The Whartons of Winchendon is the story of one of the strangest and most remarkable families in English history, whose dramatic rise and fall spans the turbulent period between the Civil War and the Jacobite Rebellions. This episode brings us to Lord Wharton’s younger son, Goodwin: inventor, occultist, pioneer deep-sea diver, MP, and undisputed King of the Fairies.

Rismin! Accoron! Osmindor! Rumbonium!

High summer in deepest Bucks – and something very strange is stirring in the woods. The woman stalks slowly around the pit, calling on the demons by name, commanding them back to hell. The two men follow suit, perhaps a trifle awkwardly: Osmindor! Rismin! At times, the woman addresses a certain George, although this doesn’t seem to be the name of either man; otherwise the talk runs on treasure, the Duke of Lorraine and his servants, a certain Queen Penelope LaGard. Accoron! Rumbonium!

We are deep in the Chiltern woods, although it doesn’t look much like the high forest – all soaring uncut beeches – that brings the ramblers and the picnickers today; in 1684 the woods are denser, scrubbier, more entangling. Not the kind of place that anyone would walk for fun. In the last years of Charles II this is wild country; the haunt of footpads, semi-feral charcoal burners, outlaws and outcasts of every stripe. A sink of superstition and – in persecuting times – a refuge for every type of dissent.

Even so, it’s hard to know what to make of the three characters chanting over the pit. The lady is in her fifties and rather stout (could she even be pregnant?); decently dressed, but you know somehow that life has been a struggle. Her companions look like gentlemen, of sorts; one sixty-odd, stocky, with an almost comical air of shrewdness about him; the other much younger, slight, perhaps a bit fey. A Whig insider would doubtless have the older man pegged as John Wildman, veteran MP and a former postmaster-general. He might even know that the other fellow was briefly in Parliament too – what d’you call him, younger brother of Tom Wharton, family owns a deal of land in these parts: said to be a bit of a mooncalf.

Yes, it really is time we caught up with Goodwin Wharton.

We left Goodwin – the second son of Philip, the ‘Good Lord’ – at a decidedly low point. His botched affair with Anne, the young wife of his brother Tom, was just the latest in a series of ventures that left him looking pretty foolish. He was also more or less broke. To an extent, Goodwin’s problem was the classic one of the younger son; he had no estates or income of his own and no trade or profession. This made him dependent on the goodwill of Lord Wharton, a prickly man who made no attempt to hide his low opinion of Goodwin and his preference for the extrovert Tom. Being an enterprising sort, Goodwin had struck out on his own as an ‘inventor-projector’, obtaining a patent in 1675 for his ‘new inventions for buoying up ships sunk in the sea’ and another for ‘an ingenious design . . . for the squenching of public fires’. He had also developed equipment for deep-sea diving and tried it out himself in a quest for sunken treasure off the Isle of Mull.

When all these enterprises failed, Goodwin attempted to follow Tom into politics, getting himself elected to Parliament in 1680. In his maiden speech he had stunned his listeners with an extraordinary attack on James, Duke of York – the soon-to-be James II – denouncing him as a coward and a traitor and accusing him (inter alia) of starting the Great Fire of London. Goodwin was horrified to find that he had alienated not just the Court party but also the Whigs, who regarded his speech as wholly counterproductive and possibly insane. His parliamentary career seemed over before it had begun. To cap it all, there was now this affair with Anne, which had ruined things with Tom; by 1682 Goodwin had come to regard himself as ‘generally hated and slighted by my own relations’ – an outcast from the Wharton world of wealth and power.

Perhaps as compensation, Goodwin had become increasingly preoccupied with alchemy and the pursuit of occult knowledge. Unfortunately, his first attempts in this line had proved calamitous; he had put his trust in an alchemist named Broune, who had fleeced him unmercifully before vanishing. However, thanks to an extraordinary meeting in the spring of 1683, Goodwin knew that his luck was at last on the turn. From now on everything was going to be different.

It was in one of the poorest quarters of London that Goodwin came upon Mary Parish, a lady who has been described not absurdly as ‘one of the most imaginative and versatile women that England has ever produced’. Now in her early fifties, Mary was a healer and wise woman who made a precarious living through the sale of love charms and herbal remedies. Although she had clearly seen better days – and perhaps took a little too much brandy – the story she now told Goodwin was an amazing one that opened a new world of possibilities in his mind.

Mary had been born at Turville, a small village high in the Chiltern woods. Some years before her birth, the family had come into sudden money from an unknown source, thus arousing much local gossip. She would learn the truth of the matter when she was six or seven years old. Her grandfather now confided a great secret: that he had found a crock of fairy gold while digging a charcoal pit in the woods at Northend – and that an inscription on the pot promised a good deal more to those who knew where to look. Mary took to haunting the Northend woods and on one occasion saw the fairies dancing in the glade. Recognizing her special talents, Mary’s family sent her to learn medicine with a wealthy uncle, who also introduced her to alchemy and the occult arts. However, an unwise marriage and a deal of bad luck led to Mary being thrown into Newgate for debt. Here she made friends with a condemned felon named George, who agreed to become her attendant spirit after his death – a capacity in which he would serve her faithfully and well. There followed two more disastrous marriages, leaving her with a total of 20 children, all of whom died in the Great Plague (Mary would remain both astonishingly fertile and remarkably careless of her offspring).

Although her healing gifts had brought her some years of prosperity, Mary was now undeniably poor – a circumstance that she blamed largely on the jealousy of Sir Thomas Williams, the royal physician. However, she had recently discovered something that promised a revolution in her fortunes. While walking on Hounslow Heath, she had heard church bells ringing beneath the earth and the sound had carried her into the Lowlands – the marvellous underground kingdom of the fairies. Here she had visited the royal palace – a dwelling of unimaginable splendour – and became friendly with the King and Queen, who had shown her extraordinary signs of favour. With a bit of luck – and perhaps a bit of help – riches beyond the dreams of man would soon be hers to command. As a religious man, Goodwin could only see his meeting with Mary Parish as providential. With her secret knowledge and his education, social connections, and (occasional) access to funds, what might they not achieve? Within days, Goodwin had moved Mary into better lodgings, not far from his own. A partnership was formed that would last to the end of their lives.

For the rest of 1683 Mary would hold Goodwin in thrall with her detailed, almost anthropological accounts of the Lowlanders and their curious life under Hounslow Heath (the entrance to the fairy world must have been somewhere under Heathrow Terminal 4, which could explain a good deal). Born three hundred years later, Mary could surely have made it huge as a writer of fantasy fiction. By her account, the fairies were mortal but extremely long lived, often retaining their youthful appearance for over a thousand years. Although they looked about three feet tall, they were in fact a normal human size and chose to diminish themselves by wearing special demagnifying breastplates (clearly, she had Goodwin sussed as a gadgets man). The fairies’ ability to appear and disappear at will was likewise achieved by advanced technological means. Over the weeks to come Goodwin would acquire an expert knowledge of their social arrangements, customs, and religion (Roman Catholic, but involving a strict adherence to the Jewish Law). He would also become familiar with the leading figures of the Lowland world and their personal and dynastic rivalries; with King Byron, Queen Penelope LaGard, and Princess Ursula LaPerle, the Queen’s beautiful but treacherous sister; with Cottrell, an evil confessor to the Queen, and Father Friar, an aged counsellor who was also a great alchemist; with the Duke and Duchess of Brittany, the Duke of Lorraine, and the decidedly dodgy fairy Duke of Hungary.

Having heard all about these very interesting people, and their still more interesting gold, Goodwin could hardly wait to get networking; it was not long before an opportunity arose. That April Mary’s spirit guide, George, brought a message from the Queen of Fairies saying that she would be only too happy to visit Goodwin in his rooms. Disappointingly, she twice failed to keep the tryst and on a third occasion found Goodwin asleep and lacked the heart to wake him. To make up for this, Queen Penelope promised to receive both Mary and Goodwin in her palace on May Day – but was forced to cancel when her period came on unexpectedly (the fairies took a strict Mosaic line on these things, making it impossible for her to see any man at such times). This excuse would be repeated so often over the months and years that even Goodwin’s innate patience and chivalry would begin to wear thin.

Although summons to the fairy palace would arrive quite regularly, actually gaining admittance proved strangely difficult. On one occasion Mary and Goodwin would make it as far as the gates of the Lowlands, only to find that the entrance area was flooded. On another they travelled to Hounslow but were met by the news – as always, relayed to Mary via the faithful George – that King Byron had drunk too much and was in no state to receive them. They would soon hear that the King’s excesses had in fact caused his death – and that any visit would have to be put off until after the long mourning period decreed by fairy custom.

This was all hugely frustrating for Goodwin, but in the midst of this new debacle he began to glimpse a momentous possibility. Although the Queen proved no better at keeping appointments, her recent messages carried hints that were too strong to ignore; it appeared that she would now like to marry Goodwin and make him the King of Fairyland. In fact, she found him so irresistible that for some weeks she had secretly been having sex with him while he slept – sometimes as often as three times a night. This, Goodwin realized, would explain his tiredness and his otherwise puzzling backache. Autumn brought sad news that the Queen had suffered a dangerous miscarriage, losing twin boys that had clearly been fathered by Goodwin. Penelope’s health was badly affected and for all her great love she would not be able to come to Goodwin for many months.

By a curious synchronicity, these events had a parallel in the human world. That summer Goodwin and Mary had sealed their partnership by becoming lovers, despite the 20-year difference in age. The morning after they made love for the first time, Mary announced that she had conceived a boy (a fact soon confirmed by George). Two nights later, the couple again had sex and Goodwin was surprised to learn that she had once more conceived. If his disappointments had ever tempted him to give up on Mary – and at times, in his weaker moments, they had – Goodwin now saw that the two of them were bound together by more than a lust for gold. In due course Mary was delivered of twin boys; one died soon after birth but the other – a fine lad named Peregrine – was handed over to a nurse for safekeeping. Although Goodwin would never actually get to see the boy, this was not for want of fatherly concern – he would pay uncomplainingly for Peregrine’s care for the rest of his life. As with the Queen, firm appointments would be broken off at short notice for the most annoying of reasons, including illness, repeated minor injuries, and lack of clean clothes. Within a few days of the birth Mary declared that she was pregnant with another four children.

The spring of 1684 brought further journeys to Hounslow but no greater success in gaining an audience. Eventually, there came an exciting promise that the Queen would come for Goodwin in a fairy coach and whisk him off to the Lowland colony at Moorfields, where the fairy Pope would perform the marriage. However, this plan was stymied by a freak accident on the road and the untimely start of the Queen’s period. As the summer dragged on, the marriage of Goodwin Wharton and Penelope, Queen of the Fairies would be postponed for one extraordinary reason after another – the most alarming being an attempt by the fairy Duke of Hungary to poison her with a dish of chocolate. Frustrating as all this must have been, the summer brought one major triumph for Goodwin; belatedly seeing the dangers of delay, the Queen made a public announcement confirming that Goodwin was the new King of Fairyland, and that Peregrine would be his successor.

Given the endless difficulties that seemed to accompany all dealings with Queen Penelope and the Lowlanders, Mary and Goodwin had wisely begun to concentrate on a more mundane scheme – that of recovering the rest of the fairy gold buried in the woods at Northend. By the end of 1683 they had already made two exploratory journeys into the Chilterns and had located the site of the treasure, which turned out to be extensive. Unfortunately, the gold was protected by an evil spirit named Rumbonium, who was not at all disposed to be helpful. Hope, however, was offered by another spirit called Bromka, who let them know that Rumbonium was always absent on Monday afternoons, leaving the coast clear.

Here was promising news, certainly, but the treasure hunters had a problem in that they were now almost destitute of funds. As well as extracting a few guineas from his father, Goodwin had the inspired idea of bringing in an old acquaintance as financial backer – the former postmaster-general, John Wildman. A veteran plotter against both Charles I and Cromwell, Wildman had made a fortune from the estates of exiled royalists and was as well known for his shrewd business sense as for his tortuous conspiracies. In 1684 he was just out of the Tower for his alleged role in the Rye House Plot to murder Charles II and his brother James. Wildman fell in eagerly, if warily, with Goodwin’s schemes and put up some 300 guineas for a piece of the action.

So it is that on a Monday in July, 1684 Wharton, Wildman, and Mary make their way through the woods to the remote hamlet of Northend (accompanied, of course, by the invaluable George). The partners are relieved to find Rumbonium absent – but shocked to learn that three even more troublesome spooks are now in possession: Rismin, Osmindor, and the terrible Accoron, who menaces Mary in the form of a dragon. This introduces a tedious delay; before they can do anything else, the partners will clearly have to exorcise these devils and cast them into hell. Hence another trudge to Northend, and hence the terrible rites of exorcism in the woods. The demons are sent packing, but it turns out that the treasure is too vast for the three partners to take away unaided. For the next visit, therefore, a crew of (invisible) fairy servants are hired from the Duke of Lorraine – 50 guineas paid up front by Wildman. The servants are ready and waiting when Bromka announces, without so much as an explanation, that the treasure has just, well, gone. As if it had never been.

But not to despair: a much greater prize is buried nearby – the mysterious Urim and Thummim from the temple of Jerusalem, rescued during the sack of that city in AD 70 and strangely preserved in a Chiltern beech wood. This sacred treasure, Bromka explains, is now in the keeping of a deceased Jew named Ruben Pen Dennis, who will happily hand it over – if they will only come back in a week. And so here they are again, the three treasure seekers, pushing their way through thorns and thick woods to arrive at their rendezvous with Bromka. Who tells them, sorrowfully, that they are fifteen minutes too late: the sacred treasure of Jerusalem has also vanished – like fairy gold, like the dream of a summer night.

As it turned out, this was the last foray into the Northend woods. Although Mary and Goodwin were keen to try again, John Wildman seemed increasingly preoccupied. After the Whigs’ great enemy James II ascended to the throne in early 1685, Wildman became caught up in the complex web of plotting that led to the Monmouth Rebellion in June of that year. Indeed, it seems likely that Wildman had already earmarked his share of the treasure, should he ever get his hands on it, for the funding of that ill-fated venture (the divinatory powers of the Urim and Thummim would doubtless have come in handy too). With the collapse of Monmouth’s hopes at Sedgemoor, Wildman fled to the safety of the Continent, as old Lord Wharton would do just a few months later. By a curious irony, the Good Lord is said to have buried his own treasure – amounting to some £20,000 – in dense woodland only a few miles from the haunted ground of Turville and Northend.

The overlap of Monmouth’s rebellion with the Northend treasure scheme is worth a moment’s reflection. Until now, Goodwin’s dealings with fairies and spirits might have seemed merely eccentric – and in any case utterly removed from the political world of Lord Wharton and his favoured son, Tom. From this point forward the two spheres would increasingly converge. The strange world of Goodwin Wharton was about to get stranger.

Also published in this series 1. The Lost Domain; 2. The Good Lord. 3. Sawpit and Son; 4. Honest Tom; 5. Ghosts, Omens, Allegories; 6. The Hell-Fire Duke; 8. Voices and Visions; 9. The Solar King of the World; 10. The Lost Domain Revisited.

Next week: things become still more berserk as Goodwin meets Christ on a boat in Deptford Creek, is attacked by Satan in a whirlwind, and attempts to impregnate the Queen of England.

I have posted some self-indulgent things in my time, but this might take the Biscoff: a forty-three-year-old diary from those strange, exhausted days after Finals, when you’re not quite sure if your life is ending or just beginning. If a defence is needed, I’d say these entries (edited here) capture a moment that most of us experience at some point — that threshold moment when you still feel very young, but know that a defining phase of youth has ended. They also record a pre-digital era that feels as lost as Iram of the Pillars.

Names and initials of private persons have generally been altered.

Tuesday 14 June 1983

Oxford

Last day – with yesterday’s second wind bearing me on to the finishing tape. History of the Language a straight beta I would imagine, having never envisaged anything else. Then back for Shakespeare, which I think I aced (referring in a moment of inspiration to Falstaff’s ‘gastrocentric world view’). Today’s papers seemed fine but any thoughts about grades and classes will have to come later.

The next few hours an almost out of body experience. Through cheering crowds and up to Keble in a bit of a trance, with people patting me on the back and pressing booze into my hand. Faith and Brynne and their crowd were in the quad at college: I went in for a hug with F. and quite unexpectedly she kissed me full on the mouth – a first time for me and I had no idea what to think let alone say. Everyone sort of melted away after that and when Steven Mackin turned up with a bottle of champagne I had little choice other than to drink it myself. At some point remembered that I had left my bike at the Exam Schools and lurched off to reclaim it and cycle home. I had made it some way up the Iffley Rd before the thought struck: why is all the traffic on the wrong side of the road?

Oh.

Somehow got home in one piece though I have no memories of my arrival or anything that may have happened afterwards. Philip [flatmate] says they saw me looming at the kitchen window, scrabbling at it as if for support – and then capsizing slowly out of sight.

Wednesday 15

The Day After. Heard Joe [flatmate] going out for his last paper and snuggled more determinedly under the covers: whatever else life holds, I will never have to take English Finals again. Suddenly craving a grapefruit for breakfast so out to find one – meeting Hannah, beating mats, on the way back up: we talked a little, for the first time in weeks, but when I turned my back she was gone. Made coffee and with a luxurious feeling opened Claudine at School, a book I shall read for pleasure and no other reason – something I have not done for over a year.

Out after 12 to greet Joe at the finish: crowds pressing outside the Schools and an almost carnival atmosphere – Mackin with another bottle of fizz although I didn’t partake. J. seemed exhausted and went home to change and rest – while I somehow cut my hand on my bike and had to rush off and get a bandage from Boots.

Philip and Tony had booked a punt for the afternoon so I bought wine and waited at Rainbow Bridge, soon to be joined by Marianne, and Rosie straight from playing tennis. The guys rather late with the boat – T. in bowtie with pipe and P. in a boater – but we climbed on board and so down through the Parks, under a confetti of white and pink petals from the hawthorn. A few elderly nudists at Parson’s Pleasure and then the adventure of hauling the boat across the rollers to avoid the weir – we lost control of it at the bottom, and had to jump back in smartish holding on to bottles and whatever else. A boatload of American girls were laughing madly at our efforts and taking pictures. From here a narrower stream, down through Mesopotamia toward Magdalen – but turned around before the Bridge and so back over the rollers, this time uphill. Here we found the same girls drifting in circles having lost their pole and it was our turn to laugh – they went perilously close to the weir, with much screaming, but finally got in to the bank.

From this point it is all a bit hazy. We pushed back through the Parks and upstream to the Boathouse in a sort of delirium of happiness; as this seemed to involve a lot of splashing and throwing of water we were all quite wet by the time we arrived. Tony was going on somewhere by car so I ended up riding his bike back to college, despite warnings about the ‘difficult’ brakes. Joe joined us here but soon went off with Phil and a few others to find a cricket ball and have a knock-about in the Parks. I went into town to spend money: David Copperfield and Weymouth Sands (Powys), but also the ‘Emperor’ Concerto, Four Last Songs, Chopin Nocturnes – the first classical records I have bought for myself. About £20 with the books. Back to Keble and flaked out on the grass with Marianne – and also Louise, back from her year in Marseilles. From 6 there was a drinks do at the Warden’s, of which I remember nothing except Stella K [tutor]. introducing us all very proudly to her man. Hannah and Max there but didn’t speak. With Joe, and no one else, for a celebratory dinner at Clery’s – but both of us by this time flagging and the food, alas, poor.

Thursday 16

A quiet morning reading Colette and delighting in the novelty of being able to do so. But one major annoyance: I played the first disc of Joe’s beloved Don Giovanni yesterday and left it on the turntable – and somehow the sun, coming through the glass of the window, has warped it into uselessness. J. says that it is hardly my fault and I shouldn’t think of buying a replacement – but I rather think I will have to.

Into college later, as Phil is pressing me for a cheque and I left my chequebook at Tony’s with much else yesterday. T. and I out for a coffee, talking much about what we are going to do next – in both the short and the longer term. Also on bikes and cycling – I say I am determined to see a bit of the Oxford country before going down. Back to college where Marianne joined us, fresh from her practical out in the country.

Schools Party at Stephen Wall’s [tutor] from 8.30. Pleasant and convivial but everyone pretty subdued: I suppose the immediate elation has passed but the tiredness really hasn’t. For some reason I flicked the Vs up to Malcolm [tutor] on arrival and he found this quite hilarious. There was some talk of politics – all of it anti-government – and S. talked again about his Quaker background and conscientious objection to Nat. Service. Hannah left early and we were all kicked out at midnight. Accepted a lift home from Malcolm, leaving my bike: I talked of plans to cycle into the Cotswolds or the White Horse at Uffington – but M. rather sceptical I thought.

Friday 17

Oxford/Woodstock/Yarnton/Cassington

A lovely lazy morning in bed – I suppose the joy of this will wear off soon, but it certainly hasn’t yet. Collected my bike from Stephen’s after lunch and set off up the Banbury Rd, with the vague intention of getting into the Cotswolds around Charlbury or Chipping Norton. It was rather warm and stuffy, however, and no fun on the main road with a constant stream of lorries on my right. Got as far as Woodstock and the gates of Blenheim Palace before deciding I’d had enough: so turned off here for Bladon, where WSC is buried, and thence through back lanes to Cassington and Yarnton, pleasant commuter villages of Cotswold stone. It was hazy, and there were small woods, and fields lit up with poppies, and great visible clouds of pollen swirling in the air. But the countryside here seems tidied-up and suburbanized in a hundred ways that make it tame compared to deep Somerset or Dorset. Back to the main road and so to college, with an obscure sense of disappointment, not least in myself. But I must have covered 20+ miles, which in the circumstances is hardly disgraceful.

Hot and sweaty and probably whiffed a bit – but took myself to the Music Society garden party, where David G. plied me with Pimms while Jonathan F. played Chopin and Debussy. It seems I had missed Joe, Philip et al, who slipped off earlier to watch Keble in the cricket cuppers. But Stephen M. was there tout seul so I chatted with him over Pimms and wine and it was all very pleasant and relaxing.

Saturday 18

Oxford

A quite beautiful summer’s day – really the first we’ve had. With nothing at all to do I strolled around Christ Church Meadow and then sat in the Botanic Garden with bells thronging the air: a sudden pang at the thought of losing all this – the sheer, dazing beauty.

Towery city and branchy between towers; 
Cuckoo-echoing, bell-swarmèd, lark charmèd, rook racked, river-rounded; 
The dapple-eared lily below …

On the way up to Keble I treated myself to the first big volume of Proust, which I am planning to make my big reading project of the summer. Sat in the quad with Louise, her friend Nona J., and my old acquaintance ‘Shovel’ Robinson – almost the first person I met at Keble: swallows were veering and flitting, their cries shrill among brickwork.

Sunday 19

Another fine, cloudless day. Again, spent most of it sitting in the quad, drinking tea with whoever came by. This included Tony and various members of his family. Today officially the end of term, so a constant stream of cars, people trailing back and forth with suitcases, table lamps, boxes of books etc. The melancholy of departure – and for some of us, of course, no coming back. Started reading Weymouth Sands by J. C. Powys, which is bracingly odd, to put it mildly.

Monday 20

Oxford/Iffley

Joe’s friends Jimmie and Ruth N. come to stay for the week. It goes without saying that they are Northern and Catholic – both very young-seeming with R especially fresh-faced and ingenuous. Spent a quiet day mostly by myself: but we met up later at the Isis Tavern, near Iffley Lock, which can only be reached by foot, cycle, or boat. A large beautiful garden overlooking the Thames and light until nearly 11. The others back by the towpath – but on a whim I crossed the river at the lock and cycled home via Iffley village.

Tuesday 21

Oxford/Otmoor

The day I walked on Otmoor, the mysterious haunted fen that has no business to be where it is, in mild nondescript country just north of Oxford. Cycled up to the ring-road at Marston and then out of the city on a quiet lane to the quiet village of Woodeaton. Another couple of miles to Noke, a tiny stone hamlet, where the road gives out entirely on the edge of the moor. From here a bridleway into the fen, with reed beds impenetrable on one side and a straggling hedge on the other, today smothered in wild roses. Warm and very hazy, with an almost oppressive quiet, broken only by the weird sounds of unseen and unidentifiable birds. A bridge over a broad channel, then a sharp turn to the right – but the MOD were firing today (part of the moor is a rifle range) so back by a different path, wading slowly through long damp shooshing grass. This all seemed to happen in slow motion, with my destination remaining as far away as ever. A truly dreamlike experience and really quite disturbing, although it might be hard to say why. Eventually back to Noke, and a welcome feeling of civilisation. Rode home through Beckley etc., where the little hills gave fine views back across the moor. Managed to smash my front bike lamp (seem to be good at this).

Wednesday 22

Oxford

Warm and very humid. Into town, where I did the decent thing and bought a box set of Don Giovanni from Blackwells: Joe can have the first record, after I have taped it, and of course I keep the rest. Sat in the quad again, with T and M and others, and watched the swallows, which today were swooping right to the ground in search of insects. A sign that the weather is about to break? But it somehow felt like a larger omen, a sign of something bigger coming to its end.

All of us in the flat tonight, plus Ruth and Jimmie. They had acquired some awful record called ‘Pope John Paul is Coming to Town’, a souvenir of last year’s papal visit, and we played this over and over, the naffness becoming funnier with each spin. After a while we moved on to Dylan, and Joe, Jerry [flatmate], and I stayed up playing pretty much every BD album we had till long past midnight.

Apparently, someone was seen trying to enter one of the flats today – but the police were called and they got him.

Thursday 23

Town in the late afternoon but college all shut up for the ball tonight. Thunderstorms threatening. An evening walk in the Parks and then through the meadow toward the boathouse, drifts of poppies lurid in the storm-light. Met Judith Mossman, with a friend (male), and she said to stay in touch – but will we? Indeed, when it comes to it, who of all these folk am I going to see in the months and years ahead? Joe certainly, Tony and Phil probably – but Jerry W? Nathan? HANNAH? Ate chips on a sad bench before cycling home.

Friday 24

Phil out for his music practical this morning – he seemed pretty cool about it. We met in college later, with Joe and his friends, the wrecks and detritus of the ball around us. The English first-years finished Mods this afternoon, so hoping I might see that interesting person Josie M. – but no. Another I may never see again. About ten or twelve of us to Dear Friends later and there was a distinct Last Supper feel: a difficult moment towards the end when the proprietor came over beaming and offered us free dishes – only to retract when he saw that one of us had placed the nice wooden serving board on top of a food warmer, thereby doing it no good. I wish I didn’t think it was me. Joe and young Ruth slipped away together at the end, while the rest of us made our way to the college bar. This was full of guys (it was all guys) from the Keble Association dinner, paunchy in their djs and chortling over brandy and cigars: will that be us in ten, twenty, thirty years?

Saturday 25

Hot again. Joe, Ruth and Jimmie to the big pro-life rally in London, in Hyde Park. Jerry also away and Phil out so had the place mostly to myself. Some reading but mostly concentrated on packing up my books and other stuff for Dad to collect tomorrow.

Sunday 26

Hot. Ruth and Jimmie went. Dad came to take my bike and other stuff back in the car.

Monday 27

Philip’s parents came to take his stuff. We now have three days to clean the house from top to bottom: but Joe and Jerry W seem reluctant to even think about it. Indeed, Jerry said that he would rather lose the deposit than spend time cleaning – which is fine, if you have the money I guess (my funds now very low).

Tuesday 28

Some tidying and cleaning, but then the farce of manhandling the piano downstairs and so on the trolley and back to Keble. Started Combray. Faith and Hannah arranging presents for tutors – a yucca plant for Stephen!

Wednesday 29

Crunch day for cleaning the house – but J and J decide to head off for Mass (it is the feast day of Ss Peter and Paul). P. full of scorn for the feckless scrimshanking papists: he has, or pretends to have, some very old-school prejudices about RCs. And his mood not improved when he ended up covered with fat from a forgotten pan. We scrubbed and scoured and cleaned and swept, leaving on principle a few jobs for J and J – but as to whether they do them?

