Monday 3rd October 2016

Sunday 18th September was my arrival at Robert Nevil’s farmstead in the nether Midlands, still trying to wrest shape from my life while battling with a watery post-operative eye. Actually how was I battling? I suppose the mental struggle to work out what was going on with it, whether it was going to recover, whether I could be sure it was better by the following day because if not, Moorfields said I was to be back there – which would have been awkward from the other end of the country.

But we were to pick damsons and lurch on farm tracks in a ‘pick-up’. At the wheel was Robert Nevil in a boiler suit. I planned an out-of-use Prada mac from the fashion line. During farm work, Robert Nevil doesn’t speak. From earliest childhood, farm work was a matter of life or death.

Damsons are a rarity, I suppose. Not a usual type of plum. There was that. Not many would devote themselves to damsons on quite such a scale. After the picking, I suffered tingling in the hands and numbness and feared that my heart might be at an end.

There was one outing to Ludlow for an antique shop which was only possibly going to open because the owner was in the Czech Republic and might be able to find someone to be there or might not despite proclaiming openness both in the shop window and online. After all that it wasn’t open. But there were other antique shops in one of which I failed to buy some antique serving plates and bowls  – I’ve got terribly behind with these things – but somehow it’s possible to be in the place of buying with the wherewithall and the need and still not buy. The drive to buy can suddenly go just as religious faith or the muse evap. Buying is always a sudden flash in the end. Too many considerations, and you won’t buy. Which is why one sometimes buys the wrong thing. With Faith though or the Muse it’s always right which isn’t fair and shows that buying is a greater challenge. Buying is a desperate grab at the future for you cannot know how well what is bought will sit and be loved by you.

We visited Ludlow Parish church and the grave of A.E.Houseman. Except I think it was only a partial grave for some sections of him were detached and donated to the Pony Club of Great Britain. I was appalled by the untidy state of this church which is as big as a cathedral. It was frankly a tip with its children’s corner, scruffy notice boards and mucky carpeted sections. The floor was heaving up – Victorian tiles but bad ones. Later on in the Gay Mother’s little chapel-church I noticed how top-notch the Victorian tiled floor is.

We picked the damsons in the gloaming with cows encroaching in the orchard. There was an air of drama in the low autumn light with the strange black fruit. We could have been whirled up into the universe at any moment like Tess of the D’Urbevilles in her winter phase with those turnips. Especially with Robert Nevil not speaking. In fact now I look back I think he was lucky not to have been subsumed. What with my circulation going the picking was a near-death experience.

Back at the homestead, with telly on, I sat on a sofa with Robert Nevil’s sister’s mother-in-law. She is 103 and only undertaking small scale knitting projects, such as knitted toys, in case she dies and her knitting isn’t finished. You may recall she knitted the Queen Mother a few years ago but said she wouldn’t undertake any other Royal Family members, the Queen Mother had been so difficult. I couldn’t see that she is likely to expire soon, her coiffure and carriage are so good. In fact she is a pleasure to look at and an excellent sofa life-force. Far more lively on the sofa and alert as to the environs of Birmingham (well-known for complication) than many half her age.

At some point Robert Nevil revealed that he has twice been electrocuted, once because his cleaner had destroyed a socket under a bed with the vac.

The Ludlow Antique Shop Not Open Despite Being Open

A Ludlow Window Display

My Damson-Picking Ensemble: An Out-of-Use Prada Mac

The Damson Hoard

This is Where a Dog Jumped up and Muddied my Leg. But the Mud Brushed Out. We were Trying to Get the Dog into the Front Seat of the ‘Pick-Up’. It Went In, Whirled Around, Covered Everything in Mud and Leapt out Again.