From Essay ‘By the Ocean of Time’

‘When I fell ill and could no longer draw from life, the need to record these changes in my ability had willed me up in the morning, and during long weeks when any activity was impossible, kept me company in my imagination. If I could no longer go out and see the horizons, I could it seemed, see these new and tentative studies, taken from my original drawings of the houseplant Ceropegia Linearis - Strings of Hearts, Hearts Entangled, Sweetheart Vine, Rosary Vine, stretching out before me. It was a private practice, a record, for myself, of the long and difficult progress I made with my illness.’

‘In my greatest difficulties, a memory of a line from a poem carried me through, words like a path well worn by previous travellers. It was raw and gritty, like a shard of light in memory. I did, I confess, occasionally laugh at the perversity of my symptoms, their capricious nature which refused to be ordered, despite my attempts, and the ludicrous nature of my situation. There was, and still is at times, a certain bathos to it.’

 

Notes from Diaries

'....I remembered the garden down here by the sea, beautiful as overgrown gardens so often are. Tall trees shaded camellias with unscented wax like flowers. Behind a tangle of trees, shrubs and brambles, the outline of a high red brick wall and greenhouses could still be glimpsed. In my memory red and pink Valarian drifted through and rooted quietly on the sunny walls, orange Monbretia and deep pink campion monopolised the flowerbeds, and yellow trefoils and scarlet pimpernel scrambled for space on the bare ground.'

'....Beside the shed in July the old pink roses and deep purple Dalias jostled in their glory and in August delicate lilac sprays of flowers, and the lemon scented leaves of Verbena. And in the border as summer wore on, a hotchpotch of roses, pale purple irises faded, luminous bright spring green spurge warmed to russet shades and tall alliums and the deep purple foliage of Lobelia and the pale yellow lupins teetered towards autumn.'

'....Towards autumn palm tree flowers turned to seed and starlings flocked to feed from them. I grew to admire these birds that I had so often overlooked and throughout the winter months on the drive home from work along the coast road I would often pull over to watch the twilight spectacle of their flight above the ponds and reed beds.'

'....The sea gently lapping caught in the sunlight turns to molten silver. I begin to breathe again. Lay in the grass, warm summer grass.'

'....In January and February when the jumble of leaves had fallen from the hazel and branches of unfurling tassels of catkins were silhouetted against the sky, the garden looked it’s best. A Myrtle with soft cinnamon bark grew close to the path and beneath the first pale pink Cyclamen flowers raised their heads.'

'....The walk to Godolphin. Parked at Balwest to walk up Tregonning Hill, then around Godolphin Hill where the Highland cattle graze. Narrow path through Fern and Bluebell; on Godolphin Hill, Wood Anenomes in profusion - and a leat, mistaken for a footpath, deep and soft underfoot, high banks of Bluebell and Fern - and a dead end. Godolphin Hall - disappointed that the marquee had gone, a new cafe, which we missed earlier, raised lawn of Fritillary - beautiful. Long walk to Balwest through Godolphin village - phone box library and a bench, and a man by a gate - 'archetypal local' said Ashley, or a retired commander I thought, playing gentleman farmer. A conversation about goats.'

'Zennor Head, Pendour Cove, Tinner's Arms. Ashley fell in love with the beauty, as did I - the colour, the deep fringe of damson seaweed against the turquoise blue....the light....seemed to lay beneath the water....somehow....we....something happened. Why did I become so afraid? Why have I forgotten so much? The gorse yellow restaurant! Mistake to turn to St Just - on to Mousehole and little songs on the way....thinking I love you Ashley....and remembering long evenings with Florence, in the harbour after school, and the layers and layers of rubbish in the village'

'Cadgwith. Lunch and a walk through the valley, up the hill, Ruan Minor, down again, mapping again ....c'est bon. Blackcurrant ice-cream....and now he's gone....'

 

'Winter Cyclamen; all year I had forgotten them, tucked under the moss and leaf mould, the dry brown corms came to life with the autumn rain and now, brave little souls, beautiful leaves pushing up through the snow and pale pink heads of flowers tucked beneath.

Lesser celandine, periwinkle. field rose. Names return. Today 3 sparrows fluttered into the closed window. I cannot put this to rest. You were not there again.'

'Of the pictures at the museum today it is the violets scattered beside the hand of the reclining girl in the woods that I keep recalling. A tender painting by Elizabeth Forbes and I wish I could remember the title. I think of Forster, and tiny wild white violets, but mostly my grandmother who was sent a whole box by her son after the war. Those beautiful flowers sheltered from the sea and the bitter winds within a dense network of walls, great granite boulders, bedrock, and deep elder hedgerows where the runners were planted each year, soil turned, sand and seaweed. ’Jardinyow’, garden,’lowarth’, garden. Perhaps one day I will make another. My daughter is resting on the sofa. I am writing my diary. We gaze at one another benignly, lost in our own thoughts this afternoon. Later I know when she has fallen into a restful sleep, just as in winter I knew when the first eddying flakes of snow fell outside.'

'When we moved to the house my daughter observed that although we had moved only one street away, she now had some new pavements to walk to school, some were cobbled some smooth planes of granite and perhaps it took us both a little time to get them firmly under our feet after so many years of uncertainty. In my dreams the old house is the same, a house where I have never lived where I move from familiar room to familiar room, but the streets that we walk each day change.'

'This morning colours were thin and washed out in the cold light along the promenade, on this narrow wall between the sea and the land. I was thinking about this walk, these liminal places, here where my parents pushed me along in the pram, and now where I have taken so many daily walks with my daughter running along as she learned to ride a bicycle or to roller skate. These days she prefers meeting the gaggle of boys and girls at the skate park, but she is not there today, and I walked on past the white clothed people on the bowling green looking like grey-haired angels in a waiting room. A hymn I did not recognise drifted across the green, and then I had the blessing and the Canon’s fire. In Newlyn the square was full of the congregation of St Peters and I joined them for a while before walking on my way.'

'Last week my favourite photograph disappeared from the shelf. It is of my daughter, aged one-year studying a feather found on the beach. She’s wearing a cutdown sweatshirt that belonged to me. In the right-hand side of the silver frame (which folds in half like a book) is a photo of me holding her; we are both looking up at a seagull. In this photograph taken by my soon to become husband we are a bundle of colour and baby clothes and warm jumpers and soft skin and rosy cheeks. It is her face that I have surreptitiously studied these past few days. My daughter. This little house has been tearing at the seams since we arrived. Too small for so much emotion. We have said a small goodbye today. The last item to leave after the tv set, and her portfolio, were the stone candlestick - horse/face/dove, it is a beautiful object and carried a tiny white cyclamen in a clay flowerpot, flower buds curled and bowed amongst the leaves. Beside her empty bed the two photographs she has looked at these past few days. The little silver frame left open. She has left her baby self behind. For now, I will keep the photo for her.'

'In January and February when the jumble of leaves had fallen from the hazel and branches of unfurling tassels of catkins were silhouetted against the sky the starlings began to flock to the pine trees before taking their evening flight to the marshes. A loud murmuration of complaint. A Myrtle with its soft cinnamon bark grew close to the path and beneath it the first pale pink cyclamen flowers raised their heads. Someone had removed so many of the old trees from the enclosed garden and so it seemed lighter. In front of the old shed a terrace had been made where the sun shone for much of the day in the summer, and in spring the purple wood violets had found an unlikely new habitat.'

'It all takes time, but the new saplings are putting down their quiet roots and next autumn when the winds arrive, we will decide what happens next. In the shed the walls are empty. Spades, forks, rolls of twine removed. A row of untended plants. If I breathe their leaves will come tumbling down. What filled the space those years ago?'

 

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