Thursday 30

Oxford/Reading/Basingstoke/Yeovil

Last day in the flat. Into town early and sold a pile of books, then back and paid Phil the £85 for electricity. Jerry picked up by his parents after lunch and left promising to send cheques to both of us. Joe had also gone by this time – and one of us suddenly realised that the oven had not been cleaned – so it was out for cleaner and an hour or two of spraying and scrubbing. With everything in fair order, it remained only to dispose of various house plants and stray umbrellas, most of which we handed to Jonathan S., the girls having all slipped off at various times in the week (no real goodbye from Hnnah). At some point I went to catch the train, leaving P. to lock up and return the keys.

So that’s it. That’s Oxford done. At least for now.

i.m. ‘Philip’ (May 1962–September 2025): May he rest in peace and rise in glory

Written in another heatwave, almost twelve years ago now, when there were still children about the house: the final part of my little e-book The Whartons of Winchendon (2014). The book tells the tale of one of the strangest and most remarkable families in English history, their rise and fall spanning the turbulent period between the Civil War and the Jacobite Rebellions. I suppose I realised at the end that the story was not really about politics or magic but about family and what – intentionally or not – we hand on to our children. And so I bring my own kids into the tale and implicitly raise the question of what I’m handing on to them – this odd Wharton saga being maybe part of it.

I’m climbing the ridge road to Winchendon for the first time in months, the first since I began to worry myself about this damned family and their (let us say) issues. We’re two weeks into the summer holidays and I’ve dragged the kids away from their phones and their box-sets and all the way up the long hill from Waddesdon; it’s 80 degrees plus, 70% humidity, and I’m not expecting gratitude. The sun beats through the haze and though it’s still July the grass has the sad look of grass in August; already the wheat stands thick, waiting for the clank of the combines. As we climb higher, kites wheel and mewl above our heads, hedges are pungent with diesel and wild autumn clematis.

Winchendon is much as I remembered it; the tiny Norman church, the rough sheep-cropped hillside, and the old manor, what little remains of it, lost behind its impenetrable screen of trees. And yet I can hardly look at anything here in the same way. Last time I came by, it struck me as a queer, haunted place that doubtless had some tale to tell; now as I squint into the haze I see that story everywhere. Here on the bare hill Old Philip walked in his gardens with Andrew Marvell, discoursing on fruit trees and perilous matters of state; over there, Goodwin made love to his brother’s wife, wooing her with talk of alchemy and sunken treasure; by those nettles, Tom looked over his horse gallops, wondering where to stash the weapons that would help to topple a king. This little hilltop church – firmly locked as ever – is where they buried Tom on the day of the great eclipse, where his black funeral helm hung in the rafters for two centuries, and where he lies now with his two wives and – it is said – the favourite mistress who chose to join him namelessly in death.

I try to tell the children a bit about these people and this place; the rise and fall of a great family, the strange subplot (or is it the main deal?) of Goodwin Wharton and Mary Parish. They are more interested than I might have expected; less than I might have hoped. It strikes me now that, given the time and talent, I could have done far more with this stuff – ideally, it would have been fiction, something on the lines of Kipling’s Rewards and Fairies or Alison Uttley’s A Traveller in Time. Tablet-toting, app-savvy, Civ-fixated kids from Aylesbury wander into the fields, encounter these weird characters out of the past, learn some perplexing things about history, politics, England. But I know very well I couldn’t have pulled that off.

As it happens, the person I think about mostly today is the one I’ve barely considered till now; Jane Goodwin, wife to Old Philip and mother of Tom and Goodwin. Not much is recorded of Lady Jane (Jenny to her family); she was married at 19, bore 11 children of whom four died in infancy, and was dead herself at the age of 40. She looks wide-eyed and girlish in the Van Dyke portrait, with her silk bodice-dress and fashionable side-ringlets. Could she be the key to the whole thing, I begin to wonder? Winchendon was hers long before it was Philip’s and she was christened, married, and buried in the little church on the hill. Lord Wharton seems to have been distraught at her death and this – as much as the political situation – may have been the reason that he abandoned Winchendon and the life of rural retirement in 1658. The memories were just too hard. Tom (10) and Goodwin (5) were whisked off to the very different atmosphere of Wooburn and brought up mainly by servants. Could it be that, henceforth and for the rest of their tangled lives, Winchendon stood for a lost domain of happiness that they were always trying and failing to regain? Tom brought both his wives here, but neither marriage was happy. (Anne’s end we know, but Lucy née Loftus also suffered greatly; with Tom’s betrayals, and the still more awful betrayal of their son, the famous beauty sharpened until she seemed like some gaunt bird of prey. She survived her husband by only a year.)

As for Goodwin, his sense of banishment must have been still deeper and more painful. Perhaps sensing his vulnerability, Lady Jane had made provision in her will for at least one of her properties to come down to Goodwin, the son who bore her family name. This was high-handedly over-ridden by Lord Wharton, who insisted that Tom have everything. Goodwin was thus deprived not just of his mother, but of the care she had tried to extend from beyond the grave. Seducing his brother’s wife at Winchendon may have felt like revenge, or a way back into the charmed circle, or somehow both. In the event, it merely led to his being banished a third time, as Tom now barred him from the house of their childhood. It is at just this point that Goodwin falls into the warm clutches of Mary Parish, a woman twenty years his senior who any psychology student would have down as a mother substitute. Alert to these things as a grifter must be, Mary got a hold on her mark by promising to put him in touch with his mother’s spirit and claiming – rather boldly – that she herself was related to Lady Jane. This was very probably a lie, but may not have been. The two families lived in the same small corner of Bucks and there is some evidence that Mary’s people had come down in the world. Could it be that Goodwin looked into the raw, brandy-flushed features of Mrs Parish and saw the lines of a much loved, barely remembered face? If so, their sexual relationship would fall into a pattern with his other semi-incestuous affairs (sister in law, stepmother, sisters and half-sister). But enough of all that: the heat seems to be putting some queer ideas in my head.

I could say that I saw the ghosts of the Whartons looming and swivelling in the haze over Winchendon; but in truth I didn’t. These people lived here once. Today the place feels empty, as it always does; there’s just us, an old gent watering his mixed borders, someone sluicing a car while the PM programme drones in the background, vaguely New Age harp music drifting from a bedroom.

Really it’s nothing special, Winchendon; like a thousand other places in England, it’s at once perfectly mysterious and rather dull, a combination I find hard to resist. I had been meaning to walk on to the little observatory at the end of the ridge – planted there because it’s one of the few genuinely dark places in south-east England. On the night of the summer solstice people from neighbouring villages come for miles through the dewy fields, to see the sun rise over Aylesbury. But we’re very hot, very tired; and it seems to be getting late. That will be an adventure for another day. We have water; snacks for the long walk back; and a feather from the tail of a red kite. It seems like enough.

The four of us float down the long hill, under the great trees of Eythrope Park, talking lightly of what we will do when we grow up. In the valley of the Thame, the shadows are starting to thicken and the haze will soon be turning into mist; if we keep on walking we can be home in two, three hours, before we’re too hungry or start to fight. Fish twerk through the green gloom of the river, white and yellow water lilies flash from the dark.

Also published in this series 1. The Lost Domain; 2. The Good Lord. 3. Sawpit and Son; 4. Honest Tom; 5. Ghosts, Omens, Allegories; 6. The Hell-Fire Duke; 7. Away with the Fairies; 8. Voices and Visions; 9. The Solar King of the World.

In my late twenties I worked for two years (1987-89) as a research and editorial assistant to the historian Jeremy Wilson, then grappling with the last stages of his great authorized biography of T. E. Lawrence. Lately, for reasons I do not wholly understand, I have found my mind circling back repeatedly to this interlude, which now seems to mark the end of youth: after almost 40 years, the episode has the oddness and intensity of a dream.

This may owe something to the work, which was all-absorbing if at times a grim slog; but other factors certainly come into it. Throughout this time I lived a strangely cut-off, almost monastic existence in the depths of rural Hampshire: lodging at an old cottage in the feudal village of Breamore, with its Elizabethan mansion and tiny Saxon church; and walking the two or three miles daily to work at Woodgreen, an even smaller place on the edge of the New Forest. As I knew no one and had no transport, long walks on the downs or into the forest became my chief form of solace.

I also kept a detailed diary, some at least of which seems worth sharing. Here — over six or seven posts — are a series of entries from the last months of the project, when the struggle to complete the book became most intense and fraught. (Many private matters have been omitted, and the identity of private persons has generally been disguised.)

Sunday 2 July

Breamore/Salisbury/Downs

Hot and sticky. Lay in for much of the morning then dragged myself to Salisbury with no real idea of what to do. This evidently a bad move as one frustration followed another. Out to the station to look at train times but nothing really appealed so just bought a paper and mosied back. Hungry, but the usual caff in the Market Place refused to cook as it was past 2. Found a sandwich, then to the cathedral for evensong – which turned out not to be on, as several choirs rehearsing for the big Cranmer service tonight . . . Still, I was able to sit in the cool of the nave and listen, then a mooch through the cloisters and the cathedral shop. A couple of hours to kill before the bus, so just sat in the riverside park with the paper – and about half of Salisbury for company. Rather fed up as I got back to Breamore.

Things could only get better, and they most wonderfully did. First, I cooked clams in a tomato sauce with pasta and it was very good. Then, it became the most beautiful summer evening, with clear pale skies, and I almost ran for the woods and the downs – the light on the tops unearthly as I came out of the trees. There was an acid sunset over the barrows and all at once a herd of deer – dozens on dozens – came sweeping through the corn in a sort of slow-motion dream stampede. I stood transfixed for several minutes: but pressed on to the summit at Gallows Hill and Grim’s Ditch, before turning around and dropping into the woods, by now almost completely dark. Well after 10 when I got back.

Wednesday 5

Breamore/Woodgreen

No let-up in this sick humidity — the air outside like soup. Got Lawrence and the Arabs into Damascus but then the whole business of Gen. Chauvel and the civil administration etc.: have really no idea what to make of this, as the various later accounts are so disparate (and partisan). Jeremy meanwhile looking at the Tank Corps and RAF chapters for perhaps the last time . . .

Wednesday 12

Again warm, but J. seemed a good deal refreshed after taking last night off . . . He asked me to read the Plymouth ‘29 chapter and it seemed fine; these peacetime sections are a doddle compared to the military and diplomatic stuff. Speaking of which, we got back onto the wretched ‘Going It Alone’ chapter after lunch and rode it through to the end: it gets a little bit better each time. J. noticeably on edge about the supposed cheque from Metcalf [US collector of Lawrence materials] – he has heard nothing further . . .

Thursday 13

Again very warm. Arrived to find that J. had been up since dawn revising ‘Going It Alone’ – meaning that he was now immensely tired and irritable . . . I worked on Damascus mostly, then broke off to read more late chapters; these were again very good, the sort of thing that J. does with elegant aplomb.

Friday 14

A fine fresh morning. Saw Sam [landlady] as I was leaving and she asked firstly about her rent and then how much longer I thought I might be staying? . . .

Worked mostly on the Damascus chapter, making more notes on disk; also looked at J’s latest version of ‘Going It Alone’, which still seemed far from great – but didn’t tell him so today. We worked together for a bit, on the penultimate war chapter – but then at about 5 J. decided to open a bottle of wine in honour of N. [his French wife] and the bicentennial. I gladly had a glass with them. Was meaning to bring up the subject of holiday time, once the book is delivered – but J. pre-empted me with a bitter complaint about how the family will not get a holiday this year! I will evidently have to choose my moment – but am clearly owed a good deal, thanks to all the unpaid overtime.

Sunday 16

Worked on in the heat – which hit around 85F by lunch. More notes on the joint advance to Damascus . . . Also read another 1930s chapter, which was fine. Couscous for lunch, with J. getting incredibly steamed up over a piece in the Sunday Times which he saw as mocking the big French bicentennial celebrations – and especially Jessye Norman belting out the ‘Marseillaise’. It struck me as lightly (and weakly) humorous, but to J. this was toxic Little Englandism as sponsored by Rupert Murdoch. Oh well.

Done in by the evening. Sat outside reading the Book of Psalms.

Tuesday 18

The heatwave burns on – temperatures in the high 80s for most of the day. J. went to the bank and secured a loan of £—— mainly against Metcalf’s promises . . . I just plodded on with the Damascus chapter, bringing L. and the Arabs to the gates of the city.

Made myself a delicious supper of cold sausage and apple salad. Also a jolly chat with Sam, who is off on her holidays at the weekend – Spain first and then Scotland. Rather wondering about a trip to Scotia myself: to ride the West Highland Line to Oban and Mallaig – and then perhaps the Far North? Even the thought is refreshing.

Friday 21

Breamore/Salisbury/Yeovil

Again woke early – soon after 3. The heat already building as I dragged to the river and uphill into Woodgreen. J. seemed tired already, having been up and working since dawn: I read through his latest revision of ‘3rd Time Lucky’ and it was smoother, but still quite wrong here and there . . . I gave him my corrections but he insisted on putting them in himself – keeping me off it I suppose. The heat became quite vicious in the p.m. – up to 90F – and I just kept on with Damascus, feeling steadily more drained and ill. My twelfth day of working with no break.

Rushed back to Breamore in the heat then lugged my stuff to the bus-stop; an odd gnawing ache in the gut by the time I got the train. Home after 8 but didn’t feel like eating – just said hello then more or less collapsed.

Monday 24

Breamore/Woodgreen

Fully better, but still dazed from the heat. A swan hissed at me, a little half-heartedly, as I passed by the old mill this morning: the river v. low so the ‘Shallows’ beside the bridge living up to their name today. At around 10 J. and I sat down and at last started a proper draft of the Damascus chapter: rather stressful, as he had clearly made up his mind to power through it at all costs, and the material is just too dense and contested for that. He was also determined not to make too much of the Tafas massacre (as in the film), seeing it as a bit of a non-issue in context.

Still hot as I dragged home, but at least I had the house to myself and could lie in a cool bath for as long as I liked. Drank wine, watched anything TV . . .

Sunday 30

Same clammy, cloudy weather. Read another pair of chapters taking the story up to the end of 1920; again no problems, so that’s another two down. Nicole made a full Sunday lunch of roast pork with courgettes etc. but no room around the table so ended up eating in the barn. Not that I minded: J. in one of his hot-tempered irritable moods, still going on about the Sunday Times article from weeks back . . .

Sam talked of her time in Spain: is now off to Scotland for a week. For my part, thinking increasingly of Ireland – but where after Dublin (Joyce) and Sligo (Yeats)?

Tuesday 1 August

Breamore/Woodgreen/Hale

A warm but fresh walk in – saw a fox trotting neatly in the fields by the lane. Worked steadily on Ch. 25 notes, writing many of the longer excursive ones myself. Very pleasant at lunch, so strolled through the lanes to Hale Purlieu and back through shady unfamiliar woods – only briefly lost! Finished the chapter by home-time, which was good for morale: after months of frustration, it really feels like the end might be in sight.

Friday 4

Breamore/Woodgreen/Yeovil

Another fine day, with temperatures back in the 80s. Worked by myself in the barn while J. stayed in the house and wrestled with The Big One – Lawrence’s decision to enlist in 1922 . . .

M and D drew up on the common at 6.30, so I reintroduced them to Jeremy and Nicole (they met briefly at the Exhibition). From here up to Breamore, and Salisbury, and then a most beautiful drive in mellowing light through Coombe Bisset and the Ebble Valley – the clear chalk stream dodging through farms and villages amidst fields of corn and stubble with the bare downs floating just above. Finally over the top of the Chase and down the famous Zig-Zag hill into Shaftesbury and so homeward. Felt happier than I have done for weeks. Ham in a mustard sauce, with wine.

Monday 7

Breamore/Woodgreen

Walked to Woodgreen in early heat: the river shallows now completely choked with weeds that are starting to brown in the sun. Found Jeremy alone – N. has taken the kids to Cornwall and Leah [J’s elderly sometime research assistant] comes tomorrow: says he has been wrestling with the enlistment issue all weekend and still doesn’t feel he’s got it right. He went off to have another go while I bashed on with my notes . . .

Cooked up mushrooms and courgettes etc. then sat outside reading Yeats (with wine).

Tuesday 8

Again very warm: as I came by the Shallows there was a guy in a curious machine that looked a bit like the mini-version of an amphibious tank from the last war – he was using it to cut and clear and harvest the weeds from the river. Got down to endnotes for the Damascus chapter at last . . . Also a first read of J’s first go at the enlistment question – a curious and characteristic performance really, parts of it so very acute and others I would say not. All in all, I’m feeling a bit like the guy in the weed-cutting tank – but with the added hassle of having to be tactful and polite re the weeds!

Wednesday 9

Slogged on to the end of the Damascus notes, feeling glad to be rid of them, as indeed of the whole chapter: but then back to the Dead Sea Campaign, which is hardly an improvement. The weather became unbearably heavy, with strong signs of a storm building over the forest – smudgy clouds and the tips of the trees beginning to twitch, as if in apprehension. A plod home and a cold bath; cooked up a chop and veg but didn’t really want it. Felt wasted and done in – and then my radio wouldn’t work, which left me quite bereft (it sometimes feels like my only lifeline). So not a great day. The storm finally broke in the night, with slamming winds and thick wabbling sheets of rain: slept hardly at all.

Saturday 12

Tired, but worked on as agreed: mostly the Dead Sea notes, but later broke off to read the rest of the Churchill chapter (Cairo Conference). A real sense of the project drawing to its close now – and made stronger by the arrival of Hazel Bell’s index (or a draft of it, based on the chapters she’s seen). Fascinating to see the book taxonomized like this – broken down by theme and sub-theme: so that’s what it’s all about! . . .

Sam’s house very full when I got back: Emma [daughter] and her bloke, Camilla [daughter], Charlotte and her husband and their daughter. Felt crowded out and at the same time restless, so a stroll through the village and the hedged scented lanes in the fall of dew: rang home from the call box. Back to find the weird physiotherapist guy in full blah – claims to be a ‘neo-Reichian’, which is apparently all about using massage and ‘breathwork’ to release ‘muscular armour’ in the body . . . Charlotte then starts up about her psychic dreams, saying that she has forsworn eating fruit salad after dreaming that she choked on a piece of kiwi. Camilla lying facedown on the floor, trying desperately not to laugh, while Emma helpfully tickles her. Bed after midnight.

Wednesday 16

Breamore/Woodgreen/Downs

The same strange weather: but felt a great deal brighter and managed to get on with the Sykes note – something like 1500 words now!! I was almost done (in both senses) when Heidi’s reworking of the enlistment chapter came – she has made big structural changes, almost all for the better. Volunteered to sit at the machine and make the changes myself – which I did, with a few more of my own.

J. in a fretful mood, mostly re Metcalf’s cheque , which still hasn’t arrived . . . But his mood improved at tea, when he was able to hand over the ‘Last RAF Duties’ chapter complete – it was very solid and hardly needed input from me – the sort of thing he does effortlessly well. By my calculation, that leaves only the last, post-retirement chapter to be written from scratch – and then it’s just some polishing and endnotes. We are so nearly there!

Worked on until 7, when J. kindly drove me home. But feeling suddenly restless and happy, so after a cold supper strode up onto the downs above the woods, in the face of the sunset. There were violet clouds and a light at once lurid and golden on the high slopes by Grim’s Ditch; and deer came glimmering through, at first by twos and threes but then by fives and sixes and sevens. I lingered a while in the dusk but then down through dark scented woods, with a marvellous full moon above, the colour of butterscotch. Back to the cottage before 10 and cooked up a lamb chop, which I ate with mango chutney and several glasses of wine.

Thursday 17

Breamore/Woodgreen

The Metcalf cheque arrived at last, so J. dashed to town to pay it in: I worked on with the enlistment chapter rehash, mostly under my own steam now; some of the later points quite tricky, but all done by teatime. At which point J. handed me the last, short chapter, hot off the press – and it was absolutely fine. This means that the main text is now entirely written: we are essentially DONE with only the notes and appendices to sort! I let this information sink in and tried to feel something about it – but my feelings strangely muted, as apparently J’s too – we are both so bloody tired . . .

Home about 7, to an empty cottage: little idea what to do, so just gave the kitchen a damned good clean. M&S lasagne with a glass or two of cabernet.

Tuesday 22

Another beautiful day: Jeremy compiling a bibliography while I wrestled with the notes to Ch. 26 (Damascus). This was hard slow work and quite demoralising . . .

It turned into a perfect summer evening and I was tempted to slip off into the forest and wander back the long way, through Gorley or Ibsley or one of those odd lost villages, stranded between the river and the heath; for who knows how much longer I’ll be here, or what other chances there may be? But tiredness won out in the end, and so home the usual way, through warm shadowed lanes . . .

Wednesday 23

Breamore/Woodgreen/Frogham etc/Fordingbridge

A cold start this morning, becoming fine and clear – almost September in feeling. I slogged on with Ch. 26 notes, getting a little down: there seems so much to sort still . . .

It was another splendid evening and almost before I knew it I was walking across the Common and into the Inclosure, warm and ferny and full of scents with the slant light almost resinous. From here to Castle Hill, and my last chance of turning back to the river – but no, I made up my mind to go on into the Forest – to the ‘main’ road at Godshill, and then the lonely farm at Newgrounds, with its long-haired cattle and irascible dogs. This brought me to the shore of the heathlands, mile after mile of purple ling, with the ridges rising and falling and rising again towards the dusk horizon. At 8 o’clock I was sitting on Hampton Ridge, with the sun beginning to set and a sense of the woods and heaths slowly sinking beneath me, away into the dark and the far. Lines of ponies standing stockstill silhouetted on the tops. I thought, inevitably, of the first time I came this way, almost two years ago now, and wondered if this would be the last. From here an easy descent into the valley bottom, already running with mist, and another climb to another sandy knoll, where the houses and the lanes begin again, by bits and pieces; the views back immense, with sunlight still on the tops of the ridges, showing like backs of dolphins above the slowly encroaching sweeping dark.

Downhill then to Frogham, small village almost buried in great flowering banks of gorse, and the still tinier hamlet of Stuckton; and then, after a mile or two, the main road and Fordingbridge, a metropolis by comparison. Caught the last bus with minutes to spare and so back in Breamore by about 9.

Collapsed into a deep bath full of bubbles and drank wine, feeling at once healthy and decadent. Meatballs and spaghetti very late.

Thursday 24

Breamore/Woodgreen

In to find Jeremy weary and wild-eyed, from typesetting the note section all night. He said my Ch 19 and 20 notes were fine but far too long, so I spent most of the day strimming them back . . . Warm and stuffy in the afternoon, with both of us tired and fratchy.

The agreement we have, or sort of have, is that I will work to the end of the month and see the book out of the door. September will be paid holiday, so I’ll head first to Yeovil to recuperate, perhaps see some friends – if anyone remembers me – and then a week travelling around Scotland by train. Finally back to Woodgreen/Breamore, where I’ll help a bit on J’s other projects while applying for jobs.

It seems like a plan.

Sunday 27

Again, an effort to get up and drag myself in to work. Arrived to find that J. had dealt with the Ch 23–25 notes overnight, leaving me to fill in a few gaps – which proved pleasant and easy work. Roast pork for lunch, and half an hour or so with the Sunday papers. Got through the notes by about 4, with the length very much under control. This was altogether cheering, making the whole thing feel so much nearer to completion – it can only be a day or two now. Home through the lanes with a light, light heart.

Monday 28

Breamore/Woodgreen/Whitsbury etc

A bit of September chill by the river shallows this morning, but it soon became another fine, fresh, sunny day . . . Worked on with the long Chauvel note for Ch. 26 – the whole tedious business of who was ‘first in’ to Damascus, the Arabs or the Australians (as if it mattered). The notes for this chapter have reached 20+ pages, so went back and made some cuts . . . J and Leah meanwhile working through notes on the postwar diplomacy stuff.

Strolled up to the Purlieu at lunch, to look out across the miles of purple heather and have a little scramble among the beeches. There are cooler, deeper shadows in the woods today.

Powered on through the afternoon and at 6.20 or thereabouts found I had finished the Damascus notes – and with them I suppose my role in the book. Announced this to J. and he smiled and said that if I really wished I could clear off right away – but I said I would come in tomorrow to tie up the last loose ends. He is steeling himself for another late-night marathon with the setting – but still, we have essentially cracked it. We really have.

Home in a bit of a daze and hardly noticed Sam waving me down for a lift . . . Felt restless and unable to settle so out again for a walk, through fragrant darkening lanes to Whitsbury Woods and Common, then round in a loop via the Rockbourne/Damerham road; the sun setting fierily behind Martin Down. Tried to get my parents from the call-box but out – so home to fry up some white fish in flour. Wine!

Tuesday 29

Breamore/Woodgreen

Got in to find J and L struggling with notes to the RAF/Tank Corps chapters – these also taking longer than expected. But he was full of praise for my Ch. 26 material, saying he had barely altered most of it. I spent most of today checking skeleton notes for the last chapters against documents . . . This was easy work on the whole and a good thing too, as a deep exhaustion is setting in. God knows how Jeremy must be feeling. He talked a little madly of typesetting through the night and then driving the complete text to Hazel Bell [indexer] around dawn (she lives in Hatfield) . . .

Wednesday 30

Didn’t wake until 9.30, and then strolled up to Woodgreen at my own pace: J. said nothing! He had wisely refrained from working all night but had got up early to clean, tidy, and generally clear the decks. We worked on the last war notes, taking in my corrections as well as those of Heidi H. and St John Armitage . . . More of the same after lunch, getting a little stuck on the business of L’s (alleged) meetings with Mustafa Kemal – and Armitage’s theories on the matter. We left it purposefully vague and so on to the finish line, which we breasted soon after 6; there is nothing else to be written, or rewritten, or edited – IT IS ACCOMPLISHED. No celebrations, as J. is far too tired, and still has typesetting to do, as well as the dreary task of chasing up copyright permissions (a big, big job on a book like this).

I walked out into the evening, feeling like a free man. A lift most of the way home from that young chap in the sports car. Packed.

The earlier parts of this diary can be read here, here, here, here, here, and here.

The sturdy, handsome, three-arched bridge, at once impressive and oddly out of place, spanning the slow river as it slinks into the green emptiness of the moor . . .

There were many walks in those days – my parents being firm believers in a good walk – but after fifty years there is only one that snags at the memory: the summer evening we walked to Pill Bridge, an old packhorse bridge on the edge of the Somerset Levels.

If the occasion is strangely vivid, the details are mostly lost: we would have eaten an early tea (egg and chips seems probable) and piled into the family car (a Hillman Hunter) for the short drive to Ilchester, a small grey town then still harried by holiday traffic tearing west on the A303. There followed a long trudge up a dull lane, first on tarmac, then on rutted clay, with immense hedges on either side hoarding the last of the afternoon’s warmth.

I close my eyes now and see wild roses, willow-herb, the trumpet-flowers of bindweed. At last the track gave out, we crossed an open field, and there it was – the sturdy, handsome, three-arched bridge, at once impressive and oddly out of place, spanning the slow river as it slunk into the green emptiness of the moor. Our need for a destination satisfied, we turned back the way we had come, through the now darkening and moth-haunted lane.

I remember and cannot remember.

It’s a picturesque relic now – and seems the more so in its lonely setting – yet the bridge across the Yeo was once essential infrastructure, serving a busy drovers’ route to and from the docks at Bristol. Records show that a bridge has stood here since at least the 13th century (the present structure dates from the early 1600s).

As a packhorse bridge, Pill was designed for the passage of heavy-laden animals, one at a time, with low parapets not to obstruct side-bags or panniers. Because it stands near the limit of navigation, this was also the place to unload goods, such as coal, that had been brought upriver by boat; during the 18th-century a warehouse and tollbooth stood nearby and a charge was imposed on goods carried up the lane to Ilchester. It was largely to avoid this toll that a canal from Langport to Ilchester was projected (unsuccessfully) in the 1790s. When the macadamised roads reached Somerset a few decades later, Pill Bridge, being plainly too narrow for any sort of vehicle, was left to its lonely afterlife in the fields.

