdBptY) and to considerable applause, though I rather embarrassingly stumbled at one point and forgot what I wanted to say.

            However, the opening was a great success, and the paintings of Tower Bridge throughout its life, depicted by artists through the decades, are shown beautifully in a lovely gallery. Moreover, helped by the skill of the curator, Julia Dudkiewicz, and the generosity of the City of London, everyone enjoyed themselves immensely.

            At the end of June there was another anniversary “opening”, this time in Tower Bridge itself, taking place within those two upper spans that hold the bridge’s towers together – or apart.

            This time the speech was made by Dan Cruikshank, the eminent historian, again accompanied with generous hospitality.

            The spans were of great interest to me as they were of roughly geodetic construction – the same method that was used during the war in the making of Wellington and Warwick bombers (in which the latter I flew). Only here, the Tower Bridge’s spans were made of hefty steel and rivets instead of light aluminium used for aircraft.

            The cross members that look so thin and elegant from the ground or river are, in fact, substantial and spacious. Both were in use for the party, one holding a live band and many guests for the rather long opening speech.

            Views up and down river from this eerie are excellent and, being now glazed, no longer disturb those who dislike heights. People standing beside the Tower of London below look minute.

            Being run by the City of London, in the heart of the City itself, entrance to Guildhall Art Gallery is free. And now signs in Guildhall Yard outside the gallery entrance guide those who wish to see the exhibition into an impressive interior. Opening times are Monday to Saturday 10 am to 5 pm and Sunday 12 noon to 4 pm.

            Do not miss the chance to look around the Tower Bridge exhibition’s adjoining room where there are some original photographs of the bridge under construction.

Chicken - dream chicken under a blanket

I had a dream one night about a chicken dish, and it went like this: In a greased baking pan I put 5 fresh bay leaves (why 5? It was a dream). On these leaves was placed a well-scored chicken (not too large). The bird was then coated with thick yoghurt into which lots of garlic had been pressed with salt and pepper. Now the white-coated fowl was covered with a thin blanket of suet crust pastry (using any fat with twice its weight of self-raising flour, a little turmeric for colour, salt, and then water to form a ball to roll out). Any surplus blanket was cut away, to which I added grated cheese to form a ball, flattening it out with my fists on to a baking surface and scoring it to make cheese straws (goldfingers). I took the straws out of a medium to hot oven (180 degrees) after half an hour to eat then or later, leaving the chicken to bake for another hour. I had surrounded the uncooked chicken in its blanket with potatoes that had been boiled for 10 minutes and oiled, salted and peppered. That was it. And delicious it all was when the recipe was put into practice and consumed soon after the dream.

            In a pressure cooker, for half an hour, I boiled the leftover blanket and chicken carcass with a chicken stock cube, water, the original 5 bay leaves, and two star aniseeds to make the liquor for a soup. Having strained out the solids from the contents of the pressure cooker and discarded them, I added some milk to form the consistency of the soup required.

CHICKEN - DREAM CHICKEN UNDER A BLANKET (with cheese straws and soup)   

You will need:

Fresh bay leaves

A smallish chicken

Thick yoghurt

Garlic

Fat, flour and turmeric (as colour) for the blanket

Grated cheese for the goldfingers

Potatoes (optional)

Oil

Pepper and salt

For the soup:

Star aniseed

Chicken stock cube

Milk

Pepper and salt if necessary

The Tale of a Cat and Fox

 

It was about 3 o’clock in the morning that I woke up to the sound of a fox in the street outside.

            The noise it made was not like those spine-chilling shrieks of their mating call but a cross somewhat between a bark and a growl. The noise persisted.

            I climbed out of bed, pulled back a section of curtain, and raised slats on a Venetian blind to look out.

            Outside, a fox was directing its gaze at something and making this noise. It was agitated.

