“All we have to do is find the lights” – Saturday 30th December 2006 (with brief entry for Sunday 31st December)

Note the actual date of this post is Tuesday 13th February 2007

We had tea in a nearby teashop, cramped at a table in the low twee interior while homely waitresses fussed around us. I was trying hard to think of places to take Robert Leiper, but in Christmas week everywhere was closed. Eventually I told him we would look at some of the rural landscapes for which the county is famous.

We drove up into the hills, the afternoon already advanced so that the light was beginning to fade. We were going to villages known more for their picturesque qualities rather than any great historical or architectural interest. Our first objective was a tiny hamlet that looked fairly easy to get to on the map, although in reality we were driving around for ages trying to find the right road. Down narrow lanes, and even narrower lanes, and metalled tracks that were hardly even lanes. The hills are very undulating at that point and we were constantly going up and plunging down again. Eventually we arrived at a farmyard cut into a hillside, the lane stopping at the farmhouse with wooden barns further down the slope.

Parking the car, to our left was a ridge, and on the crest of this ridge was one of the most minuscule Victorian churches I have ever seen, in dull brown brick and stone facings. No tower, just a little bell on the west gable. No porch, the unlocked south door leading directly into the church. Inside everything was neat and tidy, with fresh flowers on the altar. Hanging on the north wall were two large framed nineteenth century embroideries of the Creed and the Commandments. The only monuments were a couple of brass tablets gleaming in the half-light.

Outside we stood in the little churchyard and looked down into a secret valley. The reason I call it “secret” is that there did not appear to be any roads or pathways into it, and so the place must be comparatively unknown. It is a feature of the hills that they encompass exceptionally beautiful landscapes but on a miniature scale. Looking down into this valley, I felt it was one of the most lovely places I had ever seen (thinking about it later, it very much resembled the John Nash painting Cornfield). Woodland guarded the tops of the hills, with little fields swelling and falling down into a narrow cleft. In one of the fields corn had been left unharvested, the neglect adding to the sense that the valley had been forgotten. The dying light affected the colours of the place so that under a Prussian Blue sky the landscape was dissolving in twilight shades of grey-green, grey-brown, grey-purple, the greys gradually coalescing and deepening so that the peaceful rural darkness was slowly rising upwards from the valley to the crest of the ridge where we were standing. The air was cold against my face. I could have stood there for hours watching the night fall but I could tell Robert Leiper was impatient to get away.

To the next village at the bottom of a small valley, the houses sprawled around with no real sense of organisation. We drove backwards and forwards looking for the centre, having to turn the car and retrace our path about nine or ten times. Eventually we gave up and decided to go on, but as we were driving out of the settlement the church appeared on the side of the road (surely we had been down that way several times without seeing it?). It was another small Victorian building without a tower. Going inside, Robert Leiper switched on the lights. “There is nothing in here” he said, a contemptuous note to his voice.

While it is true that there was nothing inside the building that would interest a tourist, the place appealed to me because it was so modest. Just reading the notices on a board at the back revealed a whole world that would repay a lifetime’s study (”see the world in a grain of sand” as Jane Austen, quoting William Blake, advised). Slightly musty smell to the interior, the air grown milder, the sound of sheep baaing in the field next door.

Night had fallen although it was only five o’clock. We drove on to the next village, which took us about half an hour. The night was so black that the picturesque elements of the landscape were entirely lost to us. Arriving in the village we were unable to find the church (highly commended by Pevsner). I could tell that Robert Leiper was becoming irritable. We stopped at the main crossroads by a pub which had every window lit up. Robert Leiper got out to find someone who could give us directions. He was gone about twenty minutes and came back saying everywhere was deserted. As a last resort we decided to try each of the roads leading off from the crossroads, checking all the byroads along each one. The last byroad on the last crossroad had a small turning marked “Church Road”. We went along this track (grass growing up the middle) and it petered out in a tumbledown stable yard, with the big church away to the right. As soon as I switched off the car lights we were plunged into darkness.

Getting out the car, the darkness was relieved a little by the light that came from a house the other side of the track. We went up the path to the church, and Robert Leiper began to walk anti-clockwise round the building until I called sharply to him that if he intended to walk “widdershins” round a church in the dead of night I was going back to the car and driving off. Something in my voice must have told him I wasn’t joking, as he meekly stopped and came back.

The crunch of the gravel path underfoot guided us up to the south porch. A little stumbling and we were at the door of the church. Against all my expectations the handle turned and the door opened… and we stepped into a darkness more intense than any I had anticipated.

“All we have to do is find the lights” Robert Leiper said. “All we have to do is follow this wire and it will lead us to the light switch” (fumble, fumble, slithering noise as his hands rubbed against the walls). “They must be here somewhere, all we have to do is check everything logically” (crash as something was knocked from a table, thud as his leg bashed against a piece of furniture, flutter and rustle as his hands messed up some papers). I half-heartedly joined in the search for the light switch. Ten minutes passed and still no luck. I began to feel an urgent need to rush from the dark church back to my car.

Then my eyes became used to the dark and suddenly I could see. I can’t really explain how this occurred – it was as if everything came into focus, and although I couldn’t see in any great detail I was able to make out the shape of furniture, the span of the gothic arches and the aisles leading up through the church. Walking automatically (I felt as if I was gliding) I went into the centre of the church, up the long nave, up the three chancel steps, and switched on the lights at the chancel arch (don’t ask me how I knew they were there – I just knew).

When the lights came on, like Howard Carter opening the tomb of Tutankhamen, we saw “wonderful things”. To the north side of the chancel was a big chapel screened off by iron railings. Inside the chapel were the multi-coloured marble monuments of a great family, dating from the sixteenth to the nineteenth centuries. Dimly we could make out coloured heraldic achievements, recumbent effigies, Latin inscriptions, Purbeck marble tomb chests, brass engravings, draped urns, weeping alabaster children, angels in clouds, a relief with skulls, bones and an hour glass. Robert Leiper strained his arm though the railings trying to force the catch on the iron gate. Into my mind came the words of Thomas Gray: The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power. All that wealth, all that beauty ever gave. Await alike the inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

From the village we drove to a nearby town. Robert Leiper was in a buoyant mood, exhilarated by what we had just seen. Parking in the town square, we went into a small fish and chip shop (long queue of people waiting to buy chips) and down steep stairs to a tiny restaurant area in the basement. This room held six tables and was furnished more or less like a room in a private house. Against one wall was a black enamelled Victorian kitchen range with a blazing fire. Only one other table was occupied - a family of four, just finishing. We ordered fish and chips. The family of four departed, leaving us in peace. The greasy succulence of the meal was very enjoyable.

New Year’s Eve – Sunday 31st December 2006

During the morning Robert Leiper talked extensively about the publishing company he wishes to found and which he would like me to be involved with. I stressed the need for coherent sales and marketing. My brother (the only other person in the house that day) joined us for lunch which was roast beef, Yorkshire puddings, roast potatos, Savoy cabbage, boiled leeks.

Early afternoon I drove Robert Leiper to a town on the main line where he could catch a train to London without travelling on the branch line (which can be slow and cold). I parked in the little car park where you only get twenty minutes, but it’s less distance to the station entrance. After some effort we transported all Robert’s luggage onto the platform where it caused quite an obstruction (especially the big case for his skis).

The train was late and so I went through that that odd sort of limbo where you have said goodbye to someone but they havn’t gone yet. Eventually the train arrived, and we had to pick up all Robert’s luggage and move it down to the guard’s van, delaying the already-late express. Doors slammed, a railway operative blew his whistle, and the train left the station, picking up speed as it did so.

Walking back to my car, I experienced a very weird sensation. It was as if I had gone through some kind of trauma which had unexpectedly come to an end. All that I could think of were the words: thank goodness he’s gone, thank goodness he’s gone, thank goodness he’s gone…

Later that day

I have never cared about celebrating New Year – it seems to be an empty event dedicated to over-drinking. Most years I normally go to bed early. But this New Year’s Eve I happened to be up at midnight and went out to stand in the lane where I saw, five miles away, fireworks exploding over the local town. The coloured flares and bursting clusters seemed to take on a special significance. I felt euphoric. My mind began to repeat the mantra: thank goodness he’s gone, thank goodness he’s gone, thank goodness he’s GONE!