None of this explains why the walk and the bridge have stuck to my mind like a burr. The simple explanation, I suppose, is that it was my idea. Over previous months I had formed a habit –an odd one for an eleven-year-old – of sitting and reading a map like a book. I had noticed the bridge on the one-inch OS sheet, marked in the gothic script used for antiquities, and was led to do some basic research. Before long I was lecturing my parents about the old packhorse bridge in the fields and wondering whether it might be time for a walk.

I don’t think this had much to do with the history or the architecture; it was something else.

Having grown up in the heart of the Somerset wetlands, I had missed them with a strange and slightly unhealthy passion since the family move to Yeovil at the turn of the new decade. In the village, I had barely thought about the landscape at all, except as somewhere to ride bikes and fish for tiddlers; certainly, I had no real sense of the Levels as a place unlike other places. After the move, however, the weird wetland country – at times lush, at others beautifully bleak – came to exert a strong pull on my mind. I had come from a small village, with a tiny village school, to one of the largest towns in Somerset and a big school with a reputation for roughness. I was frequently lonely and fearful and became acquainted with a saudade that in one way or another has held me ever since.

If you are coming from Yeovil and Ilchester, Pill Bridge stands at the exact point that the distinctive Sedgemoor landscape begins: the flat open fields, with few trees and no hedges; the slow-moving river and ruler-straight ditches running to the horizon; the vast skies. My longing to visit the bridge was mostly a hunger to stand again on the verge of that landscape. But there was something else, too; Pill Bridge was a place that connected my new life to the old in a particularly tangible way.

Our new house stood at the edge of town, on the crest of a hill looking out on the Somerset plain. One day I found a spring that rose among trees in the nearest field (‘the field with the horses’). Trespassing boldly, a bunch of us followed the stream down a steep wooded gully – there was nothing you could call a path – to the hamlet at the foot of the hill, at which point it joined with another small brook. The combined stream ran along a mudded, cow-patted lane until it met another in a little shaggy copse, where we made a rudimentary den.

The rest of that summer was spent tracing these tiny streams from their sources in the flanks of the hills, down into woody goyles where they flipped over stony lips or ledges to make miniature waterfalls, and out onto the plain below. Eventually the streams formed a quasi-river large enough to be shown on the map and to have its own name: Bearley Brook. As I knew very well, it was this sizeable stream that joined the River Yeo at Pill Bridge; after a few miles of slow drift the Yeo in turn debouched into the Parrett, which flowed muddily back to the country of my childhood. It was somehow consoling that waters rising only a stone’s throw from our new house could be followed all the way back to the old.

For many the summer of 1972 will have been the summer of polyester jumpsuits, the Munich Olympics, and ‘Popcorn’ by Hot Butter. But for me it was the Summer of the Brooks – and of the walk to Pill Bridge.

I now wonder if 1972-me would have been pleased to know that the bridge had Literary Associations – something I only learned much later.

An expedition to Ilchester and Pill Bridge forms the centrepiece of Llewellyn Powys’s now little-read Love and Death (1939). This strangely intense, strangely unsatisfying novel-cum-memoir is a bad book, probably – but one that stays in the mind longer than many much better ones. The problem is encapsulated in the subtitle: ‘An Imaginary Autobiography’. The book is an uneasy mixture of fact and fiction, in which memories of real people, events, and places – often superbly evoked – are stirred into a weak sort of wish-fulfilment fantasy.

Sensing that he has not long to live, Powys’s narrator casts his mind back to the summer, thirty years before, when he left Cambridge to return to his family home in Somerset. The scene is set for a first overwhelming experience of sexual love:

All the poetry in my nature centred itself with a sudden passion upon a single girl. For me she was the sun and moon, the sea, the hills, and the rivers, the cornfields, the hayfields, the plough-lands, and the first stars of nightfall . . . that she breathed, that she walked, that she slept to wake again, was an unending source of wonder to me.

There is page after page of this stuff, much of it quite lovely. And yet something fails to ring true. The problem is not Powys’s hyper-lyrical style per se, but rather his failure to give any real life to the object of these raptures, a girl named Dittany Stone. With her whimsies and caprices and lack of any plausible inner life, Dittany is a stock figure of male fantasy – a Manic Pixie Dream Girl avant la lettre:

a creature built up of the thinnest and most immaterial of all God’s atomies, fair as the evening planet . . . fair as a sunset rainbow . . . as full of mystery as the moonlight ripples on a village well . . .

It is hard not to think of Elfine, from Cold Comfort Farm. And even where the writing is less cringe, any sense of a real, flesh-and-blood girl is smothered by the similes heaped so promiscuously upon her:

She seemed to float above me always intangible as a cloud, as a mist above a water-meadow, as a song in an attic . . . She was like a butterfly sunning itself on a hot stone, opening and folding its painted wings as full of grace as a hare drinking out of a green downland pond . . .

Few readers will be surprised to learn that this is all or mostly made up; Powys had no such affair in his youth and the model for Dittany, so far as there could be one, was a recent mistress, Gamel Woolsey.

The relationship becomes no more convincing when Powys uses it to tout his lifelong philosophy of atheism, materialism, and carpe diem:

Today is ours . . . Life is love, the love that belongs to the natural earth. We are fools if we look for what is other.

It is a doctrine that expresses itself most characteristically in a glib and rather self-serving demand for sexual freedom. Cynicism is never far from a certain tweeness:

When people are in love . . . they have only to think how best they can give pleasure to each other. Nothing else should be in their heads . . . and the more shameless and tameless the feelings they are able to excite the better they are obeying the will of the fairies.

If the falseness at the core of the book seems glaring, this is partly because it is shown up by the best of Powys’s descriptive writing, which is fresh, sharp, and particular. The lovers move through a vividly realised South Somerset landscape – a world of brackeny sheep walks, overgrown quarries, and secret ponds and springs. There are woods full of dog’s mercury, ditches shiny with dandelions, mossy orchard-lanes.

The emotional climax of the book comes with the couple’s visit to Pill Bridge. On a sweltering June day they walk the five or six miles to Ilchester, where they borrow a boat from a slightly mysterious old woman and take it downriver. After passing through the bridge, they tie up on a little willowy island, swim nude, and enjoy a picnic of egg sandwiches, sponge cake, and raisins. Their return through the cool of the evening is described in Powys’s most rapt and lyrical manner:

Everywhere the fish were rising . . . The birds were beginning to sing again and the cattle, their milking over, were moving about the fields . . . their great heads bowed close to the cool river-side grass. Each sedgy stream that emptied its shallow waters into the river emitted a breath warm and deep.

Within days he learns that Dittany has formed a liaison with one Randall Pixley, a young man of aristocratic family who is visiting the area. The story ends in stark melodrama, with both Dittany and Pixley dead (the latter by suicide) and the narrator imagining his own demise. Llewellyn Powys would indeed die, of the lung disease that had plagued him for almost all his adult life, a few months after the book was published.

When the novelist Sylvia Townsend Warner visited the bridge some ten years later, Love and Death was very much in her mind – and strangely bound up with the intense personal crisis that had driven her here. A few days before, Warner had walked out of the home she shared with her partner of almost twenty years, the writer Valentine Ackland.

For some time she had been aware of Valentine’s involvement with a younger woman, but had convinced herself that the affair was not serious. In May 1949, however, Valentine announced that she intended to move her lover into the house and that Sylvia could take it or leave it. Warner, who had always regarded their relationship as a true marriage, knew that she could not accept this (‘I would rather have the sting of going than the muffle of remaining’).

For the rest of that miraculously lovely summer, Sylvia’s diaries record a struggle with thoughts so conflicted that she sometimes seems close to madness. At the age of 55, feeling utterly rejected and betrayed, Sylvia still cannot find it in herself to deny that Valentine is ‘the light of my darkened eyes, & the core of my heart, & my strength & comfort, & raison d’etre, and all I have.’

The book she turned to in this crisis was Love and Death – ‘the only book that held me up . . . and that I had pulled out of the shelf as an animal pulls the herb from the hedge’. In one way this is more than curious. As a friend of both Powys and his long-suffering wife, Warner must have known the rather brutal trick that his book performs (recasting the author’s infidelity as an idyll of early life, so that the wronged partner is wholly erased); and in her own circumstances might well have felt the cruelty of it. But instead something in its mixture of fantasy and truth seems to have sustained her.

Whatever the case, it was to the landscape of Love and Death that she was now drawn. Holing up in a prosaic hotel in Yeovil, she spent her days walking beside the ‘sulky skulky Yeo couched at the bottom of its gully of iron-black mud’ or striding across Sedgemoor in a high wind ‘the willows blown sideways and silver, the osier beds swinging . . . the water lily leaves flapped in the wind like paper scraps on a London pavement’. Finally, on a hot still overcast day, when the hedges were full of blackberries and the ditches with wild peppermint, she made what she describes as the ‘pilgrimage’ to Pill Bridge.

In her diary Warner describes how standing on the bridge she suddenly ‘came to life’ and wrote a poem ‘as one wakes from a deep sleep and turns to the beloved, and falls asleep again.’ The poem is brief and baffling but seems to contain heart-mysteries:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

On the forsaken bridge, as I crossed over
A dead man stood, looking down on the water,
And as I passed, he laid his hand on my shoulder,

It was here, saying, I thought I would row my darling,
And her white hand would feather the water, holding
A yellow lily and a long weed trailing – 

Or did I indeed bring her? As skies cloud over 
And lighten again, I remember and cannot remember, 
I wait to hear my oars plash in the river

With the apparition of the ‘dead man’, Powys, the bridge across the Yeo becomes a bridge between worlds – a crossing-point between life and death, as also between reality and imagination. Powys’s ghost struggles to disentangle the facts from the thing he has imagined. Did he once bring the woman he loved to the bridge, or was it all a fantasy, a dream? Could it even be the case, as the poets have claimed, that imagination makes its own truth? There are only questions and subjunctives and statements that collapse into contradiction:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

                         I thought I would row my darling, 
And her white hand would feather the water . . .

Or did I indeed bring her? . . .
. . . I remember and cannot remember

The enigma deepens in the poem’s last lines, as we can no longer be quite sure who is speaking. Is it still Powys, that uncertain maundering ghost? Or is it the poet herself, in the crisis that has brought her to the bridge on this day of sun and cloud?

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

                          . . . As skies cloud over 
And lighten again . . . 
I wait to hear my oars plash in the river

You could read the last line with the emphasis on ’my’. You could read it as a statement of intent: to wait, passively but attentively, in the knowledge that this too will pass; that the time will come to take up the oars and push once more against the current.

Sylvia wrote out the poem and sent it to Valentine, who replied: ‘The poem you wrote at Pill Bridge is a poem of trance and maze and is a very strange poem. I fell passionately in love with it.’ Within the week Warner had moved back into their shared home in Dorset, writing in her diary that ‘no river could be more astonished, after a deluge, to find itself in its familiar bed.” Although the situation would not be resolved immediately, at some point in the spring Valentine realized that she wanted to go on living with Sylvia, and that was all. With a quiet triumph, Warner would reflect:

Here I am, grey as badger . . . and never a beauty at my best; but here I sit, and yonder sits the other one, who had all the cards in her hand – except one. That I was better at loving, and being loved.

I remember and cannot remember. It’s a warm day at the far end of summer and can’t be too unlike that day I dragged them here, my parents and my brothers, half a century ago: the grass has got that tired August look – but the hedges still grow wild and lush; there are clouds in the river, cattle mooching heavily, enormous banks of nettles.

I think I knew that I would come here again. The stone of the bridge is warm to touch and once again I struggle to connect my new life to the old: I wonder what I really know about that summer of the brooks or – indeed – anything else that ever happened to me. My children are older than I was then; my father is two years dead. My life appears to have come apart in a way that I would not have thought possible. I wait to hear my oars plash in the river.

Not previously published, written mostly 2017-18.

If you enjoyed this post, you might be interested in my ebook The Whartons of Winchendon — a short study of one of the strangest families in English history, featuring incest, treason, deep-sea diving, fairies, and the self-proclaimed Solar King of the World.

In my late twenties I worked for two years (1987-89) as a research and editorial assistant to the historian Jeremy Wilson, then grappling with the last stages of his great authorized biography of T. E. Lawrence. Lately, for reasons I do not wholly understand, I have found my mind circling back repeatedly to this interlude, which now seems to mark the end of youth: after almost 40 years, the episode has the oddness and intensity of a dream.

This may owe something to the work, which was all-absorbing if at times a grim slog; but other factors certainly came into it. Throughout this time I lived a strangely cut-off, almost monastic existence in the depths of rural Hampshire: lodging at an old cottage in the feudal village of Breamore, with its Elizabethan mansion and tiny Saxon church; and walking the two or three miles daily to work at Woodgreen, an even smaller place on the edge of the New Forest. As I knew no one and had no transport, long walks on the downs or into the forest became my chief form of solace.

I also kept a detailed diary, some at least of which seems worth sharing. Here — over six or seven posts — are a series of entries from the last months of the project, when the struggle to complete the book became most intense and fraught. (Many private matters have been omitted, and the identity of private persons has generally been disguised.)

Thursday 1 June

Breamore/Woodgreen

Another hot, heavy day. Jeremy working on the 1919 Peace Conference and tells me that it will be short . . . I do hope he isn’t weakening. For my part, I read through the chapter we finished yesterday and found it poor . . . With J’s permission, sat at the screen and rewrote it slowly through the pm, with thunder beginning to growl. At 6 the rain quite suddenly came down in sheets, like the curtain falling in a theatre. A lift home but had not been in long when the power went down; saw that there were lights at the main road, so out to the pub to eat, taking the latest print-out with me . . .

Friday 2

Vernon M. [former research assistant] is back with us, briefly. Says that after finishing here at Christmas he took himself off, solo, to look at the Lawrence country in Jordan (mostly) and Syria: also rather briefly into Iraq, which is apparently a terrifying place, with everywhere images of the murderous dictator, Hussein. As always, I can’t help wondering at other people’s pluck and initiative – I know full well I could never do anything of the sort. He worked on 1920, while I continued to wrestle with Ch. 22 . . . We walked to the shop together at lunch and had a more general catch-up, the common and the woods and the foals and the cottages all at their most beguiling in the sun. The van from the Portrait Gallery came, bringing materials from the Tokyo exhibition: these included the Japanese catalogue and a weird Japanese comic based on Lawrence’s life . . . Agreed to work through the weekend: we are now only a week away from the official deadline and must be something like 10 or 12 days behind.

Sunday 4

A fine warm day and a more relaxed feeling at work. Got back to the Dead Sea chapter and sorted it to my satisfaction. . . Later a full Sunday lunch around the dining table, with all the Wilson clan, including Grandpa, and of course Vernon and myself. We had roast chicken, English style, but with couscous instead of potatoes . . .

As the weather stayed pleasant I worked till maybe 6 then plunged into the woods of Godshill Inclosure, now at their most effervescently green. Returned via the Castle Hill road, with views over the river, and so home around 8. Was in the bath later when the power again went: somehow found and lit candles . . .

Terrible news coming in of the massacre in Peking: Chinese troops simply mowing down the students in their hundreds.

Monday 5

Cooler. Worked on with Ch. 23 materials while J. finalised a bunch of chapters for Heinemann . . . He still very tired and distractible, e.g. phoning his agents at length about the Jap. catalogue, which he suspects is a knock-off of his own text. After coffee I moved into the house, while J and VN sat at the screen to write 1922 (Churchill’s conference). Everyone working hard but I don’t feel any of us are powering ahead at the moment. Walked home in golden light, with cows and their calves statuesque in the buttercup fields by the river. More coverage of the Peking massacre – also that fiend Khomeini is dead, so Rushdie outlives his tormentor!

Tuesday 6

Heavy rain . . . A subdued sort of day, with everyone dull and tired. J. rang Liz C. (Heinemann) about the recent crop of chapters and also promised her the last one in the book – we really are tunnelling from both ends now. No mention of Friday’s deadline on either side!

J. was a little odd about the events in China, saying the important thing is that the economic reforms there should continue, as they will change everything in the long term: the fate of a few hundred trouble-makers is trivial by comparison! . . . Never sure whether he means this sort of thing so didn’t argue; but carried on with my own work, taking L. to the brink of the final offensive.

Solidarity triumphant in Poland.

Thursday 8

J. at last bit the bullet and wrote a long, rather desperate fax to Liz C, admitting what has long been obvious – that tomorrow’s deadline is out of the question. (By my calculation there are still four chapters to write from scratch and another three or four needing serious work.) For once I didn’t correct his typos as I thought they added to the effect! Liz rang back and was generally pleasant and encouraging – presumably they knew full well they would not get the book this week. J. visibly relaxed after this and we all got on with our stuff – in my case charting the various Maan operations of summer 1918 . . .

Friday 9

Breamore/Salisbury/Yeovil

A much better atmosphere, now the immediate pressure has been removed. Worked with J. on Ch. 23 – the aborted plan for an independent Arab offensive. It all came together quite easily for once. Both feeling tired and slow in the p.m. so packed in around 6.

Drank a beer on the train, with Wilts and Dorset slipping past, almost pagan in their June efflorescence . . . Home after 8 and scampi with M and D, plus wine.

Wednesday 14

Breamore/Woodgreen

Same warm weather, same draining work – this week all a sticky blur really. Lunch in the garden, then got down to writing Ch. 23 with Jeremy (the ‘false start’ of spring 1918). Hay being cut and spread, pink and white roses in the hedges, poppies blazing on the banks.

Tuesday 20

Hotter than ever, with temps in the high 80s for most of the day. Made a start on Ch. 24 with J. and knocked off maybe 10pp by lunch . . . Still blazingly hot as I dragged home, trying to stay in the shade of the hedges. Couldn’t be arsed to cook so tuna with tinned pineapple . . .

Wednesday 21

Longest day and I think the hottest yet. More Ch. 24: got through Weizmann’s visit to Feisal, and L’s whole attitude to the Zionist question – but then rather stuck on the order, how to keep the military and political events separate but in tandem. Both hot and bothered . . . I rather boldly insisted on reading the final Ch. 19 before he brings down the bar – have learned he makes mistakes when tired. He groaned a little but saw the wisdom and after all there wasn’t much to change. Heart sank rather when J. started to hint I should work through the weekend again – but finally a different plan, that he would concentrate on the last war chapter (we’re so nearly there).

Friday 23

Breamore/Salisbury/Yeovil

As hot as ever, the horses lying prostrate on the common, thrashing their tails in impotent displeasure. J., I’m sure, would have thrashed his tail if he had one – very irritable with hay-fever and lack of sleep. But we worked on stoically with Ch. 24 – the rather dull business of the Imperial Camel Corps etc . . .

Sam [landlady] was going to Salisbury so I managed to cadge a lift and get on the earlier train. The country almost disturbingly lush, despite a fortnight of dry heat. A lift from Dad, with the back of the car full of wigs for Amadeus.

Sunday 25

Yeovil /Salisbury/Breamore

Another perfect June day, warm and with just enough breeze to be pleasant. Sat in the garden with the Observer, then an early lunch as parents rehearsing all p.m . . .

Arrived back at Breamore to find Sam’s birthday party in full swing – she has invited 50 people for her 50 years! Of these I knew only the four daughters and their boyfriends, and of course Poppy and that chap James (who seems to talk nothing but gibberish). Sam’s crowd quite tricky to place in some ways: a little arty and boho, but with at least one foot in the old rural gentry – imagine they would no more send their kids to a state school than they would live in a council house. Liberal on sex-things, but otherwise pretty stolid and traditional. Talked to a guy who I understood to be an estate agent, but was in fact an agent of the estate (i.e. of Breamore house) – also a craft teacher lady, who was nice in a gushy New Age way. She talked at length on the Power of Dreams, and what they reveal of our Innermost Selves – to which I said that my dreams were usually utterly banal, for instance that my library books are overdue. At which she laughed but seemed almost perturbed ‘Oh bless you – bless you’.

Monday 26

Breamore/Woodgreen

Pleasant by the river, but already hot as I walked uphill to Woodgreen. J. suffering from hay-fever and bad-tempered with N., me, Leah, even the dogs. He said he had been through the latest drafts and was painfully unimpressed . . . It also turns out that he was quite right about the Japanese catalogue – it is essentially his work translated, without consent or credit. Either there was a massive balls-up, or someone calculated that he would never find out (J. inclining strongly to the latter). He sent off a furious salvo of faxes to the NPG, effectively calling ——— a crook and demanding a cut of the royalties. When he had calmed down we went through the Syrian campaign chapter again and managed to smooth it nicely; even so, pretty sick of it all by the time I left.

The earlier parts of this diary can be read here, here, here, here and here.

The conluding section (July/August) can be read here.

In my late twenties I worked for two years (1987-89) as a research and editorial assistant to the historian Jeremy Wilson, then grappling with the last stages of his great authorized biography of T. E. Lawrence. Lately, for reasons I do not wholly understand, I have found my mind circling back repeatedly to this interlude, which now seems to mark the end of youth: after almost 40 years, the episode has the oddness and intensity of a dream.

This may owe something to the work, which was all-absorbing if at times a grim slog; but other factors certainly came into it. Throughout this time I lived a strangely cut-off, almost monastic existence in the depths of rural Hampshire: lodging at an old cottage in the feudal village of Breamore, with its Elizabethan mansion and tiny Saxon church; and walking the two or three miles daily to work at Woodgreen, an even smaller place on the edge of the New Forest. As I knew no one and had no transport, long walks on the downs or into the forest became my chief form of solace.

I also kept a detailed diary, some at least of which seems worth sharing. Here — over six or seven posts — are a series of entries from the last months of the project, when the struggle to complete the book became most intense and fraught. (Many private matters have been omitted, and the identity of private persons has generally been disguised.)

Monday 1 May

Breamore/Woodgreen

Bank holiday but worked as agreed. Jeremy has drawn up a ferocious-looking schedule that will enable us to finish in early June, if stuck to. It specifies exactly what needs to be done, and by whom, for every morning, afternoon and evening for the next five weeks. I wonder how long it will hold! Also read the chapter J. did over the weekend – TEL in Plymouth, 1929: it was fine . . . We worked on the first post-war chapter again, pushing through to the end, as the schedule demands.

Saturday 6

Breamore/Salisbury/London

Cooler than yesterday. Bus to Salisbury quite early, as anxious to find a birthday present for P. [brother] en route: turned out I was in luck, as found a large framed print of Paul Klee’s ‘Temple Gardens’ in a sale . . . The only problem then being to wrangle the unwieldy thing across London on tube and train (Marylebone/Waterloo/Waterloo East/Greenwich). Luckily their flat not too far from the station – a decent-sized place, off the main road, above a hairdressers . . .

The picture went down very well, as they don’t have a lot of decor: noticed that C. [other brother] had also bought him a Klee print, but smaller than mine and unframed – which made me feel awkward, so I started to say how fortunate I was to find it in a sale – which then seemed like the wrong thing to say, too.

P. suggested that as part of my present we could go to see something at the theatre, so after a quick flick through the guides we settled on The Black Prince at the Aldwych – Iris Murdoch’s adaptation of her own novel. The matinee at five, so barely time for a cup of tea before it was back on the train. The A. an Edwardian Theatre not far off the Strand, very ornate inside but quite small and cramped. It was a good show, with Ian McDiarmid in the lead and John Fortune in one of the smaller roles: typical Murdoch I suppose, being a mix of perverse psychological thriller and black farce with long disquisitions on language, identity, and the character of Hamlet. Strolled through Covent Garden afterwards and ate at an Italian place in Soho – London at its most alluring, with the happy bustle of crowds on a cool, light, almost-summer evening.

Sunday 7

London/Salisbury/Breamore

A lazy morning with coffee, papers etc. Later strolled over Blackheath Common and back through Greenwich Park, with the cherry trees in full delectable bloom – the blossom looking almost edible. The usual talk about work, family, politics. P. evidently delighted to show off his new domain – a short climb to the Observatory giving views right across London, including the ongoing Docklands development across the river. On the Salisbury train c. 3: read the TLS, which included a review of last night’s show by A. S. Byatt (she liked it).

Monday 8

Breamore/Woodgreen

Warm and fine. J. seemed better than Friday but unsurprisingly tired . . . A little alarmingly, he told me that he will probably have to ‘let me go’ as soon as the book is completed in June; of course, I knew that was coming at some point, but have been finding it hard to think beyond the current schedule. He showed me a job advert in the new Bookseller – for an editorial assistant at OUP – and suggested I freshen up my CV tonight. Otherwise, we worked on to the end of Ch. 20.

I walked to the shop at lunch, with Woodgreen and environs at their most idyllic: the beech trees in their first fresh greenness, hawthorn in peak bloom, and the first tiny foals on the common, trying out their improbable Dali-esque legs. Bought stuff for cold meals and a bottle of Chardonnay. Worked on with Ch. 21 material then walked home in a most beautiful light. Drank wine and tried to write an account of what I have been doing for the last 18 months – and what I think I have learned.

Thursday 11

More notes for summer of 1918 – a period of false starts and failed initiatives. My aim to get him to Damascus by the weekend! Jeremy, Leah [J’s elderly sometime research assistant] and the Prof. [J’s father] all working as yesterday. The weather finally broke at lunch, with rain and cold scurries of wind. Much to my relief, J. now says there ought to be work after June, as there are some letters editions he wants to get off the ground. Indeed, he has gone back to the idea of publishing L’s wartime letters and diaries, despite Heinemann’s objections – it would be an expensive, fine-print edition, with me credited as co-editor! He thinks, no doubt rightly, that this would be a powerful thing to have on my CV, and sees it (I’m guessing) as some sort of reward for my services beyond the call of duty! Felt flattered and grateful, but mainly just relieved at not having to think about jobs for another couple of months.

Saturday 13

Breamore/Salisbury/London/Luton/Dunstable

Tony [old college friend] rang early, and we agreed that I should I get the 6.30 from King’s Cross, as he will be on it. But after that dithered and failed to catch the next bus – so had to wait an hour – and then wasted time around Smiths etc. – so had to run to catch the 1.15 to London. As it had now become rather warm, and I was wearing my new black shirt, and the train was packed to the gills, I was sweating quite uncomfortably by the time we got to Waterloo.

A sandwich on the station and then my usual peregrinations along the South Bank, up to Covent Garden, and then the bookshops on the Charing Cross Rd etc . . . From here wandered north through Bloomsbury streets and garden squares to the Euston Rd, where I eventually found the new Thameslink station – again catching the train with seconds to spare.

Tony found me on the train, having come straight from the Academy, and we had a good natter about his work and mine. He has instrumental exams looming, but has already been offered a fellowship for next year! We got off at Leagrave, on the edge of Luton, and from here T. drove us to their place in Dunstable. Philip and Rosie were already there, as was Louise, in a rather sexy black-and-white dress (with stockings!). Everyone staying over – even L. – which somehow made for a richly relaxed mood, as there was no question of anyone leaving early or not drinking. Only Marianne [T’s wife] less than happy, as she had cysts on both eyes (one lanced) and seemed generally under the weather.

Dinner was chicken breasts with asparagus spears in a sage sauce and no shortage of wine. Somehow, I think apropos T and M’s time in Aber, the subject of low-flying military aircraft in Wales came up. I mentioned something I’d read about this – fears that the planes might hit – I don’t know! – what was the silliest thing I could think of? – dogs. For some reason this started a laugh that rolled on for the rest of the night. We talked and talked and talked and laughed and laughed and laughed – almost as if it were 1982 and we were sitting in Joe’s room at Keble. P and R have not really changed at all (in their case the HIGHEST praise) but Lou was somehow different – a little more worldly, or anxious to be thought so . . . Says she is planning a long holiday in Fiji, Australia, and other parts Oceanic – somehow seems to know people all over the world. Phil gently ribbing her all evening, as is his wont. We carried on drinking brandy till midnight, when lo! it became P’s birthday. Slept on the sofa.