            The fox was at the edge of the road pointing at a cat, no more than a metre away from it. I had not even seen this cat, as its colour was (as in camouflage) much the same as the wet pavement on which it sat. I later saw that the animal had white legs.

            The cat sat on its haunches and, as the fox tried to grab it in his jaws, a quick swish of bared claws soon sent Renard in reverse.

            This sparring lasted for some time, until the cat rose from its sitting position and rushed at the fox – which retreated post haste.

            The next phase was the cat chasing the fox and the fox chasing the cat, with no result but with the fox continuing its intimidatory noises.

            When the cat was chasing and threatening the fox, it raised its tail and swished it from side to side.

            Had the cat been frightened of the fox it could so easily have climbed a garden wall or tree and been safe. But it didn’t.

            There could have been no territorial dispute, so it must have been that the fox wanted to kill the cat – for its own or cubs’ food.

            After all these high jinx, the cat ran to beneath a Land Rover car to find superior fighting ground.

            The fox circumnavigated the Land Rover several times, sometimes poking its nose under the chassis – only to withdraw it very smartly.

            Finally, the fox gave up the chase and trotted off down the road – hungry. It had learned something about cats. And so had I.

 

Wine Speak

I have written a great deal on wine. And I have never used a word of “wine language” – except once, when winemakers had gone mad on cold fermentation, when I described the general taste of it as being rather like pear drops.

            So now, looking at the descriptions on back labels, gives me great pleasure and much laughter.

            I have only been collecting these comparisons for a month or two and have recorded enough, using only those that I have actually read on the bottles that we have consumed.

            Making wine taste like various fruits predominate. For instance, these include: ripe berry (very popular), strawberries, prunes, cherries, peach, melon, pear, yellow and crisp apple, gooseberries, blueberries, ripe blackcurrants, juicy plum, bulging with ripe black plum, succulent black cherries - but not one, not a single mention of grape.

Other flavours include smoky mocha, chocolate in various forms, liquorice, oak scented, boxwood, rose flower, sweet and silky tannins, subtle spice, violet character, round mouth, brooding, approachable, eucalyptus gum, and two that I love: deft lemon acidity and spicy minerality.

            Should anyone ask you to describe a white wine on offer, you might try one of the last two, and watch for the reaction.

            If I ever do read that a wine tastes of grape, I will jump for joy.

Margreet as Cook

I once wrote in a cookery book that my wife, Margreet, was “not used to cooking”.

            It was true. Having spent her career in the Dutch Foreign Service, there had always been someone to cook for her.

            Then she retired, started to cook, and loved it. Now we cook one week on and one week off.

            She would still like to measure things, but often uses my recipes that mainly decline it.

            She gets better by the week, and is now showing imagination.

            Here are two of her excellent ideas:

When using cooked cold green beans that had grown in foreign parts and almost tasteless, she coated them with a vinaigrette and finely chopped-up anchovies. They became delicious.

Rather in the same vein, she cleverly used up rather nice-looking but not very tasty little sweet corns. Having been boiled, she fried them in butter with garlic. This brought out all their flavour.

Jim's speech Guildhall Art Gallery

 http://youtu.be/cIe3kVdBptY

Tower Bridge: A Celebration of 120 Years

A telephone call came through from the curator’s office at Guildhall Art Gallery.

            The curator, Julia Dudkiewitz, was forming an exhibition of pictorial depictions of Tower Bridge since its inception and had wanted to show my large 1954 painting of “Tower Bridge from Bermondsey Wall” that happens to be in the National Collection. She discovered that it hangs on a wall in some far-flung Embassy. Thus, it was unobtainable. So could she come around to see if I had anything else that might be suitable to show.

            Margreet and I rummaged around and found a large self-portrait, done in 1965, made up of dockland shapes – the funnel of the Dollar Bay tug, smoke and steam coming from it, wharves, quays, and a marker buoy. In the background, as the distant focal point, is a rather freely painted Tower Bridge.

            The curator looked at it and declared that she had seen many, many paintings in her life, but not one like this.

            There were also one or two later “Landscape Recalled” pastel depictions of the bridge that she liked. As well, records were held somewhere of other bridge paintings by me - ones sold at Christie’s and through Offer Waterman Gallery. These she would try to track down and borrow.

            The exhibition will be held at Guildhall Art Gallery throughout the month of June 2014, and I am to cut the opening ribbon.

That was the blog that I wrote before the exhibition opened.

For this major exhibition, I had rather rashly agreed to give an opening speech before cutting a ribbon. Now it so happens that I have managed throughout my life to avoid speaking in public. So, for my first, and I hope last effort, I decided to speak “off the cuff”, but with practice and without notes. Night and day I practised my piece, altering it, extending it on request, and getting more and more nervous. I longed for the speech to be over and done with. I could then sleep without the words running through my head.

            As for cutting the tape, I planned to hold on to one bit, snip a piece off, and keep it as a souvenir. Then I heard that the tape bit had to be abandoned, due to some “health and safety” aspect. Perhaps they did not trust me with a pair of sharp scissors.

            The evening of the 2^nd of June 2014 arrived. I was offered words of assurance by friends as we waited in the grand courtyard. Then inside, a drink, and an opening address given by an important and professionally practised dignatory. My turn came.

            If I got the first few words out, I thought that the rest might follow. And they did. I spoke about my rather vinous experiences of drawing in the 1950s and 1960s dockland, thanks to a wonderful pass given to me by The Port of London Authority. I was now on autopilot, and what I said seemed to make people listen and laugh. Then I stumbled, forgetting what I was to say next. I suppose it made me more human. No one seemed to be concerned – except me.

            Then it was over. And seldom have I enjoyed a drink more than the one thrust into my hand.

            The Exhibition in this splendid Guildhall Art Gallery has turned out to be a wonderful one – full of interest, from sepia photographs of the bridge under construction in 1894 to a work so new that its paint may well have not yet dried.

            My own contribution was well presented by the excellent curator, Julia Dudkiewicz. And it was particularly pleasing to me that those who had liked my painting and had bought directly from me, through Christie’s, or Offer Waterman Gallery, and kindly lent them to the show, were able to see their possessions on view to all.

            The magnificent catalogue, reproducing all the work in colour, is a work of art in itself, a fine memento, and a reference vehicle for those studying the history of one of London’s, and the world’s, iconic structures.

           

Three Words

Three words to do with food and drink popped up in our conversation. Margreet, being unfamiliar with any of them, wanted a dictionary definition. Even her smart computer’s dictionaries and my large Concise Collins dictionary were in the least bit helpful.

            Those words were punt, musseau and chabrot – one very English and the others French.

            Starting with punt. In conversation I was referring to the “thief”, “voleur” or indentation at the base of a wine bottle. It took a lot of roundabout questions to the computer before she found definitions. They were mainly of boats and gambling. Although “punt” was not in a dictionary, the definition was found.

There are various reasons for having a punt at the base of a wine bottle, the most common being that it is there for stability and when Champagne bottles need to be turned by hand.

The word musseau, again, did not appear. So I referred her to a recipe in the Oldie Cookbook that I wrote in 1993. There it was, and she had eaten it many times when it had been my turn to cook. It is a wonderful way of consuming leftover meat – especially when served as a main course with hot potatoes.

Slice the meat finely, cutting away any fat. Place the result in a serving dish and cover it with capers, cornichons (gherkins) chopped finely, chopped onion or shallot, pepper, salt, olive oil and vinegar (we make our own cider and wine vinegar in 5 litre jars). Turn the mixture around to marinate. Serve with some fresh herb as garnish.

My own speciality is to add pickled black peppercorns to the musseau’s dressing. Almost fill a jar (having a plastic lid) with black peppercorns. Cover with vinegar. It will take some time for the peppercorns to soften and become ideal for a musseau or other dishes (use sparingly). They will keep indefinitely, but may need a top-up of vinegar over time.

