This day was a pretty simple one, though no less adventurous. We had breakfast at New Park and then trotted off to see Peter and Alison's grand-daughter's first communion. English Roman Catholic Churches, it turns out, are markedly similar to the American version; it was a modern building in the same sort of no-right-angles style that is typical of U.S. churches of every variety. There was also lots of singing, and tea, coffee and snacks in a multi-purpose room afterwards that exactly the same aroma as the many similar events I attend in my youth at the First Presbyterian Church of Port Kennedy.
Afterwards, we picked up sandwiches and some Crabbie's, and headed for Peter and Alison's beautiful Hinckley Picnic Boat, "Bubbles."
This boat was amazing. It had a little retractable joystick that emerged from the burled wood dash. It would maneuver the boat in any of the four cardinal directions, as well as rotating around its center when you twist the stick. Once we maneuvered Bubbles out of the Poole harbour, the stick retracts and the jet engines kick in at an impressively high speed, clipping along on a plane over the water and kicking up a remarkable rooster-tail of spume.
We motored out past the white cliffs and anchored for a nice lunch.
There was a massive ferry that ran across the harbour on chain-tracks that reminded me of Tyrion's chain at King's Landing. There were picturesque seaside villages that reminded me of "Doc Martin."
After our boat outing and lunch, we returned to New Park where the tenant farmer's son showed us newly hatched chickens.
Despite the fact that this was baby as a baby-animal can get, pyr8queen did not eat it. At least not while I was looking.
This picture notwithstanding, I did not crush the chick into a chick-paste, either. We toured the chicken coops and saw lots of different breeds. Apparently raising chickens as pets is sort of a fad in "the city" (I assume London) and the price of fancy chickens at farm auctions rose in a fashion that was "quite dramatic" - which was just fine by the farmers selling the chickens.
Afterwards, we had a leg of lamb cooked in the aga. It was down to perfection, roasted and brown on the outside and tender on the inside - and all in just a couple of hours. Once more Peter and I sat in the kitchen after cleaning up and were chatting away - he loves to hold forth, and what he says is very interesting, so I was keen to listen. Plus anything you say in a cultured English accent sounds much more convincing. As we were sitting in the dim kitchen, companionably enjoying a whiskey and palavering as the sun set; we were joined by pyr8queen, who drifted in without a word. She skirted the light, skulked through the shadows to the sideboard, and proceeded to pick at the remains of the lamb like a vulture jealously guarding a particularly juicy bit of roadkill it stooped upon. After making wet munching and picking sounds for a while, she drifted back out of the kitchen without a word, and up to bed.
Edit to add that I found a picture of the lamb leg!
Presently I joined her, more full of whiskey and less full of lamb. May it ever be thus.