19 November 2015

The Chess Valley

This is one of three weblog postings about the events of one day: Friday 6 November 2015. The other two postings are À la recherche du temps perdu and Friday 6 November 2015.

The River Chess is a chalk stream rising in the Chiltern Hills, Buckinghamshire, in southern England, running south eastwards into Hertfordshire. Its sources are some springs in Chesham, and the river ends just south east of Rickmansworth at its confluence with the River Colne. Over its short 18 km (11 miles) length, it falls only 60 metres. (In contrast, the River Thames falls 110 metres, the River Wear: 340 metres; and the River Severn: 610 metres.) The River Chess is fed by groundwater held in the chalk aquifer over which the river runs: when the water table is very low, the river can disappear in places, and not reappear until the groundwater has been adequately replenished. For much of its length the River Chess runs through or close to the Chiltern Hills Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty.


The valley through which the River Chess runs seems to me to be far too wide and deep to have been created by the existing river, and my guess would be that it was carved by glacial run-off towards  the end of the most recent ‘ice age’ about ten thousand years ago. An undemanding extended walking route, called the Chess Valley Walk, mostly utilising footpaths and lanes, roughly follows the line of the river through the valley from the source of the river in Chesham to its confluence with the Colne.


It wasn't cold, but the sky was leaden, and a light drizzle was lubricating ground, grass and leaf, when I joined the Walk from a network of paths crisscrossing Chorleywood Common. The approach involved a descent into the Chess valley through an autumnal beech wood. The browns, golds, yellows and pale greens, mostly leaf litter, were a riot familiar to Gerard Manley Hopkins. Being the fag-end of the year, much of the vegetation, weeds such as coarse grasses and nettles, was already rank and overblown, some of it yellowing or turning grey. Perhaps there was the smell of leaf mould. A grey squirrel was noisily ferreting around among the leaves. A rabbit skipped silently out of sight. An untidy snap and clatter of feathers on twigs signalled the panicked flight of a wood pigeon. Rooks, magpies and jays called obscenities at each other. However, behind the alarm calls of blackbird, blue tit and robin, and not entirely unlike my tinnitus, was the constant sibilant roar of traffic on the M25 that was finally stilled only later, at the furthest extent of my walk.

On reaching the valley floor, I turned north. I could not yet see the river. Whilst the path ran fairly straight, with such a slight gradient, the river meandered around the valley floor, sometimes dividing into several channels, and so wandered away from the footpath. An interpretation board described some of the flora and fauna of the valley, including about the water voles (Ratty, from The Wind in the Willows).


As I walked on, still unable to see the actual river, I noticed a footbridge, almost completely obscured from view by vegetation. I experienced what I often experience when walking in the countryside: a desire to 'learn the landscape' by following every path. Discovery and the possibility of adventure beckoned. I was reminded of Robert Frost’s yellow wood. Unlike Frost, however, I chose the path muddy with the imprint of boot and paw.


Immediately before the next footbridge, the footpath finally approached the riverbank and showed me the river for the first time. The place was not especially pretty, but could have been a delightfully peaceful place to sit for a while, reading, writing or simply contemplating. A meander had carved out a broad shallow bay that formed a natural paddling pool. Out in mid-stream, river weed quivered inviting fingers and hands to explore its texture and movement. Had the weather been an order or two of magnitude more pleasant, I should not have hesitated to unlace my boots, peel off three pairs of socks, roll up my trouser legs, and paddle on the flinty gravel in the flow of the water as though I were four or five years old once again. Two aspects of the scene did not match the visual memory from my childhood: there was no backdrop of trees, and there was no road bridge a short distance downstream. However, the obviousness of this as a safe place for young children to paddle suggested that I had indeed found the place that I sought.


A woman and her dog arrived, and in my mind's eye I put back on my socks and boots. The dog was in the water without hesitation. I went to stand on the footbridge, over the middle of the river. The water was so intensely clear that had it not been for the surface reflection of lowering clouds, one might have been forgiven for being uncertain that an alternative dimension existed beneath that surface. As though disturbed by an eddy of moving air, the water rippled: a brown trout glided by silently heading downstream. My eye was then caught by a flash of movement upstream. The iridescent turquoise of a kingfisher darted up from the water to sit on the branch of a willow. The action was happening a hundred metres upstream, but by the time I had relocated myself for a better view, the kingfisher was gone. I began to have a sense that the valley, its river and its inhabitants might be willing to reveal something of themselves to those who trod lightly.

The rain subsided as I walked on. Initially close to the banks of the river, but getting gradually further away again, the footpaths crossed soggy fields, ran through woods, and at one point skirted a substantial marsh or bog. The path seemed to be heading out of the valley. What I had missed, it transpires, was the sign to cross the river on that first footbridge, and to follow the Chess Valley Walk along lanes to the east of the river. It was this latter route that I adopted on the return leg.


I was utterly delighted to discover a watercress farm at Moor Lane, Sarratt Bottom. There is something wonderful for me about watercress beds with sparkling water flowing over biscuit-coloured flinty gravel, contrasting with bright, chlorophyll-green leaves. I felt a sense of peace in proximity to its freshness and cleanness, not unlike proximity to a waterfall. I crossed the footbridge to the east/north side of the river. A sign read "Fresh Watercress", so I felt authorised to approach the farