I recently found a whole folder full of old work. It was quite a shock to discover my ‘A’level exam work amongst the pieces, and to experience the memories associated with that time. Usually ‘A’ level exam work is destroyed by the Examining Board, but because my sixth form art department was burned down, destroying all my work produced to that stage, the Board made an exception and found my exam pieces and returned them, thus allowing me to have at least something for a portfolio. This was in 1982 – 28 years ago!
The theme for the “composition” paper is the one that particularly touches on deep memories; rather tragic ones in fact. The painting is of a derelict cottage in the woods. It’s real place with which I have a particular association, and it’s a great story. One day I intend to use it all in a book.
The cottage is in fact a “tea house” in a large rambling Romantic garden in Norfolk. Originally a Roman dock on the edge of the Broads, this unusually vertiginous piece of land (unusual for Norfolk) is called Brundall Gardens. In their heyday, as a public garden, the vast acres must have rivalled any of the great parks and were popular enough to warrant their own bespoke station on the Lowestoft to Norwich line.
In time the gardens became privately owned, which is where my association begins, as they were owned by my very own Great Aunt Rita, who “married well” (as people would say) to a millionaire called Max Stringer, and moved to the huge and beautiful estate and it’s house “Redclyffe”. In the mid 1960s I would be taken to these grand, elaborate gardens and lose myself amongst the camellias and rhododendrons, the tumbling “Cinderella”steps and tiers of shrubs that possibly rivalled Babylon.
Leading down to a vast expansive lake, were three stepped ponds. The lowest contained a large and legendary pike that could never be caught. And in the tea house there were real Delft tiles of sailing boats around the fireplace.
Nearby, my favourite thing of all: The “stone hart”. I can just remember sitting on this with my sister and imagining galloping away on adventures. I found some old photographs of me with my sister and father, and they are posted here.
But then my Uncle Max died unexpectedly. My widowed Great Aunt found herself with an unmanageable estate (she had no children), and decided to sell. She kept a plot for her and her sister, another for her brother and his wife (my grandparents). The rest was sold off to a builder.
Theories abounded about what happened next, but I remember watching the television news in 1969, and seeing my Great Aunt’s house in flames. Redclyffe was razed to the ground. Soon after vandals destroyed the tea house, smashed the stone hart, and the garden fell into neglect.
Time passed; a new estate of houses appeared at the top of the escarpment. But below, the gardens remained. The ponds, the lake, the legendary pike. They all got forgotten and things grew over them. The stone steps were covered in ivy, the rambling roses covered everything, like Sleeping Beauty’s castle.
Meanwhile my assorted relatives had houses built on their bits of land and so, many years later, I returned. The gardens were really out of bounds. But no-one stopped me. And I had these wild, overgrown acres, this wilderness entirely to myself, summer after summer. The tea house was my hermitage, and the rambling romantic gardens with their memories and neglect so beautifully entwined was my grand kingdom.
Happy days! Following the birdsong, chasing kingfishers, swimming (in spite of the pike!) and above all – sketching. Here I developed my skills in this faded, forgotten paradise.
Today parts of the garden have been restored, but the estate is divided between various houses in Brundall. Occasionally sections are opened to the public and tours are offered.
A couple of years ago I visited Brundall Primary School. Instinctively I had parked outside where my aunts and grandparents “new” houses still stand (although they died long ago and I hadn’t been to Brundall since I was 18 and produced this ‘A’ level work). And by pure chance, one part of the garden, with the three descending lakes, was having an open day for charity.
And so, stepping back in time, I briefly revisited the re-imagined gardens. I was overwhelmed with memories; it was hard to make it seem real. Last of all I found the place where the stone hart once stood. It was probably the last time I will ever see anything of Brundall Garden. At least until I close my eyes and dream. Then I can run around, as a child, those stately trees and play in the tea house again, and sit once more on the back of the stone hart.
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