Sunday 14

Dunstable/St Albans/Harpenden

Pentecost Sunday and Tony up early, to play at his church in Holborn: from what he was saying, it’s a pretty rum set-up, with one of the priests a drunk and the other some loony French monarchist. He a little on edge as the service going out live, on ITV. Lou the next to leave, mid-morning . . . I had brought a copy of the NPG catalogue to show-off – to everyone but I think especially her – but she couldn’t work up much of an interest, bless her . . . P and R stayed to watch the broadcast: I rather sheepishly asked if I might stay with them in London, but they quite reasonably said it was too short notice: it is, actually, not like being in college when you could just roll up and doss on someone’s floor. I tried ringing a few people but then M stepped in and said of course I could stay with them, if I didn’t mind travelling in and out to the Library.

With everyone else gone, Marianne suggested that we walk on the Downs, which we did: a heavy, hazy day but still views across half the Midlands – hang-gliders riding the thermals and the little planes going up from the LGC at the base of the ridge . . .

We drove back to the house and ate a cold lunch in the garden with Tony, now returned. He had the grace to admire my catalogue over tea, I think with some sincerity. Later, he went to practice harpsichord so M. and I out again, this time to the cathedral at St Alban’s. I think she was hoping for an evensong, as she always seems keen to bundle me into a service – but no. The building itself awesomely beautiful inside and the shrine genuinely numinous, despite I think being mainly 19^th c. Tea at the café, a quick look at some Roman remains (bricks), and then M. drove us back via her workplace, the famous agricultural research station at Rothamsted. We walked around the grounds, and M. showed me the famous field, with its strips cultivated under different experimental conditions for over 100 years – making it the longest-running scientific experiment in the world. We also dropped into the manor itself – 17^th-century, with oak-panelled rooms and a fine staircase – set in its own enclosed gardens with copper beech, flowering cherry, climbing roses, etc.

Tony made a vegetarian curry and we sat outside in the warm night, drinking white wine until perhaps 11.

Monday 15

Dunstable/Berkhamsted/London

Warm and a little hazy. Tony giving a concert tonight, in Berkhamsted School, so I left with him mid-morning, to catch the train from there. We drove past Ivinghoe Beacon and Whipsnade Zoo and then across the top of the hills on a most beautiful road with the woods rolling away on every side – T. said this is the Ashridge Estate. Berkhamsted seemed pleasant but the school (right on the main street) a gloomy red-brick edifice like a public school in a movie.

From here about 35 mins to Euston and a short walk to the British Museum and Library. I handed over Jeremy’s letter and after the usual paperwork was given a membership card and admitted to the sanctum, where a librarian produced the Lawrence pocket diaries and more or less stood guard over me while I perused them. I don’t think I am easily awed by this sort of thing, but handling the little leather-bound books that L. carried from Wejh to Akaba and then Damascus was some sort of something. The contents mostly just an itinerary with a few scribbled comments, but still. Notoriously the pages for late November 2017 are missing, allowing people to think whatever they want about the ‘Deraa Incident’.

Grabbed a tea and was back in Berkhamsted c. 7, giving me time to wander by the canal etc before Tony’s concert. This was given in the Old Hall, the original Tudor school building, and featured works by Bach, Frescobaldi, Rameau and others. T. evidently very accomplished now . . .

Another night in Dunstable.

Thursday 18

Breamore/Woodgreen

Again very hot. Got in to find J. in a furious mood, writing a long, forensic letter to the chairman of the NCR Book Award judges (a guy named Heilbroner), which sets out all the errors of fact and interpretation in Brown’s A Touch of Genius. He says he knows this will make him look terrible, as the author of a rival publication, but he is beyond caring: the idea that Brown could actually win is too appalling to contemplate. I tried to work on quietly, ignoring J’s noisy typing, occasional exclamations, and slamming down of books and coffee mugs etc. Can understand his feelings but is this really the best use of his time?

Mum rang, mostly to say that C. had done very well in his exams and they are going to visit in a couple of weeks, if I care to join them? Several glasses of cold Chardonnay.

Sunday 21

Breamore/Salisbury

A blastingly hot day. As I had no better plan, to Salisbury again on the bus: ate a ploughman’s at the Pheasant, with cold beer. Sleepy enough afterwards but to evensong anyway, for the first time in months. It was beautifully cool in the Cathedral, where I sat in a pleasant stupor and let the music flow over and through me. Trinity Sunday: which made me think of that so-happy evening three years ago now, when I sat in Keble Chapel with Lou, P and R, and lovely Josie M. and felt like some sort of Christian for perhaps the first time. Ah well. Lounged in the park by the river and read the paper with all the couples and young families paddling, petting, sunning themselves on the grass. Home on the 4.30.

Monday 22

Breamore/Woodgreen

Already hot when I walked in at 9: horses sprawled in the buttercup meadows, cattle up to their knees in the river. Worked with J. on the Yarmuk bridges raid: reasonably good going for once, but we are falling further behind. Lunch in the garden.

Still hot as I walked back. Dozed a little on the bed then cheese, chutney, Chardonnay. Thunder in the night, with a little rain.

Thursday 25

Still the most godawful humidity, despite storms. J seemed exhausted and told me to sit at the screen and get on with the Dead Sea chapter without him! This was extremely flattering but I was a bit resistant – first, I am nervous of the computer – and second, it could be a waste of time if he then decides to rewrite everything I’ve done . . . It turned out to be hard, slow work as the existing text is pretty sketchy – didn’t even find time to shop. J. came and wrote with me after lunch but seemed utterly knackered and fed up. News later that the NCR award for nonfiction had gone to Joe Simpson, for Touching the Void! This produced the ghost of a smile from J., who said the thought of Brown getting his hands on the £25,000 had been unbearable. His letter had perhaps its effect, although Heilbroner had not replied. He also said he had sent a copy to A. W. Lawrence [T. E.’s brother and executor], so he could not be accused of working underhand.

Packed for tomorrow.

Friday 26

Breamore/Salisbury/Yeovil

Same weather, same work. Decent progress at first but soon stuck on Picot’s intrigues in Jerusalem – tried it from various angles – but none quite right – and so on all day. Finally gave up around 6, when J. let me go.

Got myself to the bus-stop in good time then waited – and waited – in the end for about 50 minutes. Back to the house in disgust. As there was not another bus till 8.40, Sam kindly drove me to the main stop by the pub, where I could sit inside. A rather shabby, inhospitable place but I had a beer, and a beef sandwich, and read my book. This led to an odd exchange with one of the staff: ‘We haven’t see you before. I suppose you’re one of the jousters?’ ‘One of the . . .’ ‘You know, with horses, and armour, and a lance, and that spiky ball-on-a-chain thing?’ It turns out that Breamore House is putting on ‘medieval’ jousting this weekend, and he assumed I was part of the entertainment – perhaps because he saw me reading Runciman’s History of the Crusades. Salisbury after 9, home after 11.

Sunday 28

Yeovil/Reading/Goring/Breamore

Warm but overcast. This was a lovely happy family day but already I can remember little about it. We set off before 10, driving over Salisbury Plain and then through Hungerford etc. as if for Oxford – but then the M4 to Reading and C’s Halls. He happy and relaxed after finishing exams and we had a meal in town to celebrate that and belatedly his birthday . . . Loaded the car with some of his stuff, then M and D and I up the Thames Valley to have a look at Goring: the village or little town crammed between the hills and river, with brick and flint cottages, flowering trees, and the famous ensemble of lock, bridge, and weir. Swans on the river and boats of every sort, from houseboats to cruisers to canoes. Crossed over briefly into Streatley, on the Berkshire side . . . I would happily have got the train from Reading but they insisted on driving me back to Breamore, via Salisbury.

Monday 29

Breamore/Woodgreen/Whitsbury

Bank holiday, but once more worked as agreed. J, I am pleased to say, had taken the weekend off but still seemed exhausted and very far from his best. Chapter 22 again. We got through the Picot stuff – but really quite messily . . . Very warm by the p.m.

Strangely restless in the evening. Had my supper early, read in Rilke, then decided to take him up onto the downs. The woods were filled with a fragrant gloom, except where lit up by the flowers of rhododendrons, the bluebells and ransoms having long gone by. There was a very young roe deer in the clearing, startled among towering foxgloves. On to the open hillside – past the miz-maze and ‘Giant’s Grave’ – then sat for a while with the sun setting strangely over the downs, the long greens paling into grey. From here the path to Castle Ditches, around the back of the Manor Stud, and down into Whitsbury village, where I drank a pint at the Cartwheel, sitting under the stars as two albino cats prowled spookily around me. Homeward then through dark lanes and even darker woods – a hedgehog almost under my feet as I came back to Breamore. Home by 11 and straight to bed.

The earlier parts of this diary can be read here, here, here, and here.

The subsequent instalments can be read here and here.

In my late twenties I worked for two years (1987-89) as a research and editorial assistant to the historian Jeremy Wilson, then grappling with the last stages of his great authorized biography of T. E. Lawrence. Lately, for reasons I do not wholly understand, I have found my mind circling back repeatedly to this interlude, which now seems to mark the end of youth: after almost 40 years, the episode has the oddness and intensity of a dream.

This may owe something to the work, which was all-absorbing if sometimes a grim slog; but other factors certainly came into it. Throughout this time I lived a strangely cut-off, almost monastic existence in the depths of rural Hampshire: lodging at an old cottage in the feudal village of Breamore, with its Jacobean mansion and tiny Saxon church; and walking the two or three miles daily to work at Woodgreen, an even smaller place on the edge of the New Forest. As I knew no one and had no transport, long walks on the downs or into the forest became my chief form of solace.

I also kept a detailed diary, some at least of which seems worth sharing. Here — over six or seven posts — are a series of entries from the last months of the project, when the struggle to complete the book became most intense and fraught. (Many private matters have been omitted, and the identity of private persons has generally been disguised.)

Sunday 2 April

Yeovil/Salisbury/Breamore

Fine and sunny – but looking forward to getting back and having some proper work to do. Lunch in the garden, with flutes of pink champagne. Dozed through Dorset and Wiltshire, at last looking springlike, and back in Breamore by 7, the sky perfectly light. A balmy evening, full of the scents of leaves and flowers and earth: wandered to the phone box later to let Jeremy know I was back – he reminded me that we have tickets for the London Book Fair tomorrow.

Monday 3

Breamore/London

J. picked me up around 8 and so to W. London by the usual route (M3, M4) – but today straight on to Kensington and the vast exhibition centre at Olympia. Pretty tight security going in as everyone still v. nervous re the Rushdie affair – I read somewhere that no one wanted the stand next to Penguin! The whole thing quite overwhelming, but I suppose illuminating as to the realities of the British and European publishing industry, here gathered in one place under the same arched iron-and-glass roof. The thing that struck me most, I suppose, was the number of small outfits I had never heard of – people publishing 10 or 12 titles a year on cats, vintage cars, or uniforms of the Civil War etc. This despite the much talked-about trend to consolidation among the major players – who were all here, with big flashy corporate stands. There was also a whole separate section for agents selling translation and film/tv rights. J. went to talk to people at Heinemann and his other contacts, leaving me to wander freely. I didn’t talk to anyone much but came away with armfuls of catalogues and promotional literature – so when it comes to applying I will at least know who the companies are, what they publish, names of their editorial team etc. J. and I had lunch (Italian) at one of the numerous cafes and left mid-afternoon, to avoid the rush. Home after 5. An interesting day but a slight sense of playing truant: back to the real grind tomorrow.

Tuesday 4

Breamore/Woodgreen

Walked in through cold dreary dripping weather and felt tired and chilled all day. J. showed me their new retriever puppy – bringing the number of dogs in the house to three – and also a letter from a certain Heidi Harraway, offering to do routine editorial tasks for free (she had read about his plight living in the cowshed &c [see Part 2 of this diary]). Otherwise it was back to the grindstone with a vengeance: through the Wadi Ais chapter again, working in some of my finds from the Col. Wilson papers . . . A lift home through pouring rain turning into sleet . . .

Saturday 8

Breamore/Salisbury

Had intended to make something of today, but up late feeling weary and good for little. So just up to Salisbury on the usual bus and around the usual shops and cafes . . . I was loafing around the market when the sun came out, for the first time in a week, but instead of doing me good it left me feeling small and grubby, like something you’d find under a stone. There were couples lounging and loitering, girls in pretty dresses – but, alas, I am not of their company, nor perhaps will ever be. I sat for a bit, in the park by the river, and began to feel it was almost possibly pleasant; then took some photos of the cathedral and the close, like any tourist . . . Sam [landlady] away in Pembrokeshire so the house quiet and empty, just me and the cat.

Sunday 9

Breamore/Whitsbury

A beautiful bright morning and somehow felt quite differently about everything. Took myself out for a walk mid-morning, at first into the village proper (Upper Street and Rookery Lane), its old barns and brick cottages steaming in the sun, then up the bridleway into Whitsbury Woods, where the bluebells were coming into their glory. Carried on uphill, past the stud farm and gallops, to Whitsbury church, which stands above and apart from the village among enormous trees; it is mainly flint, with a brickish tower, and an ancient almost prehistoric feel. I went inside and sat for a while, in the ancient must and gloom. From here a steep descent to the village and the long way back by the lanes, with dandelions thick on the banks. It was entirely delightful, in every way and at every turn. I got back around 2, then dozed deliciously after a big fry-up . . .

Monday 10

Breamore/Woodgreen

A very April day, with splashes of sun and a few heavy showers. I worked on with my notes, getting Lawrence to Akaba at last (almost feel I’ve travelled there with him); also listing documents for Leah [J’s elderly sometime research assistant] to check/consult at the PRO. Jeremy in an odd agitated mood, carrying on a mad row with his bank . . .

Tuesday 11

Wind and gales. Rang J. for a lift and it took me 25 minutes to get hold of him, another 30 for him to come: I could tell at once that something was wrong. He says he has come to the conclusion that the June 9^th deadline is now actually impossible, whether we like it or not, and that everyone has to accept this. Accordingly, he rang Liz C. at Heinemann and dropped this bombshell – she very much not amused, and said she would talk to the higher-ups but the publishers had every right to hold him to the contract. J. remained very agitated for the rest of the day, talking endlessly about the various possible approaches to the problem . . . We eventually got down to work on the Akaba chapter at perhaps 12 but J. clearly finding it hard to concentrate. Things a little better after lunch, when we managed to get the preliminary section into some sort of shape. Home feeling tired and harassed. Cooked chicken in a too-rich sauce but at least I had some beer. Sam back from Wales.

Wednesday 12

Showery, with bright intervals. J. a little easier I thought: we reworked most of what we did yesterday and then pressed onward, with the first hellish stages of the Akaba journey. His agent, Poppy, rang after lunch to say that Helen Fraser, one of the big shots at Heinemann, had phoned and spoken to her in a mood of cold fury: they are not happy.

Friday 14

Breamore/Woodgreen/Salisbury/Yeovil

Grey heavy weather. The two of us struggled on with Ch. 19 – an utter beast but surely the most important chapter in the book, in terms of both the Arab campaign and Lawrence’s own trajectory. We dealt with Sykes’s cynicism, and the reactions of other British officers, all as part of the build up to Lawrence’s decision to ride north alone ‘hoping to get killed’. I’m sure we’re on the right track here, but we both felt tired and dull: a lengthy mid-afternoon tea break led to an argument about Europe – J is essentially a federalist – and I ended up leaving early.

Train from Salisbury in a fine evening light, with the Nadder valley almost unnaturally green and the first tiny lambs in the fields . . .

Tuesday 18

Breamore/Woodgreen

Worked on L’s northern ride, and rejigged the whole discussion around it. But still nothing from Metcalf [wealthy US collector offering to buy MS materials] and J increasingly anxious and lacking in concentration. Boldly he rang Liz C. after lunch, and Poppy, his agent – saying he’s pretty sure that he can finish by the end of June, but only if they stump up more in the way of advance, so he doesn’t have to take on any paid work in the interim. Which shows an admirable chutzpah and ability to turn a crisis to his advantage, if it comes off . . .

Again, dead tired in the evening. Walked under starry skies to the phone box – but shocked to find it vandalised. (Out here! With barely a house for miles!) . Happily, I had the wit to buy a bottle of Cabernet from the shop at lunch, so there was at least that. Slept rather well.

Wednesday 19

We worked on through L’s meeting with Nuri Shalaan – a grim business and something no other biographer has picked up on (L’s apparent pledge submitting himself to dreadful retribution if the Brits did not keep faith). Finally, and at last, the triumphal entry to Akaba.

In all this J. determined to force the pace, for obvious reasons, but it’s making him tetchy and obtuse: just hope we don’t have to rush the rest of the book too much. Some fine sunshine at lunch, so walked to Hale Purlieu to look at the woods and the heath while taking some deep breaths . . .

Thursday 20

J. drove up at 7.30, as planned, but then changed his mind about going to London as there is a tube strike. So we just went up to the office and had a leisurely coffee – which turned out to be the calm before the storm. First, a fax from Metcalf in California – saying that he will probably be interested in acquiring the letters one day, but has no plans to buy at the moment. Which doesn’t help us one jot. J. immediately onto Liz at Heinemann, who says that it is very unlikely there will be any more money from them and that the June 9 deadline is absolutely non-negotiable for the main text (although there could be some flexibility re the endnotes and appendices etc.). For the first time voices were raised and legal jeopardy was mentioned – J saying that he will claim force majeure, as included in the contract. The whole thing v. upsetting and J. left quite shaken. He then rang Poppy, who said that Helen Fraser was quite unmoveable: there would be no money from Heinemann and no extension to the deadline. J. said that if it came to it, he would deal with the last five years of Lawrence’s life in as many paragraphs: ‘and then he fell off his bike and died’ . . . I just kept my head down and plugged away at the endnotes, tho’ quite upset myself: it seems as if the whole project is now imploding . . . To add to the apocalyptic mood, there was suddenly thunder and lightning, with hail rattling down the chimneys – the latter sending Dodge the labrador howling mad. Home after 5 and collapsed with a beer.

Friday 21

Breamore/Woodgreen/Salisbury/Yeovil

Bright fine weather but morale still very low; in truth, my only ambition is to get through the working day and put myself on a train home. Started to compile Chapter 20 endnotes, then through 19 again making detailed suggestions . . . J. still very sore, saying that if the book is published in a poor state he won’t go to the launch or do publicity – might even go to the press.

Drank a beer on the train, watching Wiltshire and Dorset go by in a sort of trance, the hawthorn just breaking into flower. Home to find my birthday presents all laid out on the bed.

Sunday 23

Yeovil/Salisbury/Breamore

A fine spring day for my ‘official’ birthday. Dad painting scenery at the Swan (Amadeus), Mum pottering in the house and garden. Did presents before lunch . . . from parents a watch but also a big gorgeous hardback of Cezanne, with selections from his letters. I think this is almost certainly the most beautiful thing I own and the best present I have ever had (at least since Uncle Ted bought me a huge toy tractor aged 3 or 4). It must be the most expensive Cezanne book on general sale but M. said she ‘wouldn’t give the others house room’ after seeing this one . . . Steaks for lunch with a very good wine. Then just dozed and gloated over my book until was time to get the train back to – whatever the week brings.

Tuesday 25

Woodgreen/Breamore

Worked on steadily, getting onto the Chapter 21 material by lunch (the first Syrian campaign). A letter came from Helen Fraser, firm on money matters and deadlines but a great deal better in tone – no mention of legal penalties or the like. Liz C. also wrote, saying that she ‘loved’ Ch. 19 (as she should: it is outstanding). But before J could take any satisfaction in either came the news that Macolm Brown’s shoddy little book on Lawrence has been shortlisted for the NCR nonfiction book awards! I don’t think I have ever seen him look so sick – he seemed to turn physically grey. He always saw Brown’s book as a cheap rip-off, and the idea that it might now upstage his own work seemed to hit him harder than anything in the last fortnight . . .

Sam out in the evening. I drank wine and watched some grim drama about a concentration camp . . .

Wednesday 26

Tired and a little hungover: just plugged on with the first Syrian campaign . . . Shortly after lunch J came to me with a weary smile to announce that the money problem may have been resolved: Curtis Brown, his agents, have agreed to fund the completion of the book in the form of an advance against Heinemann’s payment on delivery. So all we have to do now is finish the bloody thing! J drove me home later, in the rain, cursing Heinemann and Helen Fraser that such a thing should ever have been necessary.

Sunday 30

Breamore

Grey and cold, with a continual threat of rain. Did little except read, recuperate and listen to Joan Baez (I find I have a love-hate thing with her voice). Sam out most of the day, so watched rubbish TV in her room. Later walked out for air, through deep-hedged lanes to Breamore Marsh, where the geese were noisily grazing, a few drifting solitary on the ponds and streams. Back in seeping dusk for a boozy supper.

The earlier parts of this diary can be read here, here, and here; subsequent instalments can be found here, here, and here.

According to W.G. Hoskins in The Making of the English Landscape, the hawthorn hedges of England are to be seen in their full splendour on one particular date — the 18th of May:

On that day these miles of snowy hedges reach perfection, so dense and far-reaching that the entire atmosphere is saturated with the bitter-sweet smell whichever way the summer wind is blowing.

With its heart-stabbing beauty, the great hawthorn show is clearly a case of what my old blogging pal Brit calls English Wabi-sabi (untranslatable, but a Zen concept that finds beauty in the very transience of things). Indeed, I’ve often wondered why we Anglos don’t have something like the Japanese cherry-blossom viewing festivals, when thousands go to picnic under the sakura and nightly bulletins chart the progress of the great wave of blossom breaking across the land.

But this year [2013] it’s all a bit different: Trinity Sunday, the last week of May, and the hawthorns down by the little River Thame are only just in flower. That’s the latest I can remember — an effect, no doubt, of the long cold spring that some of us can still feel in our bones like a bruise.

The walk down to the river is our default one for a Sunday, when a walk seems to be called for and no one has a better idea. You go to the play park at the edge of the new estate, cross the strip of waste ground left for the bypass that never was, cut across an angle of the golf course, push through a tiny tangled spinney — and there you are, in proper country, with the broad green valley of the Thame spread out before and below you. It’s the most ordinary slice of England you can imagine, and a muddy mess in winter — but today, with the low fields hazed with buttercups and the banks all billowing with cow parsley it’s hard to think of anywhere more lovely.

And you can factor in those great spooky hawthorns, beginning to blanch and shiver in the sun. It’s mostly down to them that I’m thinking about John Ruskin, who came this way on a May evening ‘all hawthorn and nightingales’ 138 years ago to the day: 26 May 1875. The great man was in Aylesbury, to visit his printers at Hazell and Watson, an old firm still just about going when I moved here 20 years ago. While still in town, Ruskin would receive the telegram that he had long been dreading — the one bringing news that Rose La Touche, the young woman who had dominated his emotional life for some 16 years, was dead in a Dublin nursing home, at the age of 27. The doctors could make little of her illness but today we would surely diagnose some sort of eating disorder, made worse by religious mania and her mixed-up feelings for Ruskin, to whom she had twice refused marriage.

When they had first met Ruskin was pushing 40 and already revered as a kind of sage, while Rose was just 10 years old (her parents — rich Irish landowners — had taken him on as a drawing teacher). To the end of his life he would recall the solemn way in which the small girl offered him her hand ‘as a good dog gives its paw’ and then stood back. Within four or five years, Ruskin’s interest had deepened into an all-consuming, sanity-threatening passion: tragically, he couldn’t decide whether he wanted ‘Rosie Posie’ to remain the odd little girl he had first known or to grow up into a marriageable woman (‘Do I want to keep her from growing up? Of course I do,’ he wrote). If this were not enough, the girl that Ruskin had fallen for was indubitably one of the few people around who might actually have been stranger than himself. A modern reader hardly knows what to make of poor Rose: with her wild roamings about the Irish hills, alleged psychic gifts, and artless stream of baby talk she comes across as part Cathy Earnshaw, part Madeline Bassett. To Ruskin, however, she was ‘the only living thing in the world’ — and her death in 1875 would trigger the slow implosion of his mental universe.

According to his best biographer, Tim Hilton, Ruskin forever after associated Rose’s death with the hawthorn flowers he had seen in the Thame valley. ‘The story of my wild Rose is ended,’ he wrote to Thomas Carlyle, ‘and the hawthorn blossoms this year would fall — over her’. And to another friend: ‘I have just heard that my poor little Rose is gone where the hawthorn blossoms go — which I've been trying to describe all the morning — and can't get them to stay with me . . . I have been long prepared, so you need not be anxious about me. But the tree branches look very black.’ Ruskin would later draw hawthorn leaves on either side of his journal entry for the day on which Rose had died — 25 May 1875.

As Ruskin must have known, a traditional meaning of the hawthorn was death: even today, people will avoid bringing the blossom into the house, half-believing it to be jinxed. Probably this has something to do with the pallor of the flowers, the ghostliness of their beauty — but there’s also the smell, that disturbing, aniseedy scent at once sweet and stifling. According to Richard Mabey, in his great Flora Brittanica, 17th-century folk would compare the sweet stench of hawthorn to the smell of the Great Plague in London. Botanists would later discover that the trimethylamine present in hawthorn blossom is one of the first chemicals formed in decaying animal tissue.

So for all its wild glamour there’s something a bit spooky about the hawthorn — something a mite eldritch, or as the Scots say wanchancy. Something to make you think of Wicker Man goings-on, or weird White Goddess stuff — pale girls being magicked up out of flowers and then fading glimmering through the air, to be followed over the world by love-crazed poets (or art critics).

The tree shadows are starting to stretch, down here by the Thame, and the breeze feels cooler. The river twists thickly under rooty banks, flashes out across gravel shillets, blossoms in the sun.

In the 1880s memories of Rose would inspire one of Ruskin’s more quixotic ventures — the May Celebration held each year at Whitelands College in Chelsea. Founded in 1840, at the height of the Oxford Movement, Whitelands was a teacher training college for teenage girls run on staunchly Anglo-Catholic lines. Ruskin had long been a benefactor of the college and in 1881, at his suggestion, the young ladies began to choose a May Queen to distribute the piles of books that he donated each year. As Ruskin hated the idea of girls competing, he stipulated that the honour should go to the ‘likeablest and loveablest’, rather than to the most gifted student; the winner received a silver cross with hawthorn-leaf design made by Arthur Severn (a later version would be designed by Burne-Jones). Over the years, the presentation of the Whitelands May Queen developed into an elaborate Gothick pageant, with dancing, processions, and the young ladies tricked out in demure outfits by Kate Greenaway — whose drawings of little mob-capped girls Ruskin sometimes said he preferred to Raphael.

In 1885 a similar ceremony was instituted at the High School for Girls in Cork, to which a Miss Martin, formerly a governess at Whitelands, had been appointed principal. In honour of his own Irish Rose, Ruskin called this the Rose Queen Festival and each year presented a gold cross, in the form of flowering branches of Rosa canina (again by Arthur Severn).

You can see samples of both sets of crosses in the British Museum and I’m told that replicas were once a bestselling item at Past Times (now itself a thing of the past).

This all seems pretty mawkish to us, in our own 21st-century time-bubble, and no doubt we are right to suspect something a bit creepy. Nothing went on that would trouble the hard-working chaps at Operation Yewtree, yet it’s hard to deny that Ruskin had a good deal of previous here. His special interest in girls’ education had begun two decades earlier, at Winnington, a progressive establishment in Cheshire that for some years was almost his second home. Here, as Quentin Bell puts it, ‘He lived on terms of sentimental intimacy with an entire girls' school and the modern reader knows not whether to blush or snigger at the romps and oglings, toyings and teasings which were conducted with perfect candour under the benevolent eye of the headmistress.’ In his last years, when mental illness clouded his judgment still further, Ruskin’s minders took steps to keep him away from the little village school at Coniston, near his home.

Tim Hilton is probably the most sympathetic of Ruskin’s biographers but his conclusion is blunt: ‘Ruskin’s sexual maladjustment is not an uncommon one. He was a paedophile.’