The last word was chabrot. To “faire chabrot” is a French peasant’s custom of pouring red wine into the dregs of his or her soup, swilling it around to blend, warm, and clean the plate, and then drinking the result from the plate’s rim. It may look as peasanty as it is, but delicious. I have found that poorer red wine makes a better chabrot than a good one.

Pigs

A boar, who slept on his back with his legs in the air, having been bought by a farmer for a great sum, had failed dismally at his job and was to be sold at a considerable loss to be turned into sausages. He had to escape if possible.

            On the other side of the Downs a sow, who slept with limbs outstretched like a dog, had also been bought for a lot of money. She had not provided the farmer with a single litter and was to go the slaughterhouse to be turned into legs of pork and chops. She, too, had to escape.

            Both sow and boar managed it. And they ran.

            The boar, on his escape route, saw a couple of male acrobats disporting themselves on Downland turf. He watched and thought to himself that he could learn from their antics and become fertile with his newly-found knowledge.

            The sow, also escaping on downland, saw a couple of lady acrobats cavorting on the sloping grass. She, also, thought that she might learn to become fertile by watching them.

            A nasty storm of black clouds, combined with heavy rain, covered the Downland hills.

            When the storm passed and visibility was clear once more, the pigs found themselves together.

            They fell in love and produced some fine piglets.

Dreams are sometimes quite charming..

GARDEN UPDATE. SPRING 2014

The slats in our garden bench have been sandpapered to a lovely yellow ochre colour (when dry) – set off by arms and legs oiled to a deep mahogany hue.

            The positions of potted winter plants of mahonia and camellia  have been usurped by pots of burgeoning lilies.

            Sweet peas, grown from seed, have taken the place of tomatoes, which are trouble to grow outside and not much better than those in season bought in the market.

            Of our trees, the damson that took the place of a silver leaf fungussed morello cherry, flourishes. But will I be able to espallier it?

            Pears may be few, like apples. But our planted mistletoe thrives on the potted apple tree. Somehow this parasite has become the rare star of our garden. Everyone is interested in it.

            Daffodils and narcissus lasted well, are dead-headed, and over. But our tulips, that look more like peonies, have lasted well, and light up the garden. We didn’t think we would enjoy tulips so much.

            We have planted the kind of busy lizzie that has survived the disease that killed off most varieties.

            Over-wintered rocket went to seed quickly and has been replanted with sown seed saved from last year. It sprouts almost instantly.

            Agapanthus and flox have risen from their outside winter hibernation, as has the Bolivian begonia that over-wintered on our kitchen windowsill.

            Two spears of asparagus appeared in our large asparagus pot and were eaten raw. But as the crop has declined in vigour over the years, five new plants were grown from seed and been planted as replacements. On their seed packet it declares that a crop of spears may be obtained from their first year’s growth. But I am sure that such salesmanship is vastly over optimistic.

            Our only vegetable this year is runner beans. They climb a bamboo frame and give a constant crop of beans – to be eaten at about 4” long. Some pods are left to grow to a foot long or more in length. These are for next year’s seed and wonderful hors d’oeuvres when boiled and served with garlic, salt, and olive oil.

            The grapevine, in its now reduced span, is coming into leaf – a bit late. Last year’s small vintage lies on its lees and will be bottled soon.

            Our much admired and quite wonderful Typhoon rose flourished as usual. A friend found it to be unobtainable. Just why one of the best roses ever produced should be thus, I have no idea. I will take cuttings of it later in the year.

            The peerless pieris continues to astound us with its changing coloured leaves, flowers and berries. What a wonderful small garden plant  (shrub?) it is.

            A carrion crow has just eaten all the young blackbirds from our resident couple’s first brood. They will start again for sure, as they usually have several families each summer.