Morris Magic and The Lost State

Sunday morning I met Sally and Trev for another busting breakfast. A full English has to be the best meal ever and I certainly partook in a few of these while I was home. But despite me stuffing myself every day I only gained a couple of pounds, because I did so much walking. After my huge meal which would last me through the day, I went with Sally and Trev to say farewell to Dad Derrick. It was a painful parting, knowing I'd never see him again. God bless this wonderful man, I will miss him dearly. He certainly made an impact on my life. Saying goodbye to Sally was also difficult, knowing I wouldn't see her for so long. And then a couple of hours later I met another dear friend who is also suffering from poor health and more tears were shed. We parted after a pint at his local pub and it was with a very heavy heart that I left my hometown and began a slow drive to Mum in Dorset.

I took the back roads through the countryside, avoiding all main roads, and was delighted to find that I had them to myself for most of the afternoon. My driving confidence increased and before long I was whipping along the lanes the way I always used to. High hawthorn and cob nut hedges walled the narrow roads and then opened up to landscapes of patchwork fields and the rolling South Downs. I stopped to take photos, particularly loving St. Mary's Church in Leigh with its mock Tudor gate. A passing gentleman informed me the church was open so I passed some quiet time within its walls, enjoying having this beautiful place of worship to myself for a while. Magpies fluttered across the grass between gravestones and the air was sweet with grass as I looked across the stone wall to tall chimneys on centuries old houses and fields. A public footpath sign stood enticingly by a wooden stile but unfortunately I didn't have the time for a hike.

I stopped again at Chiddingstone, considering stopping the night in one of the oldest and most beautiful villages in Kent, but there was a special house I wanted to visit the following day so I continued driving to Royal Tunbridge Wells. It seemed rather nice that as I drove into the town towards my hotel I was followed for about 2 miles by a powder blue vintage Rolls Royce, a splendid escort. At the old hotel I had to lug my suitcase up 4 flights of stairs to a large garret room with skylights to the night stars. After a dinner of battered sausage and chips and a pint of Wiper and True Brewery's Kaleidescope IPA at The Pantiles, I walked up the long hill back to the hotel, up the stairs and slept like a log.
I was up early on Monday and demolished yet another huge breakfast. There must have been some powerful pepper in their pots; I sneezed loudly after sprinkling my eggs, and then 4 others on separate tables in the dining room followed suit once their breakfasts arrived. A couple of others sniffed vigorously. I'd loved spending 3 nights in 3 such different hotels, even with having to climb stairs at each one. They'd all been old buildings with no room for elevators yet I was fine with that, enjoying the quaint uniqueness of each hostelry and definitely preferring them to the sterile cookie cutter styles of the modern and more convenient hotels.
 I started to make my way south across towards Dorset but first I was visiting a National Trust property, Standen House in Sussex. While studying for my graphic design degree I had fallen in love with William Morris, an English textile designer, and Standen House was full of his work. For me, it was like Christmas morning as I parked and walked towards the house. I had got there early, before the house itself opened, and so I walked the grounds.

I strolled through formal flower beds, dewy lawns with William Morris deck chairs, bee hives, wooded groves and the largest rhubarb bed I'd ever seen. The gardens were created while the house was being built and the kitchen garden had been converted to 'no dig' area. This meant that they were mulch beds with a layer of compost added periodically which would rot down. It maintains the soil structure, improves drainage by better soil aeration, avoids weed seeds being brought to the surface, reduces watering and increases yields. And no digging!
I sauntered up to the house and waited for the doors to open, I was first in line. The house was designed by Arts and Crafts architect Philip Webb in the 1890's for James Beale, whose wife Margaret helped to design the gardens. Philip Webb was a partner of the architecture firm of Morris and Co. The house has many styles with multiple Morris fabrics and wallpapers in the rooms, beautiful concoctions of colors and patterns.

Above are just a few of the wallpapers by William Morris. It was amazing to see them up close and touch them, I was in my element. Some had to be restored; note the trellis paper above. The top is original but the bottom half is is replicated, and the outlines are heavier. Morris was the first to use the 'trellis' design which first appeared in 1862. Possibly inspired by the rose trellises at Red House, Bexley Heath, this pattern was a favorite of Morris and Webb.

Margaret Beale made the olive tapestry above, taking her about 6 years to complete. She would also read to the children and to keep them occupied would get them to string beads onto thread which she later made into radiator covers.

John Pearson made copper fittings designed by Philip Webb while the lamps were made by WAS Benson, nicknamed Brass Benson by William Morris.

Each room was a delight to enter. I'd never seem so much of William Morris' work in one place at once before, it was mind boggling. The originality of the house and fittings designs were so unique that really I needed to spend the whole day at this home to take everything in. The patterns and designs of the fabrics and furniture worked so well together, it was obvious that this home had been created by design geniuses. I loved the little touches, tiny pine cones on seats that weren't to be sat on and even cherry seeds in the 'pip trays' attached to plates in the dining room. This home has been put on display with every tiny detail meticulously thought out. I wanted to move in. But I had to move on. Mum was waiting in Dorset so I visited the gift shop to buy a Morris mug and some cards. I left with his words imprinted on my mind, "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful." Oh yes indeed.

As I continued meandering along narrow lanes, a church with a crown spire rose above me in the distance looking like a fairytale castle. I turned down a little lane to see it closer. Known as the Scots Crown of All Hallows Church in Tillington, West Sussex, the spire was a later addition to the church, around 1807, and is supposed to be the most southern example of a Scots Crown spire, and possibly inspired by the artist Turner. The church itself is thought to date back to 1180. John Constable also painted the church in 1834, the painting hangs in the British Museum.

Drivers in America would benefit greatly from road signs such as these. My father cursed the roads in the USA with their lack of direction; I'm very happy that GPS has been invented as I was always losing my way.

I drove slowly along more country lanes, never passing any other vehicles, but finding plenty of baby pheasants in the verges. I had one more place to visit which meant a steep climb up the South Downs. My small rental car struggled with the inclines but eventually I reached the summit and parked up. I was here to see the Vandalian Tower, an obscure monument to commemorate a failed American state. The story had intrigued me and I wanted to see the folly up close.

This was quite an endeavor as once I had found somewhere to park the car I then had to find out how to access it. I eventually followed a footpath through woodland, the path a mixture of chalk and flint. I then had to scramble up a steep slope and across part of a field. There were deep furrows and I twisted my ankle but plodded on regardless. A barbed wire fence prevented me from going further, with  'No Trespassing' signs attached to it so I had to be content with photos from afar. But I'd seen it and was happy. It seemed strange that it was so inaccessible, tucked away on top of a hill in a sheep field. If you're interested in the long story, James Donald Anderson wrote an essay which also shows a map of the proposed new state. More info here.
I continued on towards Dorset, arriving at Mum's by late afternoon. Just in time for a very much needed cup of tea.

Coming Home to Maidstone

On Thursday evening, the last in August, I clanked and bumped down Dulles runway, the pilot testing the flaps on the wings as we coasted before takeoff. The racket likely put the fear of God into some of the passengers, sounding like a new invention from a hundred years ago rather than a modern Virgin Atlantic plane. But I'm a trusting soul and wasn't the slightest bit perturbed, just very happy to be going home for a couple of weeks.
It was early Friday morning when I landed and after picking up my small rental car, a Renault Cleo, I then headed for the M25, which was still in a terrible condition, its tarmac lumpy and bumpy under my wheels. Yet nothing could faze me today, I was home, driving to Kent on a sunny warm day without a hint of humidity in the air. On my way to my home town, Maidstone, I was stopping first at Beltring Hop Farm, a place we'd visited as teenagers, loving the huge Shire horses, their massive heads nodding over tall stable doors and the many white oast house tips pointing skywards. It had been owned by Whitbread back then and had been a working farm occasionally open to the public. But since 1997 it has become an attraction, now geared towards children.

They currently only have 2 Shires, who were being groomed when I saw them, later to be released into the fields. The place is now extremely commercialized and it proved impossible to get a good photo of the oast houses without the gaudy childrens rides that filled the grounds. The farm is over 450 years old with the largest collection of oast houses in the world. I was dismayed to see how the farm had been transformed into a kids playground but later on reflection was glad that the buildings had been saved and not left to become derelict. Many oast houses have been restored around Kent by transforming them into houses, cafes or small businesses; they are dotted throughout the Kentish countryside.

On the way to Maidstone I stopped to photograph St Lawrence's Church in Mereworth, a building I'd always admired as a young adult and then I stopped at Wateringbury mill pond. My brother and I used to walk down to here or cycle, enjoying the sound of water as it ran under the road and past the old pottery. Today it was still silent except for the rushing of water and doves cooing. The scene has not changed at all in 40 years. The old footpath we used also looked exactly the same. And then it was on to Maidstone and to pick up Malcolm, to take him to visit his brother, Dad Derrick. As we were getting out of the car, I heard an exclamation,"Oh,it's Debby!" and looking round saw my long time bestie Sally sitting at an outside table with Trev, Derrick's other brother. It was a wonderful afternoon, everyone talking at once,with hugs and kisses aplenty. Dad Derrick looked smaller and thinner, thanks to the Big C but otherwise looked well. We chatted and laughed over memories before finally having to leave, promising to meet up again in the next few days.

I had booked a room in a hotel next door to St Michael's and All Angels' Church, where I had been christened. After dragging my suitcase up 3 flights of stairs, I was finally beat. I'd not slept for over 24 hours but was determined to have an English pint before I went to bed. It seemed rather surreal to sit outside in the cool evening air, drinking Fremlin's Best Bitter, and staring up at a church that I'd last visited as a babe in arms. I'd never noticed those gargoyles before either...

Saturday morning I was up early, eager to get downtown and see the river Medway before meeting another best friend for breakfast. All Saints Church has stood here since 1395, one of the finest perpendicular style churches in England. As I walked across the dewy grass the clock rang the Westminster Chimes, eight o'clock pealing across the town. A few people were walking along the river or through the graveyard, nearly all nodding or exchanging a 'Good Morning" with me.

The Carriage Museum across the road. This had nearly been closed down a year ago but thanks to a public outcry has remained open.

