It wasn’t that long after I rejoined the pair that Denis started to show more signs of decline. The drugs he was taking had to be increased to continue to relieve his symptoms. This led to side effects that became increasingly intolerable for him. He kept on saying he couldn’t think straight, he had a strange sense of taste, saying that everything tasted of salt. He became very anxious and felt he was being trapped in a body that didn’t work anymore and would at times make him freeze up. Physically he was liable to trip and fall, this being particularly worrying when he was alone at night. While Mike and I were around during the day, we both went home in the evenings. Mike’s mother was also in a bad way unable to go out and was withdrawn and depressed, so he felt that he had to remain at his father’s house to help where he could. 

During this time I continued my practice at developing my pots trying to get up speed so that I could participate more fully in the functioning of the pottery. I felt I was developing a real bond and excitement for the pottery process. I was beginning to understand designing on a round surface and began sketching ideas for plates and functional items. This in turn was encouraging Mike to experiment more with deliberate designs rather than allowing the glazes only to create the design.

It was one day when I was away that Denis had a bad fall and Mike, who luckily was there, and had had to call the ambulance. Denis was carted off to the Guildford Infirmary to be assessed. his condition wasn’t good; he had cracked a rib and damaged hip. Much against Denis’s will, he was forced to stay in overnight.

Both Mike and I visited him over the next few weeks and his condition worsened through catching pneumonia. He seemed to lose all motivation and despite our efforts remained gloomy and depressed. That wonderful boyish smile was no longer in evidence, that sparkle of intelligence, his passion, curiosity diminished and he became a mere shell. This was probably the first time that I had experienced this slow decline towards the abyss of someone I knew and it certainly moved me greatly.

I cannot remember much about this time, I think I was in shock and it was worrying that we had no idea of what would happen to Greendene and the pottery if Denis died?

I do remember going to the hospital and walking down the lines of beds, as they were then, seeing a hunched figure, chin on chest that rose and fell with his laboured breathing.

I tried to make conversation, but don’t remember what we talked about. I showed him my current sketchbook and he raised his head for a moment and there was a flicker of a smile that briefly lit up his face. Just for a moment I saw that impish grin that restored him to his old self.

Lasting just a few seconds, the smile then faded and he sank back into his chest once again, appearing to be exhausted by the effort.

I must have left soon after, walking sadly down the ward. Looking back to wave and disappear out the door. This was the last time I saw Denis and it was the first time that I had lost a close friend, such a sad time and a shock to the system. 

Extracts from my journal:

3^rd November 1977

The sad news that perhaps Greendene will have to be sold!

I’m thinking that the old place is looking a bit dilapidated and forlorn. Its magic lingers and must be retained in my heart, it must not slip away.

29/11/77

Everything was very different today. I couldn’t tell you who I was; everything was mechanical, going through the motions. I am going to Greendene with a sense of foreboding although when there, it seems ok? Too much thought is going on and not enough work, all Yin and no Yang, an imbalance that is unhealthy, but what can I do?

30/11/77

I feel mesmerised, cut off from a wavelength, although I continue to search for something, a way out and a light to guide me.

The other person I was introduced to was the Legendary and mysterious Madam Du Bois. She came imperiously over and eyed me in her Dame Edna Everidge style glasses, then smiled and spoke in what was clearly a very English accent that was somewhat of a shock! She was no more French than I was, but was still a significant presence in the room. We talked briefly and she very quickly put me at my ease. I discovered she had a wonderful ability to make anyone and everyone feel at ease. Having that rare gift of making each person feel important and worthy, very much like Denis. I then discovered the reason she was called Madam Du Bois, it was Denis that gave her this title due, I think, to his sense of humour and love of France. She in fact was born and raised in Leatherhead and her forename was Ida, but she was always called by her middle name, Betty. I was a bit disappointed that she was not this foreign mythical “French madam” person. She was quite clearly very English without a trace of accent and the only reason for her classy name was that her surname was Wood. I don;t remember much more about the evening and must have left and returned home with my parents. A sobering experience for me, but one where I learned a lot.

