As I worked, a little old Harrods van trundled up the narrow drive and the little lady of the house came and took a piece of meat and a wholemeal loaf.
I worked on until I heard the sound of a bell calling us to lunch. Michael used to say, much later that when he first encountered this sullen shy adolescent, that he tried to reach me, but couldn’t make any connection. He thought me, very difficult and rather rude. We laughed about it later and I said I found him difficult too. Like poles of a magnet repelling each other, it was Denis who with great patience and love, had to try and bring us together to act as the catalyst. With care he prised out a response and the conversation began to flow.
Lunch, to me was a curiosity; very different from my fair of white bread and marmite sandwiches I had at home.
As mentioned before, Denis, the market gardener; we have to give him credit for being an early pioneer of organic and sustainable living. He really believed in the health giving properties of plants and the importance of working organically and using the land for livelihood and this could be linked to his interest in ceramics which is so much a part of the geology of the locale. Using sand, local clays of the area; “these gifts of nature to create beautiful things was his ambition.”
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I was introduced to many new foods that I take for granted now. Sweet corn, sweet peppers, garlic, artichokes all of which I had never eaten before. The meals were a hodge – podge of stews, curries and salad dishes normally cooked by him or his mother. To eat we sat perched precariously on old wooden chairs around a gate leg table in the living room.
Michael and Denis talked about everything from the price of oil, to world politics and religion and were on the whole very disparaging. I didn’t join in the conversation as I didn’t feel qualified, being in only my teens and feeling that this was a new age for me and I wanted to feel optimistic and forward thinking.
After lunch it was time for the pottery. We headed down the slope between the apples and the cherries, past the hog weed and scabious acting as landing pads for the peacock butterflies and myriad insects buzzing, hovering over nature’s larder.
Denis gave me a talk about the various clays and what clay is made of, he called it “the body”. Most of it I can’t remember, but he introduced me to silica, feldspar, china clay and grog. He set me the task of weighing out the clay and demonstrated kneading which took some doing. He then set me on the foot wheel to centre the clay. Well, I threw the first lump on the wheel rather haphazardly, with a shower of water splashing, I wrestled and struggled and pushed and pulled. At first, I couldn’t decide when it was in the middle and like all beginners I had disappointment after disappointment. It drove me mad, particularly as Denis seemed to manage it with so much ease. Disaster followed disaster and as if the clock had suddenly speeded up, it was time to go home!
There was nothing to show for 3 and half hours work except a pile of very wet slushy clay called slip, very appropriate in my case and one extremely wobbly half collapsed, vaguely bowl like pot. Was I cut out for this? Painting seemed so much easier than this.
Now, cycling home I felt completely drained, deflated and depressed, would I go back again?
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