The Arch Bishop's Palace and gardens. This small area of old stone buildings is beautiful to walk around and all have been well maintained. I saw no vandalism or graffiti at all. Time had stood still here. I spent nearly an hour walking the grounds of these buildings, nodding or saying hello to people who passed me, enjoying the friendliness of strangers, not something that's experienced in NoVA or DC. It felt good to be home.

The old Rootes building still looked magnificent reflecting on the river in the morning sun. Built in 1938 as a car show room, filling station and repair shop for Rootes,who were back then the largest car manufacturing company in England. Currently owned by Peugot, who plan on moving to a new building,it will be up for redevelopment. Hopefully as it is a listed building it won't lose its character.

The High Street was still quiet as I walked up towards The Stoneborough Centre, as it used to be called. I noticed a few shops from many years ago were still here. I made a beeline for Rooks where I bought a Cornish Pasty for later. I used to buy these from here on my way home from school, along with their cherry pies.
And then I walked back to the High Street to meet Cathy. As it always is with old friends, the years slipped away with no feelings of awkwardness that absence can sometimes bring. Cathy and her then husband had taken me when my parents had kicked me out of the house at 17. They were my stepping stones to adulthood and showed nothing but love and generosity, welcoming me into their huge family. I don't think Cathy realizes how much I owe her, she kept me on the straight and narrow when I could have flailed wildly into oblivion.

We had a sumptuous breakfast, my first proper breakfast in years and I relished every mouthful. I had earned it, likely having walked about 4 miles that morning before meeting Cathy. We continued walking about town but all too soon our time was up as I had to go see Dad Derrick again. With big hugs we parted until my next visit.

Dad Derrick was on his own when I arrived and I was glad to have him to myself for a while. He was wearing one of the t-shirts I'd designed and printed for him and had even found old photos of his actual truck, before and after its paint job. He showed me photos of old girlfriends and had me howling with laughter at what a ladies man he'd been in his younger days. He'd also started work as a young lad on a farm, which I'd never known. His learning to drive a tractor had led to his long distance lorry driving. But before the tractors he'd worked with a plough horse called Dolly, who when turning over the soil between rows of turnips had never trampled a single vegetable. Derrick had milked the cows by hand and worked from dawn to dusk. Derrick has always worked hard and been gentle and generous for as long as I've known him. I told him how much I'd loved him and Gill, his wife. They had been surrogate parents throughout the years, always offering me a roof over my head and delicious meals. Our biker group used to converge at their house on Saturday afternoons, where we'd all sit and patiently wait for Gill to finish baking. Mouthwatering aromas would permeate through the house and we'd scurry into the kitchen as she pulled sausage rolls, jam tarts and lemon meringues from the oven. She would make my favorite cheese straws with Marmite inside. On every visit she'd slap our hands as we tried to snatch a pie, yelling, "Let them cool!" They never did, we juggle the goodies from hand to hand as we hungrily nibbled the edges.
I reluctantly said goodbye to Dad Derrick, promising another visit the next day, then went to get ready for the grand reunion.

I walked to The Style and Winch where I'd be attending The London Tavern Reunion. I was a little apprehensive as the last time I'd drunk with Mouse he had ensured every pint I'd consumed had been Kenny's Double Vision cider. The next morning had been torture. Thankfully I'd stayed with Dad Derrick who had tried his best to alleviate my thumping head. I was not repeating that experience but Mouse, over the past few weeks, had been plotting my demise. But tonight I was elated to arrive and discover that the Kenny's and Mouse had not yet arrived so I ordered a pint of the very fine bitter from Musket Brewery.
The evening passed far too quickly. I had not seen most of the group for over 30 years yet as soon as I met with them the years dissolved and it felt like another Friday night down the Tavern as though only a week had passed since we'd last seen each other. Everybody was instantly recognizable, maybe with a few additional pounds, wrinkles and grey hairs, but no one had really changed. Everyone was hugging and chatting, talking of lives lived with old or new partners, of health issues, which we all had, of countries visited or lived, but we also talked of memories. Wonderful, fun, carefree days when we had all partied for solid weekends, gone to motorbike rallies and pretty much lived in each others pockets. The London Tavern had been like a second home but we had all partied at each others houses too, my house being a regular after-the-pub-closed-party-house. We had laughed and laughed, and drank and drank, and lived to tell the tales.

I was pretty careful and managed to evade the Kennys all evening but Mouse partook in the amber liquid voraciously. I photobombed Mouse and Steve here; poor Mouse consumed 9 pints of Kennys! And yes, he paid for it dearly the next day.

It was a testament to our ages as the evening ended. Apart from dear Mouse everyone was standing upright and folks left to go home with promises to meet again for future reunion. Unlike our old days, there was no staggering to the kebab shop for kebabs with chips and mayonnaise, or finding a dark corner outside to empty the stomach. No bikes roaring up the road, and that wonderful 2 stroke exhaust scent as engines pinged while revving, or thundering 4 strokes. We all said goodbye with more hugs and found our way safely home. I managed to walk back to the hotel and get up early the next morning. I was glad, not a minute of my time in Maidstone could be wasted.