Extracts from my journal 1977 – 78

As I settled into life at the pottery, I became more and more receptive to nature and the changing seasons and I began to write a journal. As I walked from house to pottery studio and pottery studio to house I would take in my surroundings and grew fond of the plants and wild things I was surrounded by.

31^st October 1977

Winter has come to Greendene with gales and wild clouds blazing over the wet hills. There is a wonderful light of dazzling blue where the dark clouds are torn apart, a gash of sunset between walls of grey. I’m cloud conscious and watch silently.

Leaves have fallen these past few days the orange and gold patches have grown and the dead leaves clog the gutters. I have to search out my heavy clothes and my personality changes with the season, shutting doors, closing in. Arms will be hugged together and hands stuffed in pockets to keep warm. The smell of burning bonfires fills my nostrils and this is Halloween.

3^rd November 1977

The sad news that perhaps Greendene will have to be sold! I’m thinking that the old place is looking a bit dilapidated and forlorn. Its magic lingers and must be retained in my heart, it must not slip away.

7^th Janurary 1978

It’s a new day born out of the old, like a new spring grown out of the cold earth

9^th January

The still cold quiet tree, its sadness sings in every bough and the light cuts the tracery like roots in the sky. Dormant it stands, but still speaks of better times, though slumbering now in these deep dark days

15^th February 1978

As I came over the hill there was a beautiful light this morning, sun shining through clouds. It is a circle of white with a yellow ring and pale gold against green bough bare and tangled.

24^th February

The wild weather has abated and I saw the snowdrops forcing themselves through the soil. Bird songs fill the air and excitement mounts as nature slowly turns its wheel, responding to the light. It is a harsh light with ragged grey and purple clouds that scoot across the larches on the hill above Greendene. It’s a marvellous magical light behind the beeches silhouetted, just like a Paul Nash or his brother John. I watch Nino the cat looking out of the window on his world and decide to make a cup of tea.

8^th March

The weather has been beautiful the last few days and as I climbed the path up to the house the youthful scents were incredible, along with the sounds of early spring. The evening spread its red glow over the bronze of the tangled branches. I had almost forgotten what blue sky and sunshine was really like. As the daylight was lasting longer now I took a trip up the hill looking for primroses and snowdrops they are such delicate wonders after the harshness of frosts and wind. Everything is poised and waiting for the explosion of spring. The buds on the chestnut at the ends of the branches looking like hands grasping for light. I think this spring I can really enjoy the sunshine and nature as it reveals itself through the season.

(To be continued, the next chapter Denis Dies)

 We completed building a new cover for the coal that supplied the stove, the heart’s blood of the house. We cleared areas of dense undergrowth and trees. A mixture of elder, ash and brambles, plus in the middle of this jungle were growing a whole host of hellebores! They were beautiful and it felt like they were flowering just for us and to help us out of our feelings of loss and the trauma of the fire.

Old man’s beard twined its way up the trunks and did its best to trip us up, refusing to be cut easily. I love it’s seed heads (rather like dandelion’s) falling in profusion over the trees like snowflakes.      

The hard physical work acted on my slow and sluggish brain which had to climb out of its intense self absorption and conflicts. I felt my heart lift and a huge weight suddenly fell away.

Soon there was the smell of wood smoke, the bird song, woodpecker and pheasant. The sight of vivid green on the larches that all congregated in my senses. I lost myself and began to breathe fresh air again.

Despite the deer and the rabbits we continued growing runner beans, tomatoes, artichokes and more. The season was now turning to autumn with moist dampness and gales. The larches on the hill were now turning to rust. Apples on the old trees were turning red and starting to drop and so we gathered together some tomato trays and I clambered up the branches to rescue the good ones. I dropped them down to Mike and he wrapped them in newspaper. We then took them back up to the house to store in the attic rooms upstairs for the winter. I loved this age old process and the cyclical turning of the seasons. It was something that I had not experienced while living in London and it certainly had a grounding affect on me.

We also collected the glass cloches, washed them and stored them next to the glasshouse ready for the new season in a new year.

Then came the digging of the soil to prepare for planting and like before I really enjoyed the rhythm and the earthy, herby smell of the soil. The woodpeckers drilling echoed over the valley along with squabbling rooks and sparrows. I could feel the dying of the season with the pungent whiff of bonfires and blue smoke.

Mike and Denis were preparing for an exhibition at the Guildford House Gallery and they suggested I put some paintings in as well. So with some trepidation I agreed, this would be my first exhibition and it was somewhat daunting, I had only previously put work up at College.

I can’t remember now how much time exactly there was, but I had a very short deadline to get things mounted and framed ready for display. With very little money I decided to frame them all myself. Little did I know what a task this would turn out to be?

I bought the wood moulding from a local wood yard, cleared my father’s bench in the garage and set to work. Firstly,  I found I kept cutting the 45 degree angles the wrong way, I cut out mounts with a stanley knife and cut my finger. Not an expert at sawing  I made rather wonky angles that then didn’t glue properly together. Cleaning glass was also a nightmare. I rigorously cleaned and polished the glass with vinegar and water, buffing them with newspaper. Blew all the dust off and put the frame together with the wonky angles. When all was nicely sealed and fixed in the frame I turned the frame over, only to find a great black piece of dust right in the middle of the glass! Or a big smudge of grease from my fingers that invariably was on the inside. I had to then take the frame apart and start all over again. This took endless time and I was seething with frustration and worn to a frazzle. Never again I thought to myself.

The closer the deadline became the more mistakes I made. I had a dozen more frames to make so had to “burn the midnight oil” and get up at the break of dawn, which at that time was pretty unheard of and was a bit of a surprise to my parents as well! With constant reframing and reglazing I finally managed to complete the full number of paintings  just in the nick of time to my great relief, but at a cost of a loss of confidence and total exhaustion. It might have quite easily put me off painting for good, but not quite.

I wasn’t in the best of moods when we loaded the car and drove over to the gallery. I remember it being thick mist as we headed inauspiciously slowly over to Guildford to put up the work, which again was another battle to be wrestled with. I think, you could say that I had bitten off more than I could chew and I should have reduced the number of works in the show.

From my point of view the exhibition wasn’t a great success, some of the paintings weren’t my best. I was also up against a much more seasoned professional painter, Gordon Randell, who certainly eclipsed my efforts. So, while it didn’t go that well, I did learn a few lessons from the experience. For example, only put up work that is finished and you are happy with, as a few duds in an exhibition can pull the whole show down and reflects badly on the good work. I also discovered that some works can look good at home when first completed, but look completely different when hanging in a gallery, especially when hung with other artists’ work.

The pottery on show though, was more of a success with many pieces sold and many contacts made. I met a number of Mike and Denis’s friends and was reintroduced to Nicolas Rocke the tall imposing figure that had driven me home that summer, several years before.  His imposing frame still seemed to scare me, but he bought a dozen or so pottery items and very kindly bought one of my pictures too!

Continuing my return to Greendene in the late 1970’s

I rang Mike up one evening and was told that Greendene had had a fire! Fortunately it was in the out houses and coal store. Denis was living on his own and now suffering from Parkinson’s disease and was frozen and unable to do anything, but managed in desperation to phone Mike who was living some miles away with his father. He alerted the fire brigade, but there was some confusion over the address and they were delayed getting there. As Mike drove up the land he spotted the fire engines and was then able to direct them to the fire. Thankfully, by a miracle it had not jumped the gap and started to burn the house as well!

As I wasn’t at that time working and suffering still from depression and lack of energy and motivation, my mother managed to push me into agreeing to go up there and help with any restoration and rebuilding that was necessary.

Shaking my self out of my torpor I agreed and arranged with Mike to come over and help build the new coals store. Thus began my new association with the pottery.

I returned now as the prodigal son to that green enclave. It was different now as Denis’s mother had died and poor Denis had aged and was very anxious about his disease that had prevented him from doing more pottery and it was left to Mike to continue on his own. It was sad as he had doted on his mother and pottery had become such an important part of his life, due to his involvement with the whole craft pottery movement. I missed his eccentric little grey haired mother with the bantams, who seemed to still haunt the old place.

In other ways things were the same, the garden was a little more overgrown with less vegetables, partly as pottery had taken over, but also rabbits and deer were invading the garden. These were not the only invasion, one memorable day I remember, we were both in the pottery and we heard Denis’s plaintive voice calling out. We ran up the path and to our astonishment there were cows munching contentedly on our brassicas! We spent some time trying to herd them off, but they took no notice and just moved off to other areas. Finally, I think Mike managed to find the farmers phone number, who lived over the back and got him to drive round. He turned up red faced and mumbling under his breath, moaning at us about poor fencing. Anyhow he set too and in no time had herded the cows away up the lane back to their rightful place in the top field.

We began, by building a new cover for the coal that supplied the stove, the hearts blood of the house. We cleared areas of dense undergrowth and trees. Mixture of elder, ash and brambles, plus in the middle of this jungle were growing a whole host of hellebores! They were beautiful and it felt like they were flowering just for us and to help us out of our feelings of loss and the trauma of the fire. Old man’s beard twine’d its way up the trunks and did its best to trip us up and refusing to be cut easily. I love its seed heads (rather like dandelion’s) laying in profusion over the trees like snowflakes.

The hard physical work acted on my slow and sluggish brain which had to climb out of its intense self aborption and conflicts. I felt my heart lift and a huge weight suddenly fell away.

Soon there was the smell of wood smoke, the bird song, woodpecker and pheasant. The sight of lush green on the larches that all congregated in my senses. I lost myself and began to breathe fresh air again.

Denis was deteriorating and his mood darkened, but he continued to make lunch and we talked at the table, chewing over the loss and other worldly things.

To be continued

This part of the story is meant to be before ‘The Return to Greendene and is my memory of the last few days I spent that first summer at Greendene.

.

My work in the garden and my lessons in the pottery continued. Sometimes I caught the bus to Horsley and Denis would pick me up in the battered old green van. Sometimes I got the bus and got off at Bookham and Mike would pick me up and take me in his car. We managed to get more acquainted, my silences and shyness began to wear off.

I spent morning hours out in the garden learning various aspects of cultivation, sowing, weeding and digging over the soil. I felt a great sense of peace and tranquillity wafting over me. Basking in the gentle routine and allowing the silence to enfold me like a mist and time dissolved away.

On damp days we sat ensconced in the gloom of the house, somehow grey wet days seemed greyer and wetter in the summer months than in the depths of winter. On the fine days we sat out on the little flat area of mown grass at the side of the house amongst the Sumac, hogweed and Chinese lanterns. It felt like the world had disappeared and we were in a garden of delights. Occasionally strangers trekked up the drive, who had lost their way and were trying to find the bridal path up to Mountain Wood. I wondered what they thought of the little house up the winding path?

We ate those plump angelic tomatoes on wholemeal bread and talked about pots, drank tea or homemade lemonade made by Denis’s mother. I spent time wandering around the house looking in the windows and enjoying the freedoms of being away from home, routine rotas and school.  

Suddenly, it was the end of summer and that school life beckoned. It was decided we should have a final picnic out on the grass. A local family were invited and Denis and his mum provided various vegetables and salad stuffs. The family and I can’t remember their names, possibly the Robbs, came with baskets of provender, pies, flans and raspberries and cream. What a spread!

We sat on blankets languidly chatting and watching the sun slowly going behind the larch trees. We had brought out the record player and between Beethoven, Chopin and Vaughan Williams I played Simon and Garfunkel and Moody Blues songs. I have a strong memory of the haunting tune of the ‘Boxer’ drifting out over the field in the cooling evening with mist rising, a sign of autumn.

During the evening I had noticed one of the daughters of the family, she had beautiful silky hair trailing down her back and a fashionable loose fitting long summer dress with a printed flowers. She drifted amongst the hollyhocks and teasels like a Pre-Raphaelite maiden, an Alice in wonderland.

 I was instantly struck with passion and followed her everywhere with my eyes, but I was completely tongue tied and lost for words. I was smitten and when she turned to me and approached, my stomach flipped and my mouth dried up and nothing came into my head to say. She remains now as a magical vision, lost in the mystery of time and will remain forever as a teenager in my minds eye, never ageing. 

To be Continued:

Thinking back to my return to the little green haven in the depths of the surrey hills, I had spent my youth attending college, where I felt, after my first explosive and vibrant first year, at Farnham, that I learnt very little about art and painting. Most of the time I engaged in night long discussions on the meaning of art (apologise Monty Python). Brief encounters with the drugs scene and gay culture, but mainly, a love hate relationship with booze and hangovers. Much, I guess like other students, I learnt the hard way and gained a bit more about life along the way.

After college, I stayed in London and worked for the GLC for their play parks department and began working in Finsbury Park helping to build an Adventure Playground in what was quite a vibrant but troubled area. I worked with autistic and other children who needed support. I found the experience both exciting and also quite scary at times with knife threats and violence occasionally. I loved the work, mixture of teaching and practical hands on stuff, like building aerial runways. I became the Senior Play Leader and went on to work in Mile End near the Royal London Hospital.

I became and urbanite living a rather restless nomadic existence, Greendene in the country seemed like a universe away. After meeting up with some Dutch travellers I learnt about working in France, grape picking in the autumn and I, on a whim resigned my job and with a back pack and very little money in my pocket I took the boat train to France. Armed with an address given to me by the Dutch, I found myself in a commune in a mansion once used by the Gestapo just outside Paris! Later hitch hiked down south and managed to get a job and accommodation in a village near Avignon.

My experience of grape picking gave me other ideas on travel and work and once back in England I planned to go to Israel and work on a Kibbutz. I worked in factories and stayed at home with my parents to save money for the trip. It was while working at the factory that I met a fellow artist Martin Humphries that led to the formation of the London Surrey Arts group. More of which I will talk about in later writings.

II returned back to England in 1975 with many stories and thoughts abounding, but I was told I had to settle down and consider a “proper job” and this I found very hard to deal with. I continued with my nomadic life trekking up to London and working in various temporary jobs, I was neither a city nor a country person. I was completely split, and slowly sank into depression. I stayed in my room played music and fell into torpor. I don’t think I really understood depression then and nor did my family.

It was my mother again, who must have had at least an instinctive insight into my state, and she had kept up correspondence with Denis and Mike at the pottery and pestered me to get back in touch. Eventually I did shake myself out of my lethargy and rang them up. This, like many important things in life was not appreciated at the time, but it helped me climb out of the despondency I was feeling and set me on a road to recovery, or rather set me on the “Surrey lane” to improvement.

To be continued

Careful maintenance kept the temperature up to around 1300C, what they called soaking for about half an hour and then cooling down to 1100 and reducing again. This brought about the magic to the glazes, changing colours and giving a deep rich look to the pieces and turning soft clay to stone, permanent and forever.

