Essentially the Only One

(photos by kind permission of Stuart Morton)

I've written in a couple of posts (here and here) about my grandparents' old house in Bramshott, Hampshire, called Heronwater.

Memories, and long gone. Imagine then my surprise when the current owner contacted me through this website and my Facebook page and was kind enough to send me some photographs of the property as it is today.

Looking at this wintery scene, dating from March 2008, the astonishing thing to me is how much is looks such as it did way back in the 1960s and 1970s when I, as a child, played in this very garden.

I used to splash across to those stamp-sized islands (there were a few more in my time) in a small rowboat where I could imagine I was king of a Lilliputian world. The house looks brighter and certainly is decorated with rather fresher paint than I remember, but is essentially unchanged from the outside.

I really had the best of it - a child's memories are free of adult cares and worries, and I could enjoy this small paradise for what it was. It's good to be reminded of those times.

And on a muggy, warm, Missouri day, looking at that snow is most refreshing!

By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?

Another photo visit to the church of St. Mary the Virgin in Dennington.

Here's an interior view, showing the beautiful woodwork, much of it 600 or 700 years old and still in immaculate condition. But what caught my eye when I was framing that shot was a captivating little detail far off the ground.

Looking up to the stone supports that form the base for the wooden arches that hold up the roof, I saw that each had been fashioned into the shape of a head. (As shown by the yellow arrow in my photograph).

A close up revealed a surprisingly detailed view of some unidentified medieval person. Was it someone of significance, or perhaps a more ordinary figure? In this case, perhaps the beautiful wife of the stone mason. Were these the ordinary folk, high up and overlooking the far grander monuments to the wealthy and renowned of the village.

I liked to think so. These faces were open and friendly, much as I might like myself to be remembered in future centuries.

Whiel we were in south-western England this summer, we took a trip to one of the big new (as of 2001) local attractions, Cornwall's Eden Project.

Essentially a botanical garden stuck in a disused quarry, it's a striking site - and sight - with its series of geodesic domes - biomes as they call them - supporting a variety of tropical and mediterranean vegetation that you would not normally find in England. Looking like a series of giant flies' eyes stuck on the landscape.

Stylishly designed and laid out, I have to say I found it almost over-the-top with its self-proclaimed greenness, particularly as underneath it all are all the trappings of another cleverly conceived money-making tourist trap, complete with concert stage for rock bands.

Perhaps this is a overly cynical viewpoint, but I saw nothing there that I have not seen for years at the Missouri Botanical gardens (possessor of a geodesic dome of its own for decades), a much less flashy but deeply serious organization that has been dedicated to the preservation of wildwide flora for many years. And I could say the same about Kew Gardens in London as well as many other similar institutions worldwide.

Small quibbles. There were lots of people there having a good time, and it certainly provides Cornwall with another good tourist destination.

The whole area was very colorful, with flags galore flying from bamboo poles, and the restaurant/shop complex was a fine as any mall I've come across.

Ironically, perhaps my favorite part was a very dense slope of English wildflowers, any one of which you might find locally but not as colorfully crowded as they were here. Inside the domes, there were tropical and others beauties galore to gaze at, all in very good condition. A strong testament to the engineering skill behind the domes and climate control apparatus.

Still, I had this continually nagging feeling that I should be more impressed than I actually was. It never left me. As we were walking out, I saw this sign concerning one of the local attractions. Somehow, it seemed to sum up my feelings about the place very well. Even if they are perhaps a little unfair.

One week ago, to the day, I was fast asleep in the TravelLodge Motel near Needham Market, Suffolk, with talk of a visit of to this tomb and the church that houses it, St. Mary the Virgin in Dennington (see previous post) in my dreams from the evening before.

So this photograph was yet to come, yet now it has passed, and emphatically so as I deal with what has been a frustrating day of automobile and financial disruptions. Nothing too serious, but enough to cause us to rejiggle our plans.

However, last week none of this was apparent and I was looking forward to the church visit and feeling the increasing pressure of the end of the vacation creeping up on me. Last days on a holiday are always a little melancholy, and the last day itself, with the silent drive to the airport, the unhappiest.

But as I consider these events over the course of just one week, I am pulled back to this tomb of the Bardolphs dating all the back to 15th century. A Knight and his lady lying there, a wyvern at her feet and an eagle at his. A week in my life means nothing to theirs, so long passed. And, as people, they mean nothing to me, beyond this sculpture that marks a life sufficiently important to warrant such recognition. Yet I find myself projecting something onto them, a sense of life that exists beyond time. Do their spirits - and the spirits of all others who have lived before and now gone - register anything in this living world of light and sound? Or am I as much of a shadow to them as they are to me?

Unanswerable questions but ones I like to contemplate.

The White Cross Hotel in Richmond, taken on August 1.

Contrast this with one of my oldest photographs, from May 3, 1980.

What is striking is how little it has changed. What you can see clearly is the tidal Thames, at high tide in the color photograph and well below in the monochrome photo.

The one clearly new element? The CCTV camera on a post scanning the riverside crowd (in center of image). It was hard to walk through any city or town in England without being tracked. Even the entrance to the church at Bramshott was covered. I didn't like it.

I particularly like this color photograph, with everyone continuing their normal activities as the river rises, and the limited, reflected, and characteristically pale colors I associate with a typical English summer day.

As my visits to England are separated by years, I often take the opportunity while there to revisit some place or area that once I held in great regard.

This year, I decided to stop in the Hampshire village of Bramshott. It was here that my grandparents had a home while I was a young child. I have fond memories of the old house and garden, so I was curious to see how it looked today.

I was on my way to Bishopstone in Wiltshire to meet my wife who was completing a walk along the Ridgeway, and by allowing a few extra hours and taking a southern detour, I could fit in a trip.

It was easy to follow the same route that I was carried over as child, heading out from Guildford through Godalming, down past Hindhead - bottlenecked as it ever was - and then exiting close to Liphook.

As I drove into the upper village, it looked exactly the same as I remembered it 40 odd years ago. I drove down the narrow lane that led past the church and came out onto the road that led to the driveway of the old house, Heronwater.
Just before reaching the stone bridge that crosses directly in front of the garden, I stopped the car and stepped out to walk. It was a gloomy gray day, with water in the air, and that peculiarly English light formed by cloud and rich green vegetation. I carried on to where the driveway began, and here I met a shock. What had been a open access gravel road up to the house was now gated and locked.

I looked more closely. On the brick gatepost was a key code touchpad and intercom, the only way of opening the gate. I looked around. High wire fences now enveloped the property. No more open access through the woods and garden that I and my sister played through as children.

A deep drainage ditch was being dug around the perimeter. Perhaps built only to cope with runoff water, it had an unfortunate impression of suggesting a moat, further isolating the house from its surroundings.

I walked around, trying to get a good view of the house. None was to be found. Only by peering through some overgrown trees could I make out out the building. It looked exactly as it always had, further increasing the jarring feelings that were generating within me.
I stood back and looked at the road and the stone bridge I used to splash under when I was a very small person.

Again, the landscape was unaltered. It was just as I had always pictured it.

With little else to do, I explored around the house but everywhere it either fenced off or overgrown. I returned to the bridge and to look on the little river where I would throw sticks from one side and rush excitedly to the other to see them pass under. I once spent hours doing this, but I didn't feel like it today.

As I stood there, several expensive BMWs, Mercedes and Land Rovers passed by. It all seemed very wealthy. It had been when I was a child, but much less ostentatiously and less dramatically removed from the surroundings. The gate and fence around Heronwater took on added symbolism as I contemplated this. I was beginning to feel a deep gulf between what was and had been.

In truth, there always is this gap in perception. 40 years is a long time, and much has changed even if the land has not. England, with its cherished and protected houses and lands, emphasizes this disparity far more than the more volatile United States where houses, fields and land have not yet developed the shielding barriers of history and track human activity much more closely.

I stood for a little while longer, looking away from the house into the field and wood on the other side of the bridge. As I looked, something caught my eye. It was a longhorn cow, much as I had recently seen in Scotland. This was new; clearly a change in farming practice.

I gazed at the cattle. Seeing that large animal in those familiar woods somehow comforted me. I can't explain how. But as I walked back to the car, I felt at ease.

We were blundering about by the harbor in the Essex town of Maldon trying to find a place to park, when we caught sight of an enigmatic street sign featuring the outline of a tank.

So we followed it and ended at a converted bonded warehouse that is now the site of the Combined Military Services Museum.

This is essentially the private collection of a military enthusiast and contains a lot of stuff that I've never seen elsewhere. Particularly a number of items belonging to Captain Peter Mason, an acquaintance of Ian Fleming and a clear prototype for James Bond.

Much of his specialised equipment was on display as well as some of that used by Eastern European security services. Cameras caught my eye, here's a few examples.

There was much else, including English Civil War armor and weapons and a wide range of arms and armaments, uniforms and other military related equipment. Easily one of the most fun museums I have ever come across - on purpose or by accident.

Greetings to all and thanks for all the friendly comments to my previous post. Still very intermittent internet access - this is a wretchedly slow dial-up - so almost all my photos will have to wait. Couldn't let this one pass by though!

Scotland was wonderful beyond words (including a long steam train ride over the 'Harry Potter' viaduct and to the coast), last week was more local in Surrey, Sussex, Hampshire and Wiltshire - where my wife took this photograph of me searching for something in my tripod bag. Suffolk next week, and then home. At that point, I'll be back here on a more regular basis with photos and reports.

Absolutely fabulous holiday, I have to say.

Taken on Dartmoor, summer 2006.