There’s a long, eloquent, and strangely revealing passage on the hawthorn in Ruskin’s Proserpina (1886), subtitled Studies of Wayside Flowers while the Air was Yet Pure among the Alps and in the Scotland and England Which My Father Knew. Although purportedly a study of botany, this is actually a complex work of personal myth-making and as strange a book as even Ruskin produced. Proserpina, you may recall, was a young virgin snatched away by Death who became the goddess of spring flowers.

‘I suppose there is no question but that all nice people like hawthorn blossom,’ Ruskin begins, innocuously enough. However, the private obsessions come flooding in with mention of a certain date: ‘I want, if I can, to find out today, 25th May, 1875, what it is we like it so much for: holding these two branches of it in my hand — one full out, the other in youth.’

The mature, fully opened, blossom may look like unspotted snow, says Ruskin — but no, look more closely and you’ll see something else:

. . . failure — imperfection — nay, even distress and loss in it. For every little rose of it has a green darkness in the centre — not even a pretty green, but a faded, yellowish, glutinous, unaccomplished green; and round that, all over the surface of the blossom, whose shell-like petals are themselves deep sunk, with grey shadows in the hollows of them — all above this already subdued brightness, are strewn the dark points of the dead stamens — manifest more and more, the longer one looks, as a kind of grey sand, sprinkled without sparing over what looked at first unspotted light . . .

So the fully developed blossom shows ‘imperfection’, not to mention ‘distress and loss’; the whiteness hides a darkness, and has grey shadows at its core. This is to be contrasted with the young, just opening hawthorn — described here in beautifully exact if disturbingly sexual language:

Then this next branch, in dawn and delight of youth, set with opening clusters of yet numerable blossom, four, and five, and seven, edged, and islanded, and ended, by the sharp leaves of freshest green, deepened under the flowers, and studded round with bosses, better than pearl beads of St. Agnes' rosary — folded, over and over, with the edges of their little leaves pouting, as the very softest waves do on flat sand where one meets another; then opening just enough to show the violet colour within — which yet isn't violet colour . . . but a different colour from every other lilac that one ever saw — faint and faded even before it sees light, as the filmy cup opens over the depth of it, then broken into purple motes of tired bloom, fading into darkness, as the cup extends into the perfect rose.

This, with all its sweet change that one would so fain stay, and soft effulgence of bud into softly falling flower, one has watched — how often . . . always with the feeling that the blossoms are thrown over the green depth like white clouds —never with any idea of so much as asking what holds the cloud there.

The young blossom appears to float weightlessly, without stalk or stem — and this, Ruskin implies, is why we so love it. But turn the side of the branch towards you and you’ll discover that this too is deceit: ‘Nature never meant you to see it so; but now it is all stalk below, and stamens above — the petals nothing’. By this cunning device ‘the tree conceals its structure till the blossom is fallen, and then — for a little while, we had best look no more at it . . .’

It’s three or four weeks since I started to write this piece and the hawthorn blossom has all gone over — nothing left but a few rusty flakes, a dusting of tobacco on the hedges. I suppose we had best look no more at it. This whole little valley of the Thame will go the same way, probably, as it’s here that the High Speed Rail Link is due to come hurtling through (‘so every fool in Buxton can be at Bakewell in half-an-hour, and every fool in Bakewell at Buxton’ — as Ruskin complained of another railway project). It’s not the sort of countryside that most people would feel a need to protect, but these are the muddy fields where my children have gone blackberry-picking and fallen out of trees and paddled and swum in the river. Hares I’ve seen down here, and two types of deer; even — amazingly — a polecat. I’ll be sad to see it go, but then I’ve reached an age when I’m sad to see anything go. For a moment I’ll stand with Ruskin and with Ezra Pound, channelling Confucius:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

The blossoms of the apricot

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

                blow from the east to the west,

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

And I have tried to keep them from falling.

Originally posted on the Dabbler blog in May 2013.

In my late twenties I worked for two years (1987-89) as a research and editorial assistant to the historian Jeremy Wilson, then grappling with the last stages of his great authorized biography of T. E. Lawrence. Lately, for reasons I do not wholly understand, I have found my mind circling back repeatedly to this interlude, which now seems to mark the end of youth: after almost 40 years, the episode has the oddness and intensity of a dream.

This may owe something to the work, which was all-absorbing if sometimes a grim slog; but other factors certainly came into it. Throughout this time I lived a strangely cut-off, almost monastic existence in the depths of rural Hampshire: lodging at an old cottage in the feudal village of Breamore, with its Jacobean mansion and tiny Saxon church; and walking the two or three miles daily to work at Woodgreen, an even smaller place on the edge of the New Forest. As I knew no one and had no transport, long walks on the downs or into the forest became my chief form of solace.

I also kept a detailed diary, some at least of which seems worth sharing. Here — over six or seven posts — are a series of entries from the last months of the project, when the struggle to complete the book became most intense and fraught. (Many private matters have been omitted, and the identity of private persons has generally been disguised.)

Saturday 4 March

Breamore/Salisbury/Wilton

Set off for Wilton to see the extraordinary Italianate church there – as glimpsed so tantalisingly from the train to and from Yeovil, the campanile peering out of trees like some shy, long-legged bird. Midday bus to Salisbury, and then another to Wilton, two or three miles on the main road. Strolled a little round the town, with its two rivers, and the famous carpet factory, and the even more famous House (Herberts and Sidneys), before going up to the church. Which was locked. But there was a window, and the interior lit, so it was possible to peer down the nave at the gorgeous Byzantine mosaics and stained glass in the apse. So it didn’t feel like an entirely wasted journey. Likewise wandered up to the visitors’ entrance and peered through the triumphal archway at the North Front of Wilton House – still in private ownership, I think. After all this gawping, a ploughman’s at a busy unfriendly pub where the locals seemed to be gawping at me, as if trying to figure or stare me out: let them. Back in Salisbury by 2, a walk up Fisherton St for train times, and then evensong in the cathedral . . .

Wednesday 8

Breamore/Woodgreen

Keen to finish the Ch. 17 notes but got stuck on the exact date of TEL’s departure for Wadi Ais – March 9 or 10? Plunged into the diary notebooks trying to figure it out. Jeremy left for London at lunch, to meet St John Armitage, the Arabist: the two of them will lead a party of Jordanian notables around the exhibition this afternoon [National Portrait Gallery Lawrence exhibition, 1988-89].

Bright and fine at lunch so walked in Godshill Inclosure – but the main ride intolerably muddy after rain and the wood thick and tangled where I tried to cut through. Eventually got to the Castle Hill road and walked back that way, the river flashing blue between trees.

Worked systematically through L’s notebooks in the afternoon, which was tough going as the writing is so hard to decipher . . . At some point a fax came through from Metcalf, the American collector, offering to buy a tranche of J’s manuscript materials: I showed it to N. [Jeremy’s wife] who smiled for what feels like the first time in weeks.

Saturday 11

Breamore/Salisbury/London

Cold and dull but at least dry: 9.20 from Salisbury to arrive in London mid-morning. I wanted to see the NPG exhibition again before it closes (tomorrow), having been so feverish on opening night that I barely took anything in. Simon B. [old college friend] said he wouldn’t mind seeing it too, so we met in Trafalgar Square. Walking round the exhibits once more, it struck me how beautifully the whole thing had been put together: from childhood memorabilia (the velvet suit L. wore as a boy), through archaeology and the war (L’s robes, silver canteen and Lee Enfield rifle; also fragments of the Hejaz railway with modern photos of the trains he wrecked, still extant and unrusted in the desert), to the postwar years and finally the great gleaming beast of a Brough that killed him. Only the bibliographical stuff (7 Pillars) a bit dull. There were fine portraits of Arab and British notables by Augustus John, Eric Kennington etc – although SB drew the line at William Roberts, whose late (tubular) style appalled him!

A quick lunch then back to his, where I will stay while putting in a couple of days at the PRO.

B. was in voluble mood, talking mainly about his job at Conservative Central Office, which he’s not enjoying. One of his tasks is to reply to members of the public, many of whom write in with their with their own modest policy proposals, e.g. that the methadone given to heroin addicts might be laced with something ‘to put them out of their misery’. Other correspondents are apparently just bonkers, such as the guy who repeatedly writes requesting a signed photo of Sir Oswald Mosely (‘I am sure you will have one somewhere’). Replies must be polite enough not to alienate a potential voter, without giving any hostages to fortune, just in case the letters come from agents provocateurs for Labour or the other parties. Simon also said there had been a lot of ‘expectations management’ (i.e. lying) with regard to the contents of next week’s Budget – he seems to half admire the practice of these dark arts, while also retaining a good deal of his old moral squeamishness. Is having to work a good deal with ———— who he clearly doesn’t like at all – a very clever but strangely bitter and unpleasant man . . .

After about ten cups of tea B. took me out for a quick tour of the Docklands development, a scene of almost lunar desolation in the greying of the afternoon. Some of the old wharfs etc. left standing but much levelled flat and the skeletons of the new behemoths beginning to emerge. B. no fan of modernist grands projets but seems stirred by the audacity. Local opinion is largely hostile. On a corrugated iron fence someone had painted the line from ‘Ozymandias’ in foot-high letters: ‘Look upon my Works, ye Mighty, and Despair!’.

Sunday 12

London

A lazy morning with the Sunday papers, during which Simon prepared a roast lunch for the household: Jim S. and Gerry H. are lodging with him for the moment. Much talk of politics and especially Europe – S. still ecstatic over Thatcher’s Bruges speech (‘That’s why we voted for her! To confront French socialists, in Belgium, and insult them to their faces!’). I felt conscious of being the only faintly leftish person there until, out of the blue, Andrew Adonis appeared and accepted a cup of coffee. I had not seen him for (?) three years and he seemed different: more confident, assertive and witty – in a word, less nerdy. He even seems to stand and walk differently! Is now a city councillor in Oxford and has been awarded a fellowship at Nuffield. A. announced himself a ‘proud Euro-fanatic’ (as did Gerry) and B. was put on the back foot, at least temporarily. I suppose I am Euro-sceptic, but with none of B’s ravening Europhobia.

In the evening B and I for supper with his friend Nate J., who I met once before: he has a place somewhere on the border of Kensington and Notting Hill – an old, high-ceilinged flat in a mansion block, at once both posh and slightly shabby. He is an artist and I think some sort of dealer: creates meticulous copies of Old Master paintings for rich patrons. But looking at the flat, there must be family money somewhere. He made gazpacho and opened some extremely good wine, which we drank with cheese . . .

Monday 13

Up at 7 then out into a fine bright morning with cutting winds. DLR to Tower Hill (about 30 mins), sitting opposite a guy in a suit who was also carrying, inexplicably, a full-length wooden sword. Had never experienced the morning rush hour and it is quite something . . . Finally got to the PRO in Richmond about 10. Saw Leah [Jeremy’s elderly sometime rearch assistant] briefly, then got stuck into FO 686 (Col. Wilson papers) on film . . . Felt generally tired and ineffective and left before 5. An hour or more to kill so tube to Westminster and over to the South Bank, with the sun setting portentously behind the H of P and the river beautiful with its freight of reflected lights. Browsed a while in the RFH bookshop – a new edition of Modern Painters – then rushed through the rush hour to meet SB at Sloane Square c. 7. He talked about his day, writing a brief for the Home Affairs Committee in the House etc. Back on the Isle of Dogs we bought food at the little Aldi, which seems to be the only shop for miles, and had a big mixed grill of belly pork etc. . . . A lot of tired chat, including B. on his deeply reactionary views of 19^th century history, in which Bismarck, Metternich and even Lord Eldon (!) are the heroes and Napoleon the arch-villain.

Tuesday 14

London/Salisbury/Breamore

Again up at 7, PRO by 10. Feeling quite grimy and exhausted but slogged manfully on with the microfilm; nothing of great interest but at this stage that’s something of a relief . . . Left well before 5 and tube to Embankment. Rather madly, I decided to walk up the C. Cross Road in search of books despite the now fierce rain; quickly soaked through but worth it I suppose, as I found the Dylan day-by-day chronology in Waterstones (Clinton Heylin, £12.95) . . . A dreary journey back from Waterloo, in the rainy dark, but at least I had the book for company. Rather to my surprise, J. met me at Salisbury and so back to Breamore through the driving storm – he is clearly not well. Home by about 8.30 but it felt like 3 in the morning.

Friday 17

Breamore/Woodgreen/Salisbury/Yeovil

Bright, with cold snitty winds. More typing and sorting of notes and checking against the files – then a few hours’ work with J, who seemed better but still tired and grumpy. We agreed on a proper break over Easter . . . Finished early and a plod home in nasty dusk. Did my usual thing of waving down the bus, like some lone castaway desperately signalling to a distant ship – today it sped past oblivious but then stopped maybe 100 yards down the road. Which means I got the 7.40 from Salisbury and so Yeovil by 9 . . . Looking forward to ten days of home comforts and even please God a touch of spring.

Sunday 26

Yeovil/Charlton Mackrell/West Lydford

Easter Sunday, and suddenly bright and fine. Listened to Easter music on R3 then read bits of Ruskin etc. in the garden while parents worked tidying and pruning. Little David N. came to play and I ran him around the garden paths in a wheelbarrow, causing much merriment and delight.

Lunch, then out to see the gardens at Lytes Carey – but closed, so on to the next little village of Charlton Mackrell and had a walk there. The church a mix of hamstone and blue lias, with carved angels leaning out reproachfully from the roof beams: the chancel radiant with lilies and daffodils and there were a couple of very pretty girls, almost angelic themselves in summer dresses and the dance of light from the stained glass. As it was so very pleasant, we drove on through inexplicable lanes to Butleigh and Baltonsborough, and then over Pennard Hill, with wide views of the levels and Mendips. Coming back we stopped at West Lydford, a tiny place on the Brue, with a weir and ancient stone bridge – the church framed by enormous weeping willows and held quietly in the stillness of the pool: Platonic England.

Roast duck with carrots and cabbage etc. Light till almost 8.

Wednesday 29

Yeovil

Decided the time had come to sort out all my M. Phil papers, so got down to it and stuck at it quite doggedly all day. I think just about enough time has passed for me to look at this stuff without pain, but the feeling of waste is still immense: I worked hard (on and off), read prodigiously, had some genuinely good ideas – but somehow couldn’t pull it all together. Parts of the thesis read well, I thought. But it’s all behind me now, thank God.

The earlier parts of this diary can be read here and here. Subsequent instalments will be found here, here, here, and here.

In my late twenties I worked for two years (1987-89) as a research and editorial assistant to the historian Jeremy Wilson, then grappling with the last stages of his great authorized biography of T. E. Lawrence. Lately, for reasons I do not wholly understand, I have found my mind circling back repeatedly to this interlude, which now seems to mark the end of youth: after almost 40 years, the episode has the oddness and intensity of a dream.

This may owe something to the work, which was all-absorbing if sometimes a grim slog; but other factors certainly came into it. Throughout this time I lived a strangely cut-off, almost monastic existence in the depths of rural Hampshire: lodging at an old cottage in the feudal village of Breamore, with its Jacobean mansion and tiny Saxon church; and walking the two or three miles daily to work at Woodgreen, an even smaller place on the edge of the New Forest. As I knew no one and had no transport, long walks on the downs or into the forest became my chief form of solace.

I also kept a detailed diary, some at least of which seems worth sharing. Here — over six or seven posts — are a series of entries from the last months of the project, when the struggle to complete the book became most intense and fraught. (Many private matters have been omitted, and the identity of private persons has generally been disguised.)

Friday 3 February

Breamore/Salisbury/Yeovil

Rather dopey all day. Back to the start of the Preface, as Jeremy now determined to put all the stuff about the release of the official archive right at the front; I felt this disrupted the flow but he was adamant – saying this is what the punters will care about most and so into a mild rant about the failings of British industry, thinking it is above bending to popular demand etc. I suppose he is right?

A lift down to Breamore from German Katya, who asked me some quite blunt questions about my social life – I was forced to admit I didn’t have one. Managed to get the 7 o’clock bus and hence the 7.40 from Salisbury . . .

Met by Dad and home feeling pretty wacked – but pleasant chat over food and wine. They went to Weymouth last weekend and walked about eight miles on the coast path; have also acquired a copy of the Alice B. Toklas Cookbook, bringing back memories of L’Aigle and the signed first edition in the holiday let there – if only we’d had the nous or nerve to steal it!

Sunday 5

Yeovil/Salisbury/Breamore

A marvellous bright morning and afternoon, with the garden looking suddenly as if there might be such a thing as spring – pansies and primulas making a splash and sheathes of yellow croci by the pond . . . Quiet browsing of books, and then a big roast: lamb, leeks, potatoes, and Burgundy . . . Caught the 5.09 from the Junction and it was still perfectly light – but the train taken the long way round so not in Salisbury till 6.30. This meant a breathless sprint to catch the last bus, plus bags; desperately, I cut through St Anne’s Gate, just as the bus was coming, and managed to hold it up at the zebra crossing while signalling for the driver to let me on. Which he did. Rather thrilled at this triumph but knackered by the time I reached Breamore. Sam [landlady] there with three of the daughters. Cooked some dodgy fish and early to bed.

Wednesday 8

Breamore/Woodgreen

Slept heavily: trudged heavily in. J. just leaving as I arrived – to London, to talk to the Italian journalist Gaia Servadio. Me back on the opening to Ch.17: the long expository section arguing that Lawrence must have told Feisal about Sykes-Picot as early as Jan 1917, and likewise set out the Akaba plan, at least in its bare bones . . . Rather beyond my mental capacity today, but I slogged on.

At lunch, I walked up to the purlieu at Hale: it was very mild and sunny with hazel catkins loosening in the hedges, ash keys twinkling overhead. I just stood for a while, enjoying the birdsong, sun on my body, and long soft views across the heath.

Ash Wednesday – but my life feels Lenten enough already, I’d say.

Thursday 9

Very mild morning again. J and I girded up our loins and launched into Ch. 17, rewriting the beginning quite radically . . . We then went through the French documents until lunch. J. talked a bit about his interview with Gaia S., saying he nearly got me a job, editing the English translation of her novel! He has been asked to write a piece on TEL for a new book on 20^th-century political thought.

More stiff work on 17 after lunch – J. determined to do it his way and at times quite stubborn . . .

Strolled home in the chilly clear night, with a skinny moon and stars sharp in the sky. Determined to get to Bath or Bristol this weekend, whatever the weather. Started The Pre-Raphaelite Tragedy by Wm Gaunt.

Friday 10

Again mild. Slow progress on Ch. 17 – not helped by the fact we keep changing our ideas . . . Some good-natured argument and a fair bit of rewriting. But things otherwise rather tense: the crisis over money and deadlines seems to be deepening. At some point J. disappeared into the house, not to reemerge.

Trudged home in the dark feeling exhausted and rather miserable – a growing sense of foreboding about the whole project.

Saturday 11

Breamore/Salisbury/Bath

Bus to Salisbury and Bath train after 10. A cool and mostly cloudy day but still a fine journey up the Wylye valley to Warminster etc and then the even lovelier valley of the Avon from Bradford, arriving at Bath Spa 11.20. I don’t think I’ve been here since I was a boy, on school trips to the Roman Baths and Pump Rooms (where we all mimed puking after sampling the hideous waters). Walked along the river to the Parade Gardens, and then the famous view of Pulteney Bridge with its spectacular V-shaped weir. From here a short walk to the Abbey, the main reason for coming I suppose: it is immensely grand in scale, a bit like a Somerset village church pumped up with a foot pump – the nave ceiling very high, with ornate fan vaulting, and the myriad windows flooding the place with light, even on a dull day like this. Quite distressingly, the plaza round the Abbey was crawling with drunks and derelicts – something I was shocked to see here, after becoming pretty inured to it in London. Lunch at the café (c. £3) then wandered through elegant Regency streets to tick off the obvious landmarks like the Circus and the Royal Crescent. Finished by browsing around book and music shops and picking up the new Dylan and the Dead tape (£5.49). Back in Salisbury by 5.30 and still light.

I must have spent £25 today, mostly on food and transport. That has to be too much.

Sunday 12

Breamore/Salisbury

Still in tourist mood, so took the bus up to Salisbury late morning and had a stroll around the city centre, using the Pitkin guide I picked up yesterday. First the Cathedral Close, with the Bishop’s Palace (Cathedral School), College of Matrons, Malmsbury House etc. — not to forget Arundell’s, Ted Heath’s little place. Then through the old streets around the Market Square and once again St Thomas’s, with that extraordinary terrifying Doom painting over the chancel arch. Lunch at the usual café and finally back to the cathedral for evensong, which got through to me today. Buses and food = another £7.50.

Back in Breamore, played the Dylan tape over and over not feeling quite sure what to make of it. Contrary to what most critics have said, the Dead seem to be on fine form here – it’s just BD who’s hopeless, constantly muffing his words or singing them as if they no longer mean a thing. Still, there’s a fine spooky groove on ‘Slow Train’ and ‘Serve Somebody’, making these songs a bit scary, as they should be. And ‘Queen Jane’ has a ragged sort of glory.

Friday 17

Breamore/Woodgreen/Salisbury/Yeovil

Up early. Worked on with J. revising the Wadi Ais material – and especially the long flashback to events at Wejh. Feel that we have improved this a lot, so worth the struggle . . . J. seemed mightily relieved and perhaps even appreciative of my help: his next task the Portrait Gallery lecture tomorrow. He made several phone calls trying to get a Telegraph journalist, O’Brien, into the seminar . . .

Left around 6 so no difficulty getting the 7.40 from Salisbury. On the train I found myself sitting opposite Dugald Sandeman, the Tory candidate for Yeovil, and a colleague – they were both denouncing the ‘poll tax’ (due to come in next year) and its chief architect, Nicholas Ridley, who DS described as ‘a dreadful, dreadful man’. I don’t suppose they will repeat any of this in public! Home before 9 for food, wine, and dozy chat in front of the TV.

Monday 20

Breamore/Woodgreen

A day of almost surrealistic absurdity – like something in a comic novel. Arrived to find J. in a good mood – he seemed happy with his talk and the interview he’d given to the Telegraph man, O’Brien. But then the phone rang – a guy from the Express: was it true that he had sold his house, to fund his Lawrence research, and was now living and working in a cowshed? No, it was not. Then why did the Telegraph have a story saying it was so? He had no idea. Was there no truth in it at all? Sorry, none.

And then in brisk succession the Daily Mail, the Today programme, and a bunch of local radio stations – all asking the same questions and similarly disappointed with the banal truth.

On thinking about it, J. could only guess that O’Brien had confected the story from two things he mentioned: 1/ that he had sold a house in Lymington to move into the much larger house owned by his aging father, who needs a bit of care; and 2/ that he was currently using a barn conversion for his office. There is a grain of truth in the story, in that funds from the house sale have helped to finance J’s research – but it elides the fact that everyone concerned is living quite comfortably, and that the ‘cow shed’ is air-conditioned and stuffed with the latest computer technology.

More phone calls through the day . . .

J. himself irritated but also quite amused – and shrewd enough to parlay it into publicity for the book; a young chap from local radio came at lunch and then the Mail reporter for a couple of hours in the afternoon.

Tuesday 21

A bright fine morning, so the walk in quite exhilarating, if cold. Found J. compiling a catalogue of his Lawrence rarities, with a view to selling some at least to collectors. All rather quiet after yesterday’s madness, although there was one call from the local paper . . . I started work on the notes for chapters 17/18 – a slow business. Walked through the Inclosure at lunch, to the Godshill road: cloudless overhead but v. squishy underfoot, making the paths impassable in places. A sense of spring breathing gently down our necks . . .

Friday 24

Breamore/Woodgreen/Salisbury/Yeovil

Heavy rain again, but thankfully J. rang, offering a lift. Rather grimly, we went back to the start of the tricky Ch. 17 and managed to clean up some of the mess, improving the flow a great deal I think. And so on all day, with the winds troubling the woods and rain blowing in great sheets across the common; snow now forecast, so very glad I’ll be spending the weekend in Yeovil . . .

Saturday 25

Yeovil

Hardly light all day, with furious winds and drenching rain. M and D repapering the hall and downstairs loo, while I just read, did laundry &c. Snow began to fall with the dusk, lying in small drifts on the darkening garden. White fish in a mushroom sauce . . .

Sunday 26

Yeovil/Salisbury/ Breamore

Sunshine! But still bitterly cold. Walked to the top of Vagg in a freezing wind, mostly for the view: Ham Hill still under snow and the Mendips shining icily from afar. Pork tenderloin at lunch and then just dozed until it was time to go. Had to stand all the way to Salisbury as two carriages not in use, then a dash through the Cathedral Close to catch the last bus. Home by 7. No sign of Sam, but fussed over mightily by Sacha the cat, who wouldn’t leave me alone – he eventually settled to sleep under my bed.

Tuesday 28

Breamore/Woodgreen

Today J and I revised the Wadi Ais chapter from beginning to end, trying to beef up the military incidents a bit, to offset all the talk. For some reason the last short paragraph proved recalcitrant, taking half the afternoon. Apart from that, not very much happened. At one point J. rang Robin Gibson at the NPG, about the recent news stories – R. said he had shepherded an all-party group of MPs around the Lawrence exhibition last week, and they were full of concern for ‘that poor fellow living in a cow shed’ . . . Walked home at 6, in the last of the light.

The first part of this diary is here; subsequent instalments can be read here, here, here, here, and here.

In my late twenties I worked for two years (1987-89) as a research and editorial assistant to the historian Jeremy Wilson, then grappling with the last stages of his great authorised biography of T. E. Lawrence. Lately, for reasons I do not wholly understand, I have found my mind circling back repeatedly to this interlude, which now seems to mark the end of youth: after almost 40 years, the episode has the oddness and intensity of a dream.

This may owe something to the work, which was all-absorbing if sometimes a grim slog; but other factors certainly came into it. Throughout this time I lived a strangely cut-off, almost monastic existence in the depths of rural Hampshire: lodging at an old cottage in the feudal village of Breamore, with its Jacobean mansion and tiny Saxon church; and walking the two or three miles daily to work at Woodgreen, an even smaller place on the edge of the New Forest. As I knew no one and had no transport, long walks on the downs or into the forest became my chief form of solace.

I also kept a detailed diary, some at least of which seems worth sharing. Here — over six or seven posts — are a series of entries from the last months of the project, when the struggle to complete the book became most intense and fraught. (Many private matters have been omitted, and the identity of private persons has generally been disguised.)

The 1989 diary begins in the depths of winter, during a New Year break at my parents’ house in Somerset . . .

Wednesday 4 January

Yeovil/Montacute

Much brighter, though still cold. For the sake of getting out, tramped through back lanes to Montacute – at first quite busy, but the old feeling of remoteness once you get past the turning to Thorne. Montacute village mellow in winter sunshine, under the aegis of its queer conical holy wooded hill. The path up slippery with mud, but struggled to the top and then climbed the tower, to get the view across the plain. Popped into the church, where I prayed so memorably that day (and fat good it has done me). Lunch and a pint in the Phelips Arms and then the slow plod home . . .

Jeremy rang later: his plan is to go to the PRO on Monday and then straight to Cambridge on the Tuesday – so I need to find somewhere to stay in London, if I can (Simon B?).

Friday 6

Yeovil/Sherborne

A fine bright morning so town – and then the little bus to Sherborne. Browsed the bookshops in Cheap Street and sat quietly in the Abbey, ‘the light there almost solid’. Lunch in the church house. Finally to the classical music shop on Greenhill and came away with L’Enfance du Christ and chants etc by St Hildegard (A Feather on the Breath of God).

Later a very strange Arena documentary about various odd characters in Barcelona – including an artist who makes sculptures out of human hair.

Sunday 8

Yeovil/Salisbury/Breamore

Lazy morning then roast lunch. Finished packing but struggling to get all my Christmas loot etc in two bags. Train from the Junction at 5, then the problem of getting both heavy bags across Salisbury in rainy dark; caught the last (6.30) bus by a whisker, feeling quite done in. The same story in Breamore, hauling luggage up the unlighted puddled lane to the cottage . . .

Saw Sam H. [landlady], who was friendly – but my room full of junk and lumber from their Christmas. Also very cold.

Monday 9

Breamore/London

Jeremy picked me up at 8.30 and so to London by the usual route (Stockbridge and M3); he talked mostly about the exhibition [National Portrait Gallery Lawrence exhibition, 1988-89], which has been a great success . . . We got to Richmond and the PRO sometime after 10: I ploughed through the files on Anglo-French relations 1917-18 but there was nothing of great interest today Lunch then more of the same till 5.

J. was staying at Leah’s [J’s elderly sometime research assistant] so dropped me at East Putney tube, after a short drive though North Sheen etc looking almost preternaturally dreary in the rain. From here about half an hour to Charing Cross. As some time to kill, strolled over Hungerford Bridge to the South Bank, with the Thames looking quite magical by night – even the nastiest buildings transfigured. A pleasant half-hour in the RFH bookshop – but the lavs full of the most alarming dossers, one quite openly injecting. Wandered back across the river and along Whitehall to Smith Square, where I met Simon [old college friend] on the steps of no. 32 aka the Epicentre of Evil aka Conservative Central Office. We took the Tube to Tower Gateway, then the new Docklands Light Railway – entirely automated – across Limehouse and into the Isle of Dogs: the old docks making pools of deeper darkness within the enveloping night. Simon’s new place at the far end of the line, in Island Gardens. We talked about his job and my job, mutual friends, modern art and architecture etc. . . .

Tuesday 10

London/Cambridge/Breamore

No call from Jeremy, who was supposed to pick me up at Putney or similar – I suppose he has lost the number? Decided there was nothing for it but to make my own way by rail, so left early and onto the Cambridge train at Kings Cross, arriving after 10. Taxi straight to Churchill College, so again saw nothing of the city. Found JMW and we just sat and worked through the Churchill papers until lunch, at a Berni Inn on the main road also called The Churchill. More of the same until 5-ish, then a dreadful journey back in the dark via M11 and M25 – hold-up after hold-up. Not home until 9.

Thursday 19

Breamore/Woodgreen

A quite miraculous uncanny frost: partridges skittering in the lane, a dead fox stiff and blanched, cold mists swilling on the river . . . Found J. copying documents: he also showed me letters from Anne Williamson (Tarka guy’s executor), the son of Major Young, and some old chap expressing his delight in the NPG catalogue – well I should think so, after our struggle to get that together! Endnotes for Chs. 12 –13 today – this is really taking some time. J. got very tetchy again in the afternoon – the diet I suppose – and insisted on working till 6.45: no lift back so 40 minutes’ plod via freezing pitch-black lanes.

Friday 20

Breamore/Woodgreen/Salisbury/Yeovil

Dark and drizzly. Worked to the end of Ch. 13 . . . but J seemed preoccupied with the idea of publishing the TEL–Henry Williamson correspondence, saying that Anne W.’s letter had given him the perfect excuse . . . We worked on till 6, when I insisted on leaving to get my bus and train. A damp walk back to the cottage, bustled in and out with bags, then waved my torch wildly to flag down the 7 o’clock bus — my only lifeline. Dad met me at the Junction 8.40 then home for food and wine . . .

Sunday 22

Yeovil/Salisbury/Breamore

Bright but cold. A gorgeous beef joint at lunch: talked in more detail about my work and found myself grousing rather, then wondering if I was being fair. Indeed, it’s hard to know how happy or unhappy I should be at the moment: the work is often interesting, but the main problem is seeing nobody much save JMW, who for all his great merits . . . The rural isolation also difficult, especially at this time of year when you can’t even get out and walk. A sleepy afternoon then train from the Junction c. 5 (just in the light). Made a plain omelette then more or less straight to bed. Feeling a bit dejected to be back: life seems to have shrunk.

Saturday 28

Breamore/Salisbury

Up and packed a bag with the intention of getting to Bath – really just for a change – but then noticed the fine rain and decided to leave it an hour. After which it was raining harder. So in the end stayed around the house till 1 then bus to Salisbury to have my usual mooch around the shops. A silly incident on the bus. For some reason my ticket snagged in the machine, leaving me without the part I needed for my return. At the next stop I walked down the bus to speak to the driver, who was busy flirting with a couple of girls in the front seats; he retrieved the rest of the ticket, but did so in a surly mocking way that made me feel that I was costing him a world of trouble. This in front of the girls, who laughed obsequiously. I hardly know why I mention this, except that I ought to have grown out of feeling self-conscious about such things – and I clearly haven’t. After that a fairly pointless maunder around the shops, feeling seedy and slightly ill. Bought some calamari, just because I’ve never tried it – hey-ho, live dangerously, that’s my motto! A quiet slobby evening with the paper and the radio: not to mention the bottle.

Sunday 29

Breamore/Wick Down

Misty at first, with a deep frost, but later becoming gloriously bright. Still feeling pretty dulled so when Sam went out just slumped in front of the TV in her little room – I sat through most of the EastEnders omnibus for God’s sake! Perhaps in shock at this, forced myself out for a walk and very glad I did. Plenty of others with the same idea as I strolled through the lanes to the church, where I loitered among the graves before climbing through bare woods to the bare downs beyond. The bridleway a mess of mud, but pressed on to Gallows Hill and the banks of Grim’s Ditch, with long views across the downs in three directions. A couple of roe deer went plunging across the fields and I was able to watch them until they became blips on the horizon. Frost lingering in the hollows but elsewhere the first hints of spring: gorse in full flower and even (astonishingly!) a few open-faced dandelions. For ten minutes watched the sun setting behind a tree full of noisy birds – and striking a cold fire from the flints on the hill. Back home through the now darkening woods.

Monday 30

Breamore/Woodgreen

Frosty as I walked in, very mild later. Found J. suddenly enthused by the idea of publishing an edition of L’s wartime reports; he rang Liz C. at Heinemann, to see if they would have any objection – and it turned out predictably enough that they would. But I don’t think he has given up on the idea entirely. Worked through the Ch. 16 notes at some speed, then J. insisted that we have another go at the Preface (‘Sense and Nonsense in the Biography of T. E. Lawrence’), which he wants to use as his speech to the Portrait Gallery seminar. I don’t think we improved it much: J seemed tired and obtuse, perhaps because he is back on the ‘strict’ diet this week. Home in the cold dark. A quiet evening reading; also some very beautiful Estonian music on the radio, which for some reason made me think of dear !*!*!, for the first time in years. Hot whisky before bed.

Subsequent instalments of this diary can be read here, here, here, here, here, and here.

I’m sure it is not my worst shortcoming, but it may be the one that grieves me most: I simply cannot draw. Something in this business of squinting at the world and making appropriate marks on paper eludes me. At school, I was mortified by art classes in the way that others shuddered at the thought of Games. And when I came to have my own children, their touching faith that I would be able to draw a cat or a pig or a cow could induce an almost tearful sense of inadequacy.

I think this is one reason why I am fascinated by books about painters and painting. What is it that these people do, and how on earth do they do it? For me, the book that has come closest to offering an answer is Christopher Neve’s Unquiet Landscape (1990), a short study of modern British landscape painters. Since its first appearance it’s become one of those subterranean classics – the sort that reviewers mention mostly in passing, but so often, and so intriguingly, that you finally give in and order a copy.

Neve is a painter himself, as well as a critic and novelist, so his engagement with his subject is at once practical and philosophically probing. He has the professional’s concern with technique and the physical circumstances in which artists work, but he is also fascinated by issues of personality and belief. On perhaps its deepest level, this is a book about psychology – human psychology in all its complexity and pathos: his own summary is ‘a short book about thought and what it is like to paint’.

In a preface to the second edition Neve describes how the book was seeded, quite casually, when he worked at Country Life in the 1960s. As his duties were not onerous – he was required to produce a short weekly piece on art – he would often cycle or take the train to meet artists of the older generation in their own landscapes. In this way he befriended Robin Tanner in his bucolic Wiltshire valley, Cedric Morris in Suffolk, and Ivon Hitchens in the patch of Sussex woodland he painted obsessively for forty years. Neve seems to have realized that he had the materials for a book only decades later, when most of the artists he’d met were dead.

Although his painters could hardly have been more various, Neve noticed that they had one thing in common: a powerful aversion to saying anything direct about their work:

Alan Reynolds liked to talk about Debussy and bicycle racing . . . William Townsend spoke of hop-stringing and geometry. Henry Moore showed me mostly bones and shells . . . Robin Tanner talked about botany and lettering and Time. Edward Burra, towards the end of his life, began to swear and use obscene language in order to avoid speaking about any kind of art, especially his own.

Some would go further:

Winifred Nicholson’s obsessions being rainbows, prisms and wild flowers, the conversation very often turned to them. She was not above lightening the mood by wearing a hat she had made out of a wicker wastepaper basket with silver milk-bottle tops sewn on to it.

The artists all seemed terrified of putting whatever it was they did into words; partly from a feeling that this might not be possible, but also from a fear that the words would become a distraction. Indeed, Ben Nicholson told Neve that he disliked any kind of art writing, because it ‘interrupts’ the pictures.

Rather awkwardly for a critic, Neve seems to share these misgivings, having a fierce distaste for what he calls the ‘ludicrous esperanto of art history’. Indeed, he often seems paralysed by the problem of saying anything remotely sensible about painting. ‘Pictures are impossible to write about correctly,’ he declares, and variants of this phrase recur with disarming frequency. That this calls his whole project into question does not escape him: ‘You could say that this book is pointless,’ he shrugs near its close.

That the book is very far from pointless is due mainly to Neve’s panache and precision as a writer. His artists’ tacit agreement that the best way to talk about art is usually to talk about something else seems to have spurred him to indirect strategies, based mainly on metaphor and analogy. For all his suspicion of language, Neve finds words that are wonderfully (if mysteriously) equivalent to the works he is discussing. For example:

Paul Nash’s places have in common a dumb brightness and a sense of concealment. He had an orderly mind and a consistent view of the world that was part poetry and part graphic design . . . when you look at his pictures you cannot escape the curioussensation that what they are doing is covering something up.

Writing like this challenges you to go back and test the words against the pictures – and if you do so you will find yourself nodding in bemused agreement. ‘Dumb brightness’ captures one aspect of Nash perfectly, as does the suggestion that he is performing a kind of reverse archaeology (‘covering something up’).

Neve’s chapter on Eric Ravilious is full of this sort of thing:

At first he can look almost natty, not so much light-hearted as lightweight, and then you begin to see that all his drawings are compact and strong in much the same way that a kite is light and strong. However airy and amused his arrangements, they are also spare and complete.

I count ten separate adjectives here, and my editor’s pen begins to twitch – but each pinpoints something essential about Ravilious, and they all pull together to create a tension and uplift ‒ a bit like that kite.

There is also this, which seems both acute and, in the light of Ravilious’s early death, moving:

His whole approach to landscape reminds me of the sensation I had when waking as a child in someone’s unfamiliar spare bedroom and looking very closely at the wallpaper for the first time. The pleasures of his watercolours are those of feeling well, of being young, and seeing for once, absolutely clear-eyed . . .

Throughout, there are terse, gnomic summings-up of artists and their works that could hardly be improved. The paintings of John Nash are described as being ‘unruffled by temperament’ – an odd phrase that will nevertheless strike a chord with anyone who loves them. Of Ivon Hitchens we read that he ‘instinctively drew the air and light that vibrates in the interstices of a view rather than the view itself’. By contrast, the paintings of Cedric Morris ‘seem to have been pulled from the earth like vegetables’.

Neve finds something new and interesting to say about every one of his twenty or so artists. But there is a lot more to the book than this. With its evocation of landscapes from the South Downs to the coast of north-east Scotland, it is also a magnificent work of ‘place writing’ (as we have learned to call it) and can be enjoyed purely as such. The book is a hymn to what Neve terms ‘the small exoticisms of the English landscape’. He rises to a Ruskinian eloquence when contemplating the taut lines of the fields in the Cornish moors above Zennor, the sea inlets of West Wales (‘boats at low tide seem to be lolling on mown lawns’), or the prospect of the Irthing Valley in Cumbria, ‘like a receptacle for hoarding the sky’:

Southwards from Hadrian’s Wall, fields fall into a river valley so generous that it acts as an enormous reservoir for light . . . On days when even the shade heats up and shadows are short and blue, sun drives the colour from the fields with their moisture, and stone walls give back a silvery light . . . Very often the great space is entirely full of altering mist which traps light and turns it slowly as if examining it. There is lemon light and violet . . . When the mist clears there are acres of blue air and radiance as far as the distant fells.

He reads the landscape with a painter’s eye, stressing its overt or hidden geometries, its subtleties of light and colour.

In structuring his book, Neve draws a distinction between those artists who devoted themselves to the quiddity of a particular place, like Stanley Spencer at Cookham or Paul Nash at Wittenham Clumps, and those who used landscape as grist for an essentially religious or personal vision. Of the latter, he seems most intrigued by Winifred Nicholson (she of the wastepaper-basket hat). An adherent of Christian Science, Nicholson believed that light and colour were literally emanations of the divine, and the luminous beauty of her work inspires some of Neve’s most ecstatic prose:

She knew that lilies which are white and hold their breath in the daytime are blue and pungent at night. She did her best to paint the snow of stars, far thunder, dusk when moths fall in flight . . . dawn light between curtains and the hellebore beneath the snow.

In brutal contrast, if equally brilliant, is his chapter on Edward Burra, whose landscapes express an almost hysterical sense of dread. Burra’s England is a despoiled realm in which something awful is always about to happen:

the Weald seen from above, bulging like the bottom of a boy scout on a bicycle . . . Dartmoor ready to murder lost hikers; the Lake District with its knees up under the wet viridian blanket; an industrial town itching the lap of a valley . . . hills in Snowdonia like the stockinged heads of criminals . . . Everywhere there are the giant teeth of broken viaducts, dizzy quarries, white cauliflowers of smoke.

Unquiet Landscape will give anyone – even an artistic non-starter like me – a sense of how it must feel to stand before a small piece of the world and try to wrestle it on to canvas or paper. But if it helps to elucidate the mysteries of the creative process, it does little to resolve the perhaps greater mystery of our response to art. Why do these paintings, often of quite ordinary places on quite ordinary days, work on us as they do? Neve’s answer seems to be that, more than any other genre, landscape painting can arouse in us a sense of our relation to the outside world and to time: ‘Landscape painting has always been about what it is like to be in the world and in a particular condition . . . on a day like, and yet entirely unlike, any other.’

Although a painting, unlike a book or a piece of music, is always a physical record of the process by which it was made, the finished work presents a continuous moment. Art has the power to capture the ephemeral and to put it beyond the power of time and change:

Only very good paintings can catch this thistledown, this biscuit-coloured dust hanging in a shaft of the sun . . . Why does it move us? I think because we sense such moments all around us but seldom remain still enough to see them . . . oil paint is quiet enough to stop a falling leaf, hold a bird in the air or a dog in the park or a moon in a pond.

Ultimately and most poignantly, Neve’s subject is the human imagination in its transactions with the natural world. This puts his book in the central tradition of English Romanticism, but you will look in vain for any Wordsworthian consolation. For all its beauty, the landscape remains unnervingly alien, indifferent to any meaning we would impose:

Love it lifelong and not one blade of grass will change direction because of our       feelings. The land will entrance us and in the end will bury us, with impartiality. If it  seems to have great beauty, that is because of what we are, not because of what it is . . . The birds have stopped singing in the lost lands. The unquiet country is you.

Originally published in Slightly Foxed No. 80

If you enjoyed this post, you might be interested in my ebook The Whartons of Winchendon —a short study of one of the strangest families in English history, featuring incest, treason, deep-sea diving, fairies, and the self-proclaimed Solar King of the World.

Last week saw a scattering of stories to mark the 50th anniversary of Harold Wilson’s resignation as pm — a man who dominated British politics for two decades before vanishing from the collective memory rather like a smoke ring from his ever-present pipe.

All of which brought back memories of my own uncomfortably close encounter with the four-times election-winning premier . . .

***

Some years back, the great Frank Key told us the sad tale of how he once inadvertently crushed a pet spider named Harold Wilson. Well I too have a confession: I once almost crushed the real Harold Wilson.

I am very short-sighted, hate wearing glasses, and in any case can never be bothered to look where I’m going. As a result, I frequently walk into things, some of which, deplorably, turn out to be people. On this occasion – an Oxford street, sometime in the mid-1980s – the thing I walked into turned out to be a plump old boy, white-haired, with something oddly familiar about the cut of his jib. Some old don I’d seen about the place, no doubt.

But this looked bad. Oh seriously bad. Very slowly, the senior citizen yawed from one side to the next, like a tree about to go down in a great wind: he seemed to weigh up the merits of toppling headlong, but then – having shrewdly re-examined the pros and cons – to surprise himself with a late vote for the ‘Let’s Remain Upright’ side of the question. And all this time he looked at me with a hugely puzzled look, without the mildest hint of anger or reproach.

I muttered some sort of apology and was five minutes down the street before I realised that I had almost laid out the Queen's former first minister, Sir Harold Wilson. This was some years before we learned the sad facts of Wilson's Alzheimer's, but even then I was struck by a jolting sense of pathos. Strangely, the thing that got to me wasn't just Wilson's evident frailty, but the fact that he was pottering about entirely by himself. Shouldn't even a 10-years-retired PM have had some sort of entourage about him – aides, bodyguards, hangers-on, whoever? Someone to protect him from all those MI5/BOSS men with their poisoned umbrellas? Or random idiots running into him and almost knocking him flat.

In a small way, it felt like an Ozymandias moment. Wilson’s utter domination of the political landscape for most of the 1960s and 70s is something we struggle to appreciate now – you’d have to be in your sixties to have any real memory of it – but back then it felt like an immutable fact of life. I can still remember the shock of hearing about the resignation — I was 14 at the time, off school with a cold, listening to the radio in bed: it was a bit like hearing that the sun or the moon had resigned.

And then he just sort of disappeared and nobody even talked about him much any more. You could walk right into him and hardly know it.

For a great deal more about HW and his era see my post Dominic Sandbrook’s Indexes of the 1970s.

There’s something of the romantic sublime about a good misprint.

In a recent piece on the Dabbler blog, Frank Key gave us his startling revisionist take on a well-known poem by Sylvia Plath:

In her mad poem ‘Daddy’, Sylvia Plath makes mention of ‘a bag full of God’. I have always taken this to be a misprint . . . I am as sure as eggs is eggs that what Plath originally wrote was ‘a bag full of Goo’. A slapdash printer made ‘Goo’ into ‘God’, and the error has persisted for half a century . . .

I’m not enough of a Plath scholar to say whether Frank could be right, but the history of these things suggests that it’s far from impossible. Given Wilde’s dictum that ‘a poet can survive anything but a misprint’, you’d think that printers and publishers would take fierce pains to avoid even minor errata in poetry: but this just isn’t the case. If anything, radical, outrageous, sense-subverting typos are more common in verse than in the workaday medium of prose.

I suspect there might be two reasons for this. In the first place, many poems make their debut in tiny, no-budget magazines that can’t afford proof-readers and don’t send page proofs to the author; this is true even of new work by the Big Beasts of the poetry world. Errors introduced here are often perpetuated in later editions and can easily end up enshrined in the big posthumous Collected unless there is a thorough check of printed texts against MSS. Secondly, and much more interestingly, there’s something about the language of poetry that makes it strangely pervious to error.

In prose, any half-decent editor will query an incongruous word or a phrase that doesn’t seem to stack up in the ordinary way; some mistake surely. But in poetry, where odd collocations abound and everyday meanings get stretched and twisted like Blu-Tack? As long as a word passes spellcheck, then who’s to say that it’s (certainly) wrong?

Editors with fidgety fingers need to remember the case of Richard Bentley, the great classical scholar who published his ‘corrected version’ of Paradise Lost in 1732. Arguing that the blind poet had been let down by his scribes, Bentley expunged scores of sublime Miltonisms that troubled his 18th-century notions of sense and taste (obviously, the great Milton could never have written anything as illogical as ‘darkness visible’ – what he wanted to say was ‘a transpicuous gloom’).

In the best poems, words are charged with a weird static and every stanza carries its tiny shock of delight. But if the language of poetry depends crucially upon surprise, then the word that slips into a poem by sheer fluke – through accident or inattention – will sometimes look and act as if it has a perfect right of abode. At times there may be a true serendipity – the word that was never meant bringing a rich strangeness or glamour. There’s a well-known example in Auden’s ‘Journey to Iceland’, which originally began:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

And the traveller hopes: ‘Let me be far from any
Physician’; and the poets have names for the sea;
The citiless, the corroding, the sorrow
And North means to all: ‘Reject!’

However, when Auden received the galleys from Faber this had itself undergone a sea change: the second line now read

 . . . and the ports have names for the sea

 – a gift that the poet was happy to accept.

There’s a more dubious case in Wordsworth, in his otherwise not very interesting poem ‘To —, on Her First Ascent to the Summit of Helvellyn’. In the poem that he wrote in (probably) 1816 Wordsworth alluded to certain ‘choral fountains’ that he imagined playing in certain caves in the mountains of the moon; come the collected edition of 1832, however, and these had become ‘coral fountains’ – a freakish but not unappealing idea that fits well enough with the odd vein of fantasy in the piece.

Very likely this originated as a mistake, but if so it’s one the poet decided to stick with in all subsequent editions appearing in his lifetime (Wordsworth was a fanatical reader of proofs, so it’s hard to believe that he simply missed it). Rather unimaginatively, all the great poet’s modern editors have opted to restore ‘choral’ – the 1914 Oxford edition insisting sternly that ‘Wordsworth was not a writer of nonsense-verses’ and opining that ‘coral fountains’ is in any case a ‘vile phrase’ (if anything, he should have written ‘fountains coralline’).

Something a bit similar happened in US editions of Yeats’s Collected Poems, which for many years printed this version of lines from his glorious poem ‘Among School Children’:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Plato thought nature but a spume that plays
Upon a ghostly paradigm of things;
Soldier Aristotle played the taws
Upon the bottom of a king of kings . . .

Miraculous stuff you might think, a signature piece of full-blown late period  Yeats; but hold it right there – what Yeats actually wrote was ‘solider Aristotle’ (solider, that is, than spumy old Plato).  Having grown up with the ‘wrong’ version of this I can’t help preferring it: surely the line scans better and the epithet ‘soldier’ is all the stronger for being unexpected (Aristotle was never himself a fighting man but certainly cheered on the exploits of his pupil, Alexander). Just possibly Yeats agreed: if he was aware of the error, then like Wordsworth he took no steps to put it right.  

Prestigious collected editions seem oddly prone to this sort of thing. In terms of its typos and other minor errors, the most notorious Collected  of modern times has to be the bestselling edition of Larkin’s poems published by Anthony Thwaite in 1988 (but don’t let that put you off: there are several important reasons why this book is better than either of the subsequent big Larkins). According to James Fenton, writing in the New York Times, one 12-line poem, ‘Long Sight in Age’, contains no less than three significant  errors:

They say eyes clear with age,
As dew clarifies air
To sharpen evenings,
As if time put an edge
Round the last shape of things
To show them there;
The many-levelled trees,
The long soft tides of grass
Wrinkling away the gold
Wind-ridden waves—all these,
They say, come back into focus
As we grow old.

That is the poem as Thwaite prints it; but his own eyes were obviously far from clear. Larkin wrote ‘lost shape of things’ not ‘last shape’ and at the close of the piece there are no ‘waves’ of any sort but rather weather vanes, glinting as they turn in the sun:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

The long soft tides of grass
Wincing away, the gold
Wind-ridden vanes

The real surprise is how little any of this matters; Thwaite’s errors do nothing to detract from the chill beauty of Larkin’s poem or the coherence of its central conceit. ‘Last shape’ brings the idea of mortality into a still more pitiless focus, and the lines about ‘wind-ridden waves’ of grass seem finely characteristic of Larkin when he is working this lyrical-elegiac mode. As Fenton writes: ‘I can see it, the wind riding the grass in waves that seem to wrinkle. But it’s not Larkin.’

Sometimes, of course, a misprint will be more jarringly subversive of a writer’s intention. In the Collected Poems of Archibald McLeish, for example, the editors somehow contrived to misprint two of the best-known lines in his very famous ‘Ars Poetica’:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

A poem should be wordless
As the flight of birds.

Is it just the over-familiarity of this piece – cited ad nauseam in every discussion of modernist poetics – that gives me a sneaking fondness for the botched version?

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

A poem should be worldless
As the flight of birds.

That makes no sense at all, in context, and entirely subverts McLeish’s insistence on the concrete, this-worldly nature of poetry (‘A poem should be palpable and mute/ As a globed fruit’ and so on). But all the same, that ‘worldless flight’ is beguiling – a rush of the airiest Shelleyan romanticism where no one would look for it.

And there perhaps you have it. There’s something of the romantic sublime about a good misprint, something that makes it a little bit harder to think straightforwardly about the relation of word to world (or indeed, of goo to God).

Originally published on the Dabbler blog, September 2013

If you enjoyed this post, you might be interested in my ebook The Whartons of Winchendon —a short study of one of the strangest families in English history, featuring incest, treason, deep-sea diving, fairies, and the self-proclaimed Solar King of the World.

Wednesday 22 September

Yeovil/Exeter/Plymouth/St Ives

Left the Junction at 10.40 in bright sunshine and brighter spirits; heavy smoky cloud around Axminster, but otherwise big clouds moving fast across bare skies. Exeter St D. at 11.40, then an hour’s wait for the Cornish Riviera from Paddington (20 mins late). Down the Exe estuary to Dawlish Warren, where for some reason we stopped dead for nearly an hour: then the exhilarating run along the coast to Teignmouth etc. Onwards through deep Devon and around the southern slopes of Dartmoor to Plymouth, where we had to change trains — followed by the grand moment of sweeping over Brunel’s viaduct into Cornwall!

But then rain as we plunged into the deep wooded valleys between Liskeard and Bodmin. An insufferable pair of lovers sitting opposite; both actors – she blonde and pudgy, he a lanky Australian. On through the dreariness of mid-Cornwall; Truro Cathedral, then Carn Brea looming over Camborne/Redruth, then a final change at St Erth for the seaside run to St Ives: the Hayle estuary, glorious sands at Lelant and Carbis Bay.

Arrived St Ives after 5, making it a 6½-hr journey all told. Followed scrawled directions to the Trevail Hotel, high above Porthmerris Bay; a bit of settling in, then out to explore. First the harbour, then the mazy streets of the old town, then up onto the Island with its chapel and coastguard station. A lone surfer still out in the waters of Porthmeor as the light began to wane. I found the start of the coast path and followed it uphill and around the first corner to Clodgy Point; rewarded by a splendid sunset over the Penwith moors.

Ate in the Seafarer’s Restaurant – mussels followed by Red Mullet. I wasn’t sure what to do with the little bowl of lemon water they served with the mussels. Back to the hotel then out around the pubs (crowded) for a drink and a smoke. Walked on Porthmeor beach till almost midnight with the surf booming invisibly in the dark.

Thursday 23

St Ives/coast path/ Zennor/Towednack

A marvellous bright morning; big fried breakfast in the hotel then out on the coast path towards Zennor. Warm work climbing up from Porthmeor in the sun. Plenty of other walkers to start with – a chatty couple from Leicester – but then increasingly left to myself. One wild headland after another: Clodgy, Hor, Pen Enys, Carn Naun. Aquamarine seas, with wild noisy breakers, and the moors rising dark and high above. Clambered down to River Pool and sat by its cascading stream – quite hypnotised for maybe 20 minutes. This is living again! More headlands: the Carracks, wild Wicca Pool, Zennor Head. Here I turned inland through small stony fields to Zennor village and the Tinners’ Arms, where I had a large orange and lemonade: 2.30 and still not hungry. Into the church, where I prayed my gratitude and found the famous mermaid pew-end. A little time in the museum and shop.

Dark clouds were rising from Pendeen as I started to walk back along the road remembered so vividly from – what – twenty years ago? The ‘mountains of the moon’ we called these bare stony hills. Past the turn to Tregerthen, where DHL went semi-bonkers in WWI, and up to the Eagle’s Nest, Patrick Heron’s high eyrie overlooking it all. Then a path right into the moors, to Zennor Quoit and the settlement and stones on Zennor Hill, before turning SE across the eerie downs. This was a truly unsettling walk and I was glad to get back to roads and houses, if not quite civilization – the scrubby farm at Amalveor, where a dog barked morosely at its own echo, and the tiny hamlet of Towednack, with its squat church. Then onwards through a scrawn country of stone fields, overgrown banks, and patches of nondescript land running out into the moors – while still keeping just ahead of the rain. A beautiful lane under the lee of Rosewall Hill, with fine views to the sea in two directions. And so downhill into St Ives, past the Leach pottery – and once more by the harbour c. 6.

Had tea and a scone in a small caff and enjoyed the bustle of town after the weirdness of the moors. Back to the hotel for a shower and a rest then out again to wander. Ate a big steak at a place near the harbour then loitered in the streets while a guy played a dulcimer in the last of the light – magical. Back to the hotel bar where I had a drink and a smoke and chatted a little with staff and customers.

Friday 24

St Ives/Morvah/coast path/Zennor

Another big breakfast then caught the bus to Morvah, about five miles round the coast from Zennor. A slow bumpy ride with huge views out to sea and across the ‘mountains of the moon’. Morvah itself a grim little place with nothing much to see, but the coastal path truly spectacular – the wild peninsulas of Bosigran Castle and Gurnard’s Head.

Rain setting in as I made my way inland and up to the Tinners’ Arms once more. Here I left my walking boots on the doormat as requested – and a scruffy-looking dog seized one of them and ran off with it, into the furzy country across the road. I had to chase after him in my socks and he thought it was a terrific game, as I’m sure did the regulars in the pub. Once I had retrieved it and booted up I set off into the moors and towards Trendrine Hill, today looking ominous under raincloud. The usual litter of quoits, cairns, settlements and the like – not always distinguishable from more recent remains or the natural granite. At some point saw the bus crawling along the road below and charged down the rocky hill just in time to catch it – it would have been a long walk back, with my feet sore and legs already beginning to ache. Indulged myself with chicken chasseur at one of the harbour restaurants.

Saturday 25

St Ives

Bright weather again but tired from the last two days so decided to stay in town and potter. To the new Tate Gallery – beautiful building and situation, but some of the art seemed underwhelming. Sat and chilled in the top-floor café, with its views across the old town and the bay. Back to the hotel for a bit, then out to the Barbara Hepworth museum and sculpture garden, which was more to my liking. Later walked round to Carbis Bay on the coast path, in fine rain, and found the huge beach almost deserted. Someone had made a very impressive mermaid sculpture in the sand. Tired and a bit lonesome when I got back – out for a steak then an early night.

Sunday 26

St Ives/Penzance/Madron/Lanyon Quoit etc

Cooked breakfast then the train to Penzance via St Erth (40 mins); the station right by the harbour, where the ferries leave for the Scillies. Walked a little by the front and the enormous art deco lido, with views across the bay to St Michael’s Mount. A cool cloudy day with rain threatening but I set off doggedly for the famous St Madron’s Well.

Followed the lanes a few miles out of town and then struck off to the right, up a muddy track between high lichenous hawthorns; the well full of votive coins and the bushes around festooned with rags and paper strips as signs of petition. Said my own brief prayer and had a look at the (scant) remains of the medieval chapel before heading off uphill and cross-country, with the towers of the Ding-Dong mine – the oldest in Cornwall – looming ever nearer, in a Childe Roland sort of way. Found Lanyon Quoit by the Morvah road then up over high rough ground to the ruins of the mine and engine house, with views to the sea in both directions. Finally a scramble across the moor to the pierced stone of Men-an-Tol. On the long walk back down a youth asked me for a light and I was able to supply one, which made me feel like a real smoker! Train back to St Ives where I ate a salmon steak with mussels as a starter (still haven’t worked out what you do with the bowl).

Monday 27

St Ives/St Erth/Liskeard/Looe

Paid up at Trevail and wandered out in the rain to tourist info, where I tried to book a place in Liskeard, as a base for exploring Bodmin Moor; all booked up, so had to settle for a B&B in Looe, a few miles down the branch line to the south. Train 11.30, arriving in Liskeard around 1, then a lengthy wait for the little train to Looe – which goes plunging down the steep valley of the East Looe River to the sea. Settled in then set off on a sunset walk along the cliffs towards Polperro – Hannafore Point, Portnadler Bay, and the tiny coastal hamlet of Talland. Back through narrow deep-hedged lanes with a steep descent into Looe. Roast duck in a pub plus beers.

Tuesday 28

Looe/Liskeard/St Cleer/Golitha Falls

A dull day with rain threatening but got myself onto the 10.15 train with the idea of walking on Bodmin Moor – a landscape that has stayed with me since childhood holidays, even though we mostly just drove over it at speed, en route to the coast (a particular memory is riding in Grandpa’s black Hillman, c. 1972, with Gilbert O’Sullivan’s ‘Alone Again, Naturally’ coming on the radio just as we hit the solitude of the moor).

From Liskeard – a pleasant grey town – walked a few miles uphill to St Cleer, a large village perched on the edge of the wild, where the views suddenly open out and the rough grassland seems to lap at houses and farms like a sea. Found the holy well and cross and then after another mile or two the Hurlers stone circle and the Cheesewring, a wholly improbable (and v. photogenic) natural feature. From here walked a little on the open moor, just to say I had , before setting off southwest towards the Fowey valley and Golitha Falls.

A steep descent to the river, where there were pleasant woodland walks to the Falls, which are more strictly a series of cascades. The drizzle had by this point become a steady rain so glad to get under the trees. But from here a long walk back through the lanes to Liskeard, mostly unsheltered so got very wet. Train back to Looe at 5, an hour or so in bed, then finally out for steak and beer.

Wednesday 29

Looe/Liskeard/Exeter/Yeovil

Paid up and packed then down to the little station – to find that I had lost my return ticket; back to the B and B in search of it, but no go. Finally on to the train at 11.25, a quick change at Liskeard and slept most of the way to Exeter St Davids. From the station an uphill walk in the rain to the Cathedral and the old narrow city streets, where I loitered around shops and cafes for most of the afternoon; bought a pile of books for Dad’s birthday and Susan Cooper’s The Dark is Rising sequence for myself. The city has a slightly New Age or Bohemian flavour that I had not really been expecting. Back on the train after 4, Yeovil before 6. Chicken bits and chips, tv and wine.

Thursday 30

Yeovil

Dad’s 65^th birthday. A foul drenching rain all day so did nothing much beyond looking at old books, papers, and diaries. Also slept. A sturdy beef casserole for dinner, with wine, then coffee, then calvados.

To an averagely imaginative child, a tree house surely offers a unique combination of delights. Like other outdoor dens, it is a liminal space where the wild consorts oddly with the domestic and the homely is made thrillingly strange. It is a place to experiment with adult roles – to play house or soldiers or doctors and nurses – while safe from adult eyes and judgements. And unlike other dens and hidey-holes, the tree house is poised marvellously between heaven and earth – an anomalous, arboreal realm where you can root in leaves and moss and bark while also walking on air like Jack on his beanstalk or Jim in the crow’s-nest. Boss of your own branch office, king of the bouncy castle, you have something later life will rarely top – a hiding place that is also a look-out, an airy throne where you can sway above it all at the hub of it all, invisible but all-seeing, the careless god of a green wavering heaven.

To an averagely sensitive adult, a tree house will probably mean all of this with the added element of nostalgia – a longing for the secret places of our own childhood, our own Strawberry Fields (‘no one I think is in my tree’) or refuge under the ivy. According to point of view, the urge to shrug off adult burdens and escape into the tree tops may seem either liberating or pathetic. There’s that Ian McEwan novel I haven’t read in which a Tory MP cracks up and reverts to a Just William, short-trousers-and-catapult way of life in a tree house (inevitably one thinks of Boris). More poignantly and ambiguously, there is Calvino’s Baron in the Trees and the mad King Sweeney of Irish legend, both of whom cast off earthbound duties for a life among the treetops.

As the man who has done most to interpret the Sweeney story to modern readers, it is no surprise to find that Seamus Heaney is a great fellow for the tree houses. Bosky childhood dens are recalled with love in his short memoir Mossbawn:

All children want to crouch in their secret nests. I loved the fork of a beech tree at the head of our lane, the close thicket of a boxwood hedge in the front of the house, the soft, collapsing pile of hay in a back corner of the byre; but especially I spent time in the throat of an old willow tree at the end of the farmyard. It was a hollow tree, with gnarled, spreading roots, a soft, perishing bark and a pithy inside. Its mouth was like the fat and solid opening in a horse's collar, and, once you squeezed in through it, you were at the heart of a different life, looking out on the familiar yard as if it were suddenly behind a pane of strangeness. Above your head, the living tree flourished and breathed, you shouldered the slightly vibrant bole, and if you put your forehead to the rough pith you felt the whole lithe and whispering crown of willow moving in the sky above you. In that tight cleft, you sensed the embrace of light and branches, you were a little Atlas shouldering it all, a little Cerunnos pivoting a world of antlers.

Readers of Heaney’s poetry may well feel they know these trees. That willow turns up in the early poem ‘Oracle’, where the child stowed in the hollow trunk becomes its ‘listening familiar’ and in turn discovers a voice:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

small mouth and ear        
in a woody cleft,         
lobe and larynx        
of the mossy places.

This short, oddly charged piece seems to describe a kind of initiation, in which by some spooky means the young Heaney is singled out for poetry. The title alludes to the oracle at Dodona, where the god spoke in the rustling of leaves.

A different sort of awakening comes in the poem called simply ‘In the Beech’. If Heaney’s willow is a place to get in at ground level, to hunker down and ruminate, his beech tree is an observatory or vantage point. In the poem, the boy in the high boughs looks out on a dangerous adult world of work and armies and war, finding ‘a strangeness and a comfort’ in the smooth beech trunk and its tangling frills of ivy. ‘A lookout posted and forgotten’, he knows that his ‘thick-tapped, soft-fledged, airy listening post’ is also a ‘boundary tree’ and inescapably a ‘tree of knowledge’.

Heaney has a third tree-house poem in the untitled sonnet often known as ‘The Boortree’, a calling to mind of his childhood den in the rank shade of an elder: ‘Its berries a swart caviar of shot, / A buoyant spawn, a light bruised out of purple.’

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Soft corrugations in the boortree’s trunk,
Its green young shoots, its rods like freckled solder: 
It was our bower as children, a greenish, dank 
And snapping memory as I get older. 
And elderberry I have learned to call it.

Here the dialect name for the tree – related to modern English ‘bower’ – is itself a kind of refuge, a pungent den of memories. The ‘touching of tongues’ that goes on in this boor or bower is not just sexual play but a friction between the vernacular speech of home and the standard English of adulthood:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

Boortree is bower tree, where I played ‘touching tongues’ 
And felt another’s texture quick on mine. 
So, etymologist of roots and graftings, 
I fall back to my tree-house and would crouch 
Where small buds shoot and flourish in the hush.

And what could it mean as an adult, to climb into the children’s tree-house, and look for a kind of rest? One answer is provided by the Scottish poet Kathleen Jamie, in the title poem of her fine collection The Tree House. Of an evening, the poet hoists herself into branches of the apple-tree and takes in the view:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

I was unseeable. A bletted fruit      
hung through tangled branches    
just out of reach. Over house roofs:    
sullen hills, the firth drained    
down to sandbanks . . .

The invisibility longed for here seems quite specific: an escape from the routines of motherhood and adult domesticity (‘bletted’, significantly, is an old word denoting that imperceptible moment at which ripe fruit becomes overripe):

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

I lay to sleep,
beside me neither man
nor child, but a lichened branch
wound through the wooden chamber,
pulling it close; a complicity

like our own, when arm in arm
on the city street, we bemoan
our families, our difficult
chthonic anchorage in the apple-
sweetened earth, without whom 

we might have lived
the long-ebb of our mid-decades
alone in sheds and attic rooms,
awake in the moonlight souterrains
of our own minds; without whom

we might have lived 
a hundred other lives,
like taxis strangers hail and hire,
that turn abruptly on the gleaming setts
and head for elsewhere.

The tree house brings on a yearning not for childhood, but for the dens of young adulthood – those lonely ‘sheds and attic rooms’, with their sense of unchecked freedom and boundless possibility.

The poem ends in a soft nest of paradoxes. First comes the thought that our solid, settled lives may be more provisional than they seem, having the patched up, ‘knocked together’ quality of a child’s tree-house. To settle down is always to settle for something, with all that that implies. And yet, once made, our rickety, gimcrack choices have a taste of inevitability. Even if we were to hail and take one of these magical, fleeting taxis, with its promise of a life quite elsewhere, would it not after all bring us to the same place, or to one very like it? There is perhaps only here, this loved, ordinary place where blossoming and growth are not in the end to be separated from what we know of death:

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

where we're best played out    
in gardens of dockens   
and lady's mantle, kids' bikes    
stranded on the grass;     
where we've knocked together    

of planks and packing chests   
 a dwelling of sorts; a gall    
we've asked the tree to carry    
of its own dead, and every spring  
to drape in leaf and blossom, like a pall.

You can read the complete poem here.

First published on the Dabbler in 2012 as Part 4 of a short series on trees in houses, houses in trees, and several things adjacent or in between. The other parts are: 1. A Tree in a Pub; 2. A Pub in a Tree; 3. Henry Hastings, the Dorset Woodwose; and 5. Deakin’s Dome.

His house was perfectly of the old fashion, in the midst of a large park, well stocked with deer; and near the house, rabbits for his kitchen; many fish ponds; great stores of wood and timber . . .

So Anthony Ashley Cooper, later the first Earl of Shaftesbury, begins an account of his visit to Henry Hastings, squire of Woodlands in Dorset, in the year 1638. It’s an unruffled sort of beginning; so Fielding might bring us to the country estate of his Squire Western, or Peacock introduce us to one of his eccentric rural house parties. But then things get a little strange. What else might you find in this park? Why, obviously:

. . . a banqueting house like a stand, a large one built in a tree . . .

So Henry Hastings, son and brother to the Earls of Huntingdon, likes to dine in a tree? Shaftesbury doesn’t stop to ponder this quirk but leads us onward, into the main house, where the oddities start to pile up: it becomes clear that our host, the rustic Mr Hastings, Keeper of Christchurch Walk in the New Forest, keeps an unconventional household:

The great hall [was] strewed with marrow­bones, full of hawks, perches, hounds, spaniels, and terriers; the upper side . . . hung with fox-skins, of this or the last year’s killing; here and there a pole-cat intermixed; gamekeeper’s and hunter’s poles in great abundance . . . On a great hearth, paved with brick, lay some terriers, and the choicest hounds and spaniels. Seldom but two of the great chairs had litters of cats in them, which were not to be disturbed: he having always three or four attending him at dinner; and a little white stick, of fourteen inches long, lying by his trencher, that he might defend such meat as he had no mind to part with . . .

The windows, which were very large, served for places to lay his arrows, cross-bows, and stone-bows, and such like accoutrements; the corners of the room full of the best chosen hunting and hawking poles . . . on the tables were hawks’ hoods, bells and such-like; two or three old hats, with their crowns thrust in, so as to hold ten or a dozen eggs . . . Tables, dice, cards, and boxes . . . stores of tobacco-pipes . . .

As described by Shaftesbury, the master of Woodlands seems a fitting genius locus for this rude domain; not just an epitome of the hunting, shooting, and fishing Tory backwoodsman, but a sort of woodwose or Wild Man of the Woods:

He was low, very strong, and very active, of a reddish flaxen hair; his clothes always green cloth, and never worth, when new, five pounds . . . He lived to be an hundred . . . but always wrote and read without spectacles, and got on horse-back without help. Until past fourscore, he rode to the death of the stag as well as any.

Shaftesbury, the polished Oxford graduate and future Whig grandee, was clearly both intrigued and appalled by this feral, earthy man and gives a detailed, almost anthropological, account of his habits. Apart from beef, mutton, and oysters – which he consumes twice daily at all seasons – Hastings eats almost nothing that he has not himself caught and killed in the woods. To keep these provisions from the beasts that range the house, they are stashed profanely in his chapel: ‘the pulpit, as the safest place, was never wanting of a cold chine of beef, venison pasty, gammon of bacon, or great apple pie, with thick crust, extremely baked.’

This is all washed down with a modest, if rather curious, choice of liquors:

He drank a glass or two of wine at meals; very often put syrup of gillyflowers in his sack, and always holding a pint of small beer, which he often stirred with rosemary.

Is it imagination, or is there a hint of wood magic even here? A whiff, perhaps, of Milton’s Comus and his ‘baneful cup . . . with fragrant syrups mixed’ – potions to delude any unwise virgins found wandering in his forest realm?

Because if Shaftesbury is to be trusted, Hastings’ primitive ways were not limited to his table manners and domestic economy. Any time not spent hunting and fishing, we are told, ‘he borrowed to caress his neighbours’ wives and daughters, there being not a woman in all his walks, of the degree of a yeoman’s wife, or under, and under the age of forty, but it was her own fault if he was not acquainted with her. This made him very popular; always speaking kindly to the husband, brother or father, who was to boot very welcome to his house.’

A generous policy, no doubt – although these habits seem to have caused the odd complication with the servants:

He was well-natured but soon angry, calling his servants bastards and cuckoldry knaves, in one of which he often spoke the truth to his own knowledge, and sometimes in both, though of the same man.

So did you get that? It seems that our Squire Hastings begets bastards, employs them as servants, and goes on to repeat the cycle by rutting with their wives. At least I think that’s what we’re being told.

Thanks to Shaftesbury’s account, Henry Hastings, the old rascal of the woods, would go on to enjoy a strangely vital afterlife for the next century and beyond (most recently, he appears as ‘an emblem of English incorrigibility, of bloody-minded, freely fornicating earthiness’ in Simon Schama’s Landscape and Memory). It is not known exactly when Shaftesbury wrote, but it was probably sometime in the 1650s or 60s, when Hastings was quite recently dead. By this time, Shaftesbury had risen to be a great power in the land, riding out successive changes of regime with wary aplomb (he is usually considered the founder of the Whig party that would dominate English politics for the next hundred years). Whether writing under Oliver or in the age of Wren and Congreve, Shaftesbury must have been aware that his subject looked more than ever like a rough sort of throwback – ‘an original in our age, or rather a copy of our ancient Nobility’.

This impression can only have become stronger as his account was published and republished during the 18^th century: indeed, it is hard to imagine a figure more foreign to the spirit of the age, with its cult of polished manners and rational improvement. Then, at the close of the century, things change again with the new taste for the picturesque, the rugged and irregular. When William Gilpin, another New Forest man, comes to write about Hastings in his Remarks on Forest Scenery (1790), the squire of Woodlands is presented as an object of savage wonder – close kin to the time-blasted oaks and other ‘splendid remnants of decaying grandeur’ that grace the ancient woods.

And so he comes down to us today. The mixed feelings evoked by this wondrous old brute seem to chime with Roger Deakin’s view that in our blandly suburbanized England ‘woods . . . have come to look like the subconscious of the landscape . . . the guardians of our dreams of greenwood liberty, of our wildwood, feral, childhood selves, of . . . Just William and his outlaws.’ As a potent but ambiguous spirit of misrule, Squire Hastings seems to belong with that contemporary ne’er-do-well Johnny ‘Rooster’ Byron as much as with Falstaff or Puck.

First published on the Dabbler in 2012 as Part 3 of a short series on trees in houses, houses in trees, and several things adjacent or in between. The other parts are: 1. A Tree in a Pub; 2. A Pub in a Tree; 4. The Secret Nests of the Poets; and 5. Deakin’s Dome.

In the spring of 1930 John Cowper Powys and his companion Phyllis Playter moved into a ‘clean tidy oldish little Dutch New England cottage’ in a remote part of upstate New York. At the age of 58 and after some 25 years of crisscrossing the States with his inspirational, barnstorming lectures on literature and philosophy, Powys was finally ready to give up his itinerant life and ‘to make the grand plunge . . . and try to earn my living by my pen.’ Surely, in this rural quietude he would find ‘space wherein to expand’ and to embark on the great literary works he had long contemplated.

Hillsdale, Columbia County must have seemed an ideal setting for the ‘semi-anchorite life’ that Powys now planned. For all its ‘deep deep deep beautiful lonely wildness’, it offered a very human landscape of ‘Grassy slopes, park-like reaches, winding rivers, pastoral valleys, old walls, old water-mills, old farmsteads, old bridges, old burying grounds . . .’ To Powys, the ‘Holland Dutch’ architecture of the little, scattered villages breathed an atmosphere of ‘old world romance’, while the steep, wooded hills and the tiny valleys brimming with ferns and mosses woke a fierce nostalgia for his childhood in Somerset and Dorset.

Above the farms and hamlets there were bare upland fields, separated by dry-stone walls and tall hedges of chokeberry, shadblow, and white-flowering thorn. But any sense of bleakness was dispelled by the ‘warm, hazy, vaporous, lovely grey waves of tender spring-like mists’ that would sweep up the valleys and bathe everything in a liquid haze.

On his first day at the cottage Powys took an exploratory stroll through his new kingdom and set about ‘christening’, as he put it, ‘every stump and stone, every rock, swamp and rivulet in this virginal Arcadia’.  Struck by a curious local name, he decided that the tall hill immediately behind their home was Mount Phudd, making the house itself Phudd Bottom. At the top of the hill there were some odd heaps of boulders and these Powys took to be Indian graves: henceforth the path between the stones became the ‘Avenue of the Dead’, while a solitary boulder further down became the ‘Altar of the God of Phudd’.

In the months to come this supposed graveyard with its ghosts and its angry god would cast a dark shadow on Powys’s ever-delicate psyche (not to mention his bowels); but for the present he was quite exceptionally happy. Here, in this landscape at once foreign and familiar, mundane and mysterious, he could at last give himself up to what he considered ‘the most thrilling of all sensations, the sensation of sharing the little, evasive, casual waftures of mystic happiness, coming on the air in a doorway, on the sun-rays in an old barn, on the moon over a turnip-field, on the wind across a bed of nettles, and of sharing these with the forgotten generations of the dead.’

As summer gave way to autumn it must have become clear that life at Phudd Bottom would be no unmitigated idyll. The cottage was damp and rat-infested and there was no indoor plumbing; when the New York winter bit, the only sources of heat were some primitive oil stoves and open fires that it was a constant struggle to keep alight.

This might not have mattered so much if Powys had been blessed with an ordinary modicum of practical skills. However, his clumsiness was such that even the simplest of domestic tasks seemed beyond him. ‘Carrying out ashes he could usually manage, but lighting a fire could take him up to two hours,’ comments his biographer Morine Krissdottir, ‘and he never did master the art of opening a window or pulling up a blind.’

His laborious attempts to manoeuvre a tea tray were likened by one observer to the docking of the Queen Mary, while the thought of cooking breakfast could reduce him to despair at the complex logistics involved: ‘I can see my grand difficulty would be to get the fried egg out of its pan and onto the plate!’ Indeed, Powys’s clumsiness was so extreme that a modern reader is tempted to diagnose some sort of dyspraxia syndrome; on one occasion he would end up with his arm in a sling after an ill-advised attempt to clap his hands.

Powys himself was well aware of ‘this mysterious anti-mechanic magic in my hands’ but, infuriatingly, seems to have regarded it with pride; his curious home-made religion included as one of its elements an almost gnostic hatred of matter. All this meant that the burden of cooking, cleaning, shopping, and generally looking after John Cowper fell heavily on Phyllis, who was herself physically frail (‘like a little huddled wren’) and suffered from gruesome periods that would confine her to bed for days at a time. After one such interlude, she came round to find that Powys’s attempts to light a fire had left black holes in the carpet and a thick layer of ash over everything:

An insane fury gripped me that he could be so absolutely without will or logic in relation to matter. I felt almost choked with the consciousness of it – and seized his hair . . . and made his spectacles fall off – and felt appalled at my conduct to the deepest nethermost fathom within me . . .

John Cowper formed the sound plan of appointing a housekeeper – but rather less wisely gave the job to a cousin of his named Warwick, who appears to have been eccentric even by the formidable standards of the Powys clan. Warwick was sent $300 – a good part of Powys’s yearly income –  to make the journey from New Mexico; unfortunately, his regime proved so alarming that Phyllis fled the cottage to stay with family and Powys took to hiding in the garden. Eventually, he was forced to conclude that Warwick was ‘really rather queer in the head’ and sent him packing; Phyllis returned and things resumed their wonted course.

If Powys took little part in the practical side of running the household, it would be wrong to suppose that he was idle. Indeed, his diaries – and the great Autobiography that he began at Phudd Bottom – show that he subjected himself to a daily routine that most people would find exacting.

Although he hated early mornings, Powys rose at dawn to commence the long series of obsessive-compulsive rituals that gave shape to his day. First, he would lay his fingers on a ‘little sacred talisman’ from the tomb of St Therese, and say a prayer for his brother Llewelyn, a devout hater of all religions. There would follow a long series of prayers for his neighbours, including those in the Moravian burying ground just outside his window. As a climax, Powys would plunge his head into his washing basin and hold it there while he prayed for his dead grandfather ‘for it has entertained me from my childhood to see how long I can hold my head under water’.

Although fervent enough, these prayers were hardly the most orthodox; as a child, Powys had loved to suppose that he was a great magician with the power to command angels and spirits and this idea would remain at the core of his self-image. In his particular kind of prayer, he would explain, ‘I act the Trinity . . . for I project my waves of magnetic force from the three centres of my being; from my brain, from the pit of my stomach, and from the centre of my erotic energy. I won’t weary you with a detailed description of the armies of magnetically created spirits that I thus send forth . . .’ He is, however, willing to divulge that he thinks of his spirits as ‘variously coloured’, enabling him to send differently tinted spooks on different types of errand.

All this achieved to his satisfaction, Powys would walk in the woods and feed the skunks from a garbage pail while continuing to send his colour-coded spirits to anyone who might need their help (an operation accompanied by various ‘spasmodic motions’ of his body). With his druidical oak cudgel in his hand, he would then visit a ‘great mossy natural knoll’ that he had named Merlin’s Grave and invoke the great magician while burying his face in its damp rubble. His ritual circuit always involved halts at two very important trees. At the first, an old apple tree that he named Polutlas, the much-enduring, Powys would again pray for his grandfather. At the second, an ‘enormous and very ancient willow’, he would indulge in a more personal type of therapy:

To this aged tree I have given the mystic name of the ‘Saviour-Tree’, and here and now I recommend to all harassed and worried people who can find in their neighbourhood such a tree—and it needn’t necessarily be a willow—to use it as I do this one. For the peculiarity of this tree is that you can transfer by a touch to its earth-bound trunk all your most neurotic troubles! These troubles of yours the tree accepts, and absorbs them into its own magnetic life; so that henceforth they lose their devilish powers of tormenting you.

Powys certainly had more use for such a tree than most.  A complete list of his ‘frantic and misery-causing manias’ would fill pages but the thoughts that agonised him most sprang from certain erotic books to which he had been addicted in his youth. These were French by origin, violently sadistic by nature, and in his own words ‘transported me beyond all other feelings I have known’. Although he was now strict in forbidding himself even the mildest sadistic thought, sometimes a ‘demon-image’ from one of these terrible books would rush at him ‘like a frantic harpy’, a ‘wicked ripple’ would float through his nerves, and all at once the pulses in his wrists would begin ‘to tick, as if I were wearing two wrist-watches’.

Powys would atone for such lapses by adding various penitential acts to his routine; in particular, he would spend hours at the stream with a little net, carefully ‘rescuing’ fish by moving them out of shallow water: ‘This matter of saving fish in my small river was constantly on my conscience . . . and I used sometimes to walk as far as a mile carrying a pail of them, till I found an adequate pool for their reception.’ There were also flies and bluebottles to be rescued, prayers to be made to Demeter and Cybele for all the down-and-outs of London and New York, and – if ever he found the time and the health and the peace of mind – books to be written . . .

From the winter of 1931-32 a new set of manias came to rule Powys’s life as his mind dwelt ever more darkly on the supposed ‘Indian graveyard’ behind his cottage. Although he would sometimes admit that his knowledge of Native American culture came mostly from Hiawatha, Powys became convinced that the rocks on Mount Phudd were the burial mounds of Mohawk chiefs, angry ghosts who demanded some kind of ritual obeisance. Accordingly, ‘at the two equinoxes and at other pivotal days’ Powys would climb to the wooded summit of Phudd ‘and walk up and down this “death-avenue”, as I liked to call it, kneeling in front of each pile of stones and invoking these dead Indians.’

More onerously, the Indians began to call him each day to the Altar of Phudd, where he was ordered to go through a complex rite of tapping his head on this grey, lichenous boulder. Eventually even Powys – who had a self-confessed ‘mania for “bowing and scraping” to idols’ – began to feel that the ghosts were making unfair demands on his time and comfort. A series of journal entries show how he struggled to assert his self-respect:

I heard the Indian Tombs on top of Phudd telling me this layer or film of ice lay on them & begging me to climb up the Mount & salute them. This I was too lazy to do. I notice how if you are to be happy in this world you have forever to be hardening your heart . . .

I prayed to the dead Indians in the highest heap of stones and also in the first I came to and also in two heaps in the Avenue of the Dead up there. But as I went away three more ghosts of dead Indians—dark swaying slender bodies cried come to me—come to us! come to us! But I would not . . .

I visited my old favourite dead tree—O I did enjoy it so. But I was nervously agitated by those Ghosts of Indians calling to me & I talked to the tree saying unto it ‘Self first—self first—self first—Dead Indians second!’ but the tree answered me not a word.

When Powys became openly rebellious, the Indians chose to exert their power through some very below-the-belt tactics. For many years John Cowper had suffered from hideous gastric troubles, almost certainly made worse by his freakish diet (by this stage he consumed almost nothing except bread, tea, and raw eggs). As a result he had become dependent on regular self-administered enemas: ‘For two or three years I have not had one single natural action of the bowels’ he confided in the Autobiography, adding that he had come ‘greatly to prefer this artificial method to the natural one!’ Unluckily, this gave Powys’s spectral opponents the chance to strike back in a particularly intimate way:

The Indians of the Hill & the God of Phudd commanded me to come to the Phudd Stone & tap my head. But I refused. I too am a Magician! I said. So they set themselves to show their Power & I set myself to show my Power . . . I gave myself a good Enema after my fashion with the squeezing tube and I squeezed it sixty times. The spirits of the Indians were making a grand coup, a great rally against me however and all went wrong. It would not work!!  

Indeed it would not. Powys remained in an agony of constipation for some days before realising there was only one solution; to her myriad other chores, Phyllis must add the administration of the twice-weekly enema.

And so the months passed, and so the years. March would bring the phoebe bird, the hermit thrush, and the first woodchuck in the meadow; April the red maple flowers, white bloodroots, delicate hepaticas, and little green frogs by the stream. May the water mint and the white-flowering shadblow. Powys went on chanting his prayers, tapping his head on stones, and climbing Phudd Hill to watch the sun go down ‘like a great purple plum that you couldn’t eat’. In his four years at Phudd he would complete two of his greatest novels – A Glastonbury Romance and Weymouth Sands – and write most of his wonderful Autobiography. Looking back he would recall this time as one of extraordinary happiness and fulfilment: ‘years in which I had a greater chance to realise my identity than I have ever had in my life’.

First published on the Dabbler blog in January 2014

If you enjoyed this post, you might be interested in my ebook The Whartons of Winchendon —a short study of one of the strangest families in English history, featuring incest, treason, deep-sea diving, fairies, and the self-proclaimed Solar King of the World.

Of that summer, I mostly recall the heaviness. Each day I put in the hours at a low-level publishing job that gave little joy, and then returned to a squalid house full of people I did not like or trust. Two family members died within three months, and the feeling of almost stupefying grief was intensified by the weather, which stayed relentlessly dull and close from May through June into August. At this point, and somewhat out of the blue, I received an invitation to stay in Sweden, with a friend now settled there — a charming, clever, unusual man named Carsten Smit, who worked as a doctor while also running a small translation and publishing venture from Uppsala. It seemed the perfect escape; I booked my flight straight after the second funeral.

What follows is a version of the diary I kept at the time. For reasons that will become clear, most names have been changed: the rest, I’m afraid, is true.

Monday 27 August

Aylesbury

Spent the day sorting clothes and fretting over tomorrow’s departure. Also read in the Rough Guide and planned possible excursions – the most exciting being to take the Inlandsbanen from Mora into the Far North: Östersund, Jokkmukk, Gällivare, Kiruna (the last three all in the Arctic Circle). But do I have the courage? Feeling increasingly nervous about the whole thing now: first time abroad by myself and first time I’ve flown since – when? – school trip in 1974? Will I know where to go and what to do at the airport? What if I lose my passport or someone takes my money? Almost wish I wasn’t going.

Tuesday 28

Aylesbury/London/Heathrow/Arlanda/Sigtuna/Uppsala

Slept by fits and starts, with the nerves really kicking in. Up before 9 and finished packing in a panicky sort of way – will I need an extra bag? – then wasted time trying to sew a button onto my trousers. Finally ran down to Cook’s with £500 in cash to pick up the travellers’ cheques: they were not officially open, but the girl let me in and out as arranged . . .

Caught my breath then bundled down to the station to catch the 10.09. Another hot day, with London dank and sweaty as before. From Piccadilly the long, long ride to Heathrow – found myself checking my watch approximately every ten minutes and my passport and tickets rather more than that (as if they might just dematerialise in my pocket). In fact, made the airport in very good time and the check-in and security stuff a good deal less alarming than I had feared.

Called to the gate sometime after 1 and sat with sleek businessmen and a lot of very obvious Swedes. We boarded and I felt smug to have a window-seat and a row to myself: everything very soothing and civilised and efficient. It’s funny, I’m not the least bit nervous about the flying itself: just everything that surrounds it. Take-off at 2. How very, very fast you go up! And how thrilling that moment of breaking through the clouds, into the blue sky beyond – the blue we’ve barely seen for months. England below looking small and crowded and somehow trifling: the Suffolk flats and estuaries, and then the grey North Sea, for over an hour. Some sort of sausage-meat and salad concoction for lunch.

At some point I looked up from my book — Alice Thomas Ellis — and there was Sweden: mile after mile of dark forest, with lakes, and towns, and lakes, and then more forest. Wheels down at Arlanda after 4, swiftly through customs etc. and Carsten met me with his Saab. I’m really here!

We talked about obvious things: old friends and Oxford days. He says he has several excursions lined up, but other than that will be working at the surgery so I’ll have to fend for myself. For a foretaste, we stopped at Sigtuna — a very pleasant little town on a bay of Mäleren, the long lake that winds some seventy miles inland from Stockholm, with one inlet going right to Uppsala. There were low wooden houses, painted red and yellow, craft shops and coffee shops, steep streets to the harbour and the boardwalk by the lake. Also a runestone or two and a very ancient ruined church – it claims to be the oldest town in Sweden. Over coffee C. talked about Elsa Beskow, the children’s writer and artist, most of whose books are set here. He said that ideally he would like to expand his publishing from technical into children’s books.

We drove on to Carsten’s place in T——, a very rural suburb of Uppsala. He has a large wooden house at the far end of a road, just where the town gives out to green lawn, with dark woods beyond.

I met Gunde, his partner, who didn’t say much, beyond the most basic civilities. I have a bed on the ground floor, in a sort of lumber room next to the sauna (C. says he’ll sauna with me if I want, but he’s not really a fan). Later, we strolled through piney woods to the lake, where there is a popular bathing place; C. said that some years people wear bathing suits and some years they do not – there doesn’t seem to be a pattern. This must have been an hour or more after sunset: but still a milky kind of light by the water. Among the trees, there were whole families out in the dusk foraging for mushrooms and cloudberries, this being the season. Also giant teetering anthills looming from the forest floor, some five or six feet high and said to be decades or even centuries old. The air like a strong wine, or drug.

Slept better than I have for months (perhaps years).

Wednesday 29

Uppsala

C. had promised to drive me into Uppsala and his friend Jake van der Loon came for the ride. He is late 40s, American, and looks like a debauched version of Cliff Richard (or perhaps the painting Cliff keeps in his attic). He also seems to be completely mad, or more specifically sex mad, keeping up a running patter on the subjects of genitalia, sex positions, etc. that would not disgrace a 13-year-old schoolboy. To my surprise, C. appeared to relish this talk, which I thought curious in a doctor. As we drove I learned that Jake had (a) once been a monk and (b) is now employed as a psychologist to the US military.

We parked near the station, with the Uppsala skyline now on full theatrical display: the giant red-brick cathedral with its soaring spires and further back the blank façade of the castle, grimly vigilant on its hill. But first through modern streets to Stora Torget – the main square with City Hall, department stores etc. — and down to the river. In one of the squares there was some sort of leftist demonstration, not large, and C. heckled robustly in Swedish – he says that exposure to Swedish Social Democracy has pushed him well to the right. From here into the old town and up to the cathedral and the university area, with C. pointing out the main sights — the rather grand university hall, the Carolina (library), and the onion-domed Gustavianum: we popped briefly into the last, so C. as medic could show off the preserved anatomical theatre (17^th c.). Everywhere there were fresh-faced students arriving for the new academic year, which starts on Monday: C. talked about the various odd traditions – the sailor-like hats – the social clubs called ‘nations’ – the river-rafting in spring – and oddest of all, the custom whereby every night at exactly 10, students all over the city open their windows and scream into the street.

Back to the river for delicious cakes and pasties at one of the numerous small cafes: the rule being that after the first cup of (very strong, very fresh) coffee, all refills are free! At this point we split up, as C. had business in town – and to tell truth, I wasn’t sorry to see the back of Jake, who had got on to aphrodisiacs (‘Dr Smit’s patent cunt juice’).

For the next hour or two, I just wandered around the old town and looked at the same things again at much greater leisure. I really think I may have fallen in love with this place. Apart from the obvious quaintness, everything seems so clean and well cared for and all the people so happy and healthy and well-dressed. Coming here straight from filthy sweltering London feels rather like dying and waking up in heaven. There was a moment this morning, in the new town, when we passed under one tree and then another – and I swear you could smell the difference between them, the air was so clean.

The number of strikingly beautiful women is also – something.

As there was still time to kill, I caught the bus to Gamel Uppsala, an ancient site a few miles out of town that is revered as the birthplace of the Swedish nation. The place was deserted and quite pleasantly eerie in the dusk: there are three enormous mounds – supposedly the graves of pagan kings – and a small grey church with separate bell tower. The church was supposedly built to hallow a place of human sacrifice but had itself a dark and folkloric look, especially that bell tower, so all things considered I was pleased to get back to town.

But there was only one actually scary thing today and it was a great deal more banal: the time I used a portaloo in town and couldn’t for the life of me figure out how to unlock the door. I was actually on the point of calling out in panic, when I tried one more time and was inexplicably freed. I think this is what I don’t quite like about abroad – the being reduced to a rather stupid child, who doesn’t know how anything works (physically or culturally).

A long talk with Carsten in the evening, about his impressions of Sweden, Swedes and the culture. He didn’t want to burst my bubble, but was quite keen to stress some of the negatives. He said, for instance, that despite the country’s famously liberal asylum policy, many Swedes are quite instinctively racist, and look askance on anyone who doesn’t fit the blonde and blue-eyed stereotype. (For his part, C. seemed to deplore both the widespread immigration from Africa, Middle East etc. and the hostile reaction to it.) For all their politeness, Swedes are generally an unfriendly, standoffish bunch with a fierce sense of who belongs to the ingroup and who does not – something he had experienced repeatedly himself. In any court case between a Swede and a non-native, the latter will stand little chance, he said.

This was all very interesting, but I had to wonder where it left me: an outsider among outsiders, in a country that might look like heaven, but is starting to feel like some sort of a test.

Thursday 30

Uppsala/Stockholm

Up early and off for Stockholm, with C. driving and Jake once more along for the ride (he was exactly the same as yesterday). We parked somewhere in the suburbs and took the T-bana to Central Station: everything extraordinarily clean and efficient and many of the tube stations featuring quite beautiful artwork.

Down to the waterfront, where we parted at a café, agreeing to meet here for lunch (C. off on publishing business, Jake who knows). From here I crossed the water into the old town and ticked off the main sights: the Parliament building, the sombre-looking Royal Palace, the Old Church (Stora Kyrk). Much more enticing was the web of narrow streets, cool and mostly cobbled, with craft shops, cafés, places selling art and antiques, in which I could have wandered for hours. All seemed to lead back eventually to the Stortorget, or Old Square, which was surrounded by tall, narrow, houses, in all shades of red, yellow and ochre.

A curious incident on the way back to the café. In a busy shopping street, a group of girls set up a pair of traffic cones maybe 30 yards apart. The young man who was with them then took off his gown and walked stark naked around the cones, with no attempt to cover himself, while the girls nodded approvingly and ticked his name on a clipboard. Most of the shoppers did not even look up. I mentioned this to C. and J. at the café and they said it was some sort of initiation rite for new students at the university and all the males (at least) were expected to do it. They had their own nude story, as they had seen a middle-aged woman swimming naked in the ‘Strom’ – apparently not that uncommon. The water is evidently very clean as I had seen people fishing from the bridge.

Before Jake made off, C. explained that he wanted a third of the petrol money from each of us – which I thought slightly mean as he was driving in anyway (and says he can claim against tax). Perhaps he is not quite as prosperous as he seems?

Afterwards C. and I took the short ferry ride to Skansen, the huge open-air museum with reconstructed farms, windmills, craftsmen’s workshops etc. based on regional styles from all around Sweden: there was also a viewpoint with fine views back across the city. And from here back to the metro, the car, and home.

So I loved Stockholm, but perhaps not as much as Uppsala.

After supper – again with no sign of Gunde – C. seemed tired and moody, so I decided on a solitary walk before bed. Which turned into a small but slightly terrifying adventure. The obvious plan was to head for the lake shore, as we had the other night. The direction had seemed straightforward enough at the time: but almost as soon as I got among trees the path became uncertain and the light began to ebb. Before long it was pitch black and I was in a state of raw panic: here I was, thousands of miles from home, in a dark wood, with no idea of how to get back to the way. I could quite easily walk around in circles all night, or worse still stray deeper into the forest, which for all I knew might extend fifty miles and be packed full of wolves (these are no English woods). I began to curse myself for a damn fool and to wonder how I was going to get out of this one. Eventually, just at the point where hope was evaporating, I hit a road – with pavements and orange streetlights but no sign of houses. This was better, but I had no idea where I was or in which direction I should turn. A jogger passed, and then a couple of dog-walkers – but everyone claimed not to speak English or shunned me altogether, as if I was some wild threat to civilisation. Perhaps I looked a trifle mad.

Salvation finally came in the shape of a little convenience store, out here in the dark forest as if it were some sort of troll-hut, risen magically from the ground. It was run by a nice Indian couple who allowed me to ring for a taxi and would not take money (these being the very immigrants Carsten was decrying). It was then a five-minute ride back to C.’s, albeit by entirely unfamiliar streets. I saw, with a shock, that it was after midnight.

‘I got a bit lost,’ I said, suddenly unwilling to say more.

‘I thought you might.’

Friday 31

Uppsala/Lake Mäleren

C. out to work, so left to my own devices. It was cool and cloudy with a distinct feel of autumn: the Swedish summer of idle days and extravagantly long evenings drawing to its close. Almost as if to make sure of something, I took the path through the woods – and found my way to the lake without the slightest problem. From here I wandered southeast along the shore: birch and pine forest, grey-blue waters, all very tranquil if a little unexciting. I don’t think I saw another soul, even at the big marina, half way along, where the rigging made that eerie whining noise and the tackle clinked and clacked on the masts. Finally to a sort of point (with jetty), where the River Fyris flows in from the north – and made my way back by road.

After lunch I found the bus stop on P—vagen and so into the city centre. More wandering around the little streets and loafing by the river and in cafes – but today into the mighty Domkyrkan to have a proper look. The interior was hugely impressive – a massive nave with more intimate side-chapels, one housing the relics of St Erik and another with wall paintings on the same theme. Linnaeus is buried here.

C. seemed morose after a day in the surgery. He talked a bit about the rise in HIV/AIDS cases. It is illegal to test for the virus without consent, but says he finds a walk-around, if he thinks there’s any chance the patient has it. He is not prepared to risk his own life, or Gunde’s, for the sake of anyone’s ‘ethics’.

Saturday 1 September

Uppsala/Drottningholm

Again cloudy and cool. A quiet morning but then, as planned, C. drove us to Drottningholm for the ballet. Gunde came but again said almost nothing It was about an hour’s drive, through dull farmland and clean dull Stockholm suburbs: finally over a bridge to Lovon island.

The palace itself very grand, although I didn’t feel that I loved it. We wandered in the Baroque garden, with its fountains and statues and avenues of trees, and all at once I knew the place: Grandpa and Grandma Croome, standing where we stood now, smiling for the camera on another day of cloud, perhaps thirty summers past. Ghosts in their holiday best, closed up in the photo album at home: still somehow present and protective.

We settled into the little Court Theatre sometime after 3, my thoughts running mainly on that Bergman Magic Flute filmed here in the 70s — a thing I saw and quite unexpectedly fell in love with aged 16 (the strangely pathetic dragon at the start, the three little boys in the air balloon). Shortly before curtain-up, I realised that I had left my glasses in my coat (which we had to leave downstairs) and went to retrieve them – but an officious young woman barred my way, and told me in perfect English to go back to my seat: I am starting to go off the Swedes. This meant that I missed some of the finer points, but ballet is in any case the art that I understand least – I have never really got the language of it, the meaning of the poses and gestures. Also, there’s something disconcerting about live dance, the way you can hear the thumps and scufflings as the feet come down – it’s not the ethereal thing you see on film.

C. by contrast, was in his element – I had forgotten that he was a professional dancer before he became a doctor (and then an Oxford PhD and then a publisher/translator – quite the Renaissance man). I suppose you can see it still in the limber way he walks. The pieces were a recreation of Taglione’s La Sylphide (The Return of Springtime) and Purcell’s Cupid Out of His Humour – with beautiful costumes (as far as I could see them) and some of the original backdrops etc. It was fascinating but perhaps not worth the 150K?

Everyone tired in the evening. I asked C. about relations between the different Scandinavian countries, and he basically said that the Finns, Danes, and Norwegians were all united – in hating the Swedes. There is a lingering resentment of Sweden’s neutrality in the war, especially the way they allowed Hitler to move troops across their territory to invade Norway. C. expressed great admiration for the Finns, who spent much of the war fighting both Hitler and Stalin.

Sunday 2

Uppsala/Lake Mäleren

A thick cold came on in the night, leaving me tired and illish. Mostly I just lay on the bed and browsed the Rough Guide, making vague plans for the rest of my stay: I get the impression that C. and (especially) Gunde are quite ready for me to move on – but where and how? I’m not sure that I want to be heading blind into the Arctic Circle, especially feeling like this and with the weather on the turn (not to mention the holiday season coming to a close). An alternative would be to take the boat to Abo, in Finland, where I so nearly ended up with a job. Or Tallin, in the Soviet Union, which would certainly be different . . .

By evening the room felt stale, and I dragged myself down to the lake for air, just as the long twilight was setting in.

When I came back, Carsten and Gunde were setting out for the cinema – but to watch different films! He saw Hunt for Red October, she Pretty Woman. They seem to live a lot of their lives quite separately. I didn’t fancy either much, so an early night with The Sin Eater, by A. Thomas Ellis (funny, but full of a dark unease, and perhaps the most shocking end of any book I know). With one thing and another, the mood in the house quite strange.

Monday 3

Uppsala

Still coldy so a quiet morning before taking the bus to Uppsala. Cashed travellers’ cheques and then to the tourist office, to consult: it seems that the Inlandsbanen is still running, but many hotels and hostels will have closed, especially in the more northern towns. Likewise, the boats to Abo etc. have stopped for the winter. It seems I came to Sweden a week too late – but of course there was the funeral so nothing to be done. Wandered along the river to the pier, to see about pleasure trips on the lake – but it was the same story.

Still love Uppsala, but rather running out of things to do. Into the Domkyrken again, to have a proper look at the wall paintings. Found yesterday’s Observer, and read it over coffee . . . Supper at the Gallion, then a drink at the Katalin bar on Svartbäcksgatan, where I fell into talk with a young Israeli guy (v. worried at the looming crisis re Iraq).

Although it was getting dark, I felt in no great rush to get ‘home’ — and so conceived the slightly mad idea of walking to C’s suburb along the Fyris river. This proved to be another unsettling experience. The moon was about three-quarters full, but there was a cold creeping mist that became thicker and thicker as I walked, with visibility more and more limited. The path at first through parks and playing fields – with what looked like university science buildings – but then nothing at all but the thick luminous mist, the hum of far-off traffic, and the occasional splash or cry of birds on the river. This was nicely spooky at first but soon unnerving and I began to look for any path taking me back to roads and houses and people. The only one I found led me into a maze of what seemed to be medical buildings (sinister), with lit but empty rooms and a low hum of machines — but still no sign of human life. Feeling that the last thing I wanted was to be lost or trapped here — God knows what they would do to me — I stole back to the river, telling myself that as long as I stuck by its banks I would come through eventually. And so the path went on – and on – like something in a dream; where there were gaps in the mist, there now seemed to be open country – marshes, and looming forest. But what alternative to walking on, in this strange, oppressive, almost-silence without end? At last I hit the bridge at Flottsund, where the river debouches into the lake – and somehow found my way home by the streets.

Tuesday 4

Uppsala/Lake Mäleren

Cold a good deal worse, which is no surprise after last night’s exploit. Feeling distinctly sluggish but got myself down to the lake and walked north along the shore, past the bathing place from the first night. The lake looking dull under clouds, the foreshore mostly reedy. Carried on to the top of the inlet and then down the other side, which was rockier, with birch trees down to the water and almost every house having its own boat and jetty. There were a couple of carved runestones half hidden in foliage – apparently no big deal.

When I clambered up to the road there was a bus passing – so hopped on board and into town. Sat through a communion service in the Cathedral and found I could follow most of it: the Lutheran ritual not so different from the RC or Anglican. A solo cantor rather than a choir, and the whole thing powerful in its plain way. Afterwards, and by way of contrast, to see Nuns on the Run in the cinema – excellent farce with Robbie Coltrane and Eric Idle. The film was in English, with Swedish subtitles, but what made it particularly odd was that I was the one and only person in the theatre. I laughed out loud at several points but felt undeniably self-conscious. The best joke only came to me later: the charming heroine, Faith, can hardly see a thing without her glasses (blind Faith, geddit?). Ate junk food after and really enjoyed it – enough of all this healthy crap!

Have barely seen Carsten since the weekend.

Wednesday 5

Uppsala

Again rather sluggish. Into the city to pick up C’s mail, as requested, and then just wandered as before. Consulted railway timetables with a vague idea of getting myself together and heading for Dalarna – apparently v. pretty – but I don’t think I have the energy or enterprise. Tried some different cafes for the sake of it – but found myself gravitating back to the ones I already knew.

To the Linnaean gardens by the river, which were lovely, and then the sombre castle on its hill, which was oddly disappointing close to – there is really very little to see. But the surrounding parkland quite fine: another, larger botanical garden and the Old Cemetery with its famous graves (Hamerskjold) and tree-lined avenues. There was even sunlight, for the first time in days. I will be sorry to leave this place.

Thursday 6

Uppsala/Stockholm

Cloudy and dull. Another morning in Uppsala, hanging around the cafes, browsing Swedish papers, ogling Swedish girls. A late lunch, then put myself on the train to Stockholm – a beautifully clean and efficient service, taking about 40 minutes.

Emerged from Central Station to find it pouring with rain. Having no particular plan, I wandered east and found Klara Kyrka, a little hidden-away church with a beautiful painted interior: there was also a pleasant reading room with English newspapers and coffee. Outside, a memorial to Carl Bellman, the poet and musician, who seems to be a great local hero (when we came last week there were several guys in 18^th-century dress singing or playing his songs on the street).

From here to Segels Torg, a busy modern square with shops, a fountain, and the five-storey Kulturhuset or Culture House: this was another excellent refuge from the rain, having exhibitions of arts and crafts etc. and a top-floor café with views across the city. On to the Old Town and hugely pleased to see it again – but found all the churches and galleries had closed at 4, now we’re out of season. Will just have to come again, and earlier! So with nothing much to do wandered the streets, parks etc of Norrmalm in gentle rain before getting the train back . . .

Friday 7

Uppsala/Stockholm

Another dull rainy day, with summer already a distant-seeming memory. Bus to Uppsala, then made sure I got the Stockholm train a little earlier – and who should be in my carriage but J. van der Loon! To my surprise, he talked like a sensible, even sensitive, person – mostly about his work with traumatised soldiers.

From Central Station headed first for the National Art Museum, a large Italianate building on the waterfront. Tapestries and furniture etc. on the first floor, icons on the second, and a large collection of 18^th and 19^th-century art, including lots of wonderful Swedish painters I’d never heard of. Came away with a print of a moody young man in a floral crown by someone called Arosenius: a pale Hamlet-like figure, and I flatter myself at least a bit like me.

Drifted around the old town again, taking in a church or two: there was one advertising access to the tower, so I stepped through what I thought the right door only to find my way blocked by a burly chap in vestments, who yelled at me in Swedish. It must have been a private vestry or something.

After this I remember only Kungsträdgården park and heading north into Norrmalm, where I got gently lost. There was a big church on a hill, which I used for orientation, coming at last to a modern precinct, not hideous but strangely soulless in the Swedish way. Here I ate some tasteless Bolognaise, with a hugely expensive glass of wine, and felt for the first time that I would like to be in England – the Kings’ Head in Aylesbury for preference! Oh to be able to order a pint of proper beer, with no fear of breaking the bank.

Carsten in a better mood this evening, having finished work for the week I guess. Watched English-language TV with him till late: there was a rather shocking docudrama about the Birmingham 6 – C. quite put out by the supposed bias as convinced they are guilty!

Saturday 8

Uppsala

Last day. Genuinely ready to go now, but glad to take a last look at Uppsala with C. We wandered around the now familiar streets, had coffee and cake at one of the student ‘nations’, looked at the river from the bridge.

For almost the first time, a proper sit-down meal with C. and G., who again barely spoke, although I am told her English is fine. There were roast meats and then a fruit pie with custard . . . Exceptionally, there was even a little wine, as C. seems very abstemious these days and Gunde perhaps entirely so: rather regret buying them two bottles from duty free.

Perhaps because of the wine, C. was in expansive mood and talked a good deal about Oxford and studying Eliot with Lyndall Gordon – his immediate ambition now to finish the thesis but after that to expand the publishing. He is calling it ‘Oxford Publishing’ and OUP can sue if they damn well please! There might even be work in it for me.

Sunday 9

Uppsala/Arlanda/Heathrow/London/Aylesbury

Carsten walked me to the main road, where I caught the bus to Arlanda (20 mins). Flight around 2. Home around 8.

Postscript: 2026

Although we stayed in touch for a few more years, I would never see Carsten Smit again. Sometime around the Millennium, I heard through mutual friends that he and Gunde had parted, and that there had been a bitter court battle over the custody of their child. This had ended with C. losing virtually all access: apparently Gunde had made serious allegations about his behaviour, including sexual behaviour, the nature of which I never learned. Based on what I thought I knew of C’s character, what little I‘d seen of Gunde (odd), and what he had told me about Swedish courts, I was inclined to reserve judgement. I later heard that he had left Sweden and was perhaps in South America.

In 2018 a court in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, convicted ‘Dr Carsten Smit’ of multiple offences involving the abuse and prostitution of young girls.