It was time to stop the firing and let the furnace die down. Once we had shut off the engine a deep silence fell, our ears ringing from the constant sound continuous for hours. We wandered our way back up the path in the dark carrying torches. As I looked out from the path I noticed little eerie green lights in amongst the grass stems. What on earth were those? Little pin prick talismans glowing bright in the dense dark night. Michael said, they were glow worms and that they glow to attract a mate. I was spell bound, it was awe inspiring and it gave a real mystical and special magic to this little green dell. You can easily see why people in the past really believed in faeries.

When we got into the warm kitchen with our dirty blackened faces, Denis went and got the whisky and we toasted the firing hoping that all would be well. Time would tell, as we now had to be patient and wait until the kiln cooled down.

Two days later and we trekked down to the kiln, with trepidation and anxious to see how the pots had faired. Mike and I started to unprize the bricks and clear the kiln door. We all peered in to the dark still warm blackness. There was a smell of fire, charcoal and oil as we looked to see the ranks of kiln shelves appearing out of the gloom. The hot pots were sitting innocently waiting to be hauled out and carefully mused over. They appeared at first glance to be none the worse for their descent into hell and back, a baptism of fire.

We couldn’t wait and had to be careful to slowly pull each pot out one by one, shelf by shelf. Some we joyously looked and marvelled at, the magic of the fire. Others were not so good and a bit disappointing. One or two hadn’t survived and cracked, or stuck to the kiln shelf, glazes not fully reduced, our faces etched with pain at all the hard work to get them this far. Denis, philosophically, said there are always successes and failures and you had to accept the legacy of the fire.

Once the all the pots were out and fully scrutinised and considered and pawed over, we took them into the pottery and began to sort them out. The charge of energy, now dissipated and we felt somewhat deflated. We were now back in the “real” world and everything appeared less bright, a little ordinary and “run of the mill”

I couldn’t wait though to do it all again, I was hooked and I rode home with a small collection of my first real stoneware pots.

Slowly the temperature climbed and Michael and Denis kept peering in to the Kiln waiting for the magical temperature of 1300 degrees C. This was the key heat that would turn the clay to stone and melt the glazes sufficiently.

Time dragged on into the afternoon and into early evening. We continued to keep the barrels fed as it dripped and sprayed. As the light faded the magic grew, the light from the fire box sending out a warm glow which fell over our worn, tired, blackened miner-like faces and silhouetted theblack trees closing in around us. Finally, the two judged, with nodding heads that it was time to do the reduction:

Quote from Ceramic Review Article Nov – Dec 1974 issue no 30

“Firing conditions:

We fire the kiln with wood to 400 degrees and thereafter with oil to 1300 degrees. We have found that the steady reduction from 900 – 1300C by slightly over fuelling, produces the best colours. We maintain a smokey flame at the spy hole with a light grey plume of smoke issuing from the chimney. We usually soak for 1/2 to 3/4 of an hour. Further reduction can be obtained on cooling say to 1100C holding this and smothering the kiln again for about 1/2 hour.”

For all its calm simplicity, this quote, was somewhat misleading as reduction meant reducing the amount of oxygen to feed the fire and this of course could mean reduction in the temperature. The idea was to reduce for a short time, starving the fire of oxygen and force the fire to draw oxygen from the oxides in the glazes, but to do this without reducing the oxygen by too much, delicate operation. This was discovered by the Chinese potters some thousands of years ago and by this means they managed to create high fired stoneware pieces with wonderful vivid and rich colours that would never change, fade or deteriorate.

This chemistry, which I later read about with the help of Michael and a very old school chemistry book by Holmyard gave me an insight into the mystery of glazes and firing, which I had know idea of at the time.

The effect of the reducing atmosphere was amazing, a real eye opener. Suddenly, mad flames appeared in all the cracks of the bricked up door and burst out of the viewing hole, as if it was trying to break out of a strait-jacket! A roaring sound was heard and bright sparks flew skywards into the night sky from the chimney. The ground around started to shake like a seismic earthquake and my eyes grew wide at the event and I wondered if the whole kiln was going to explode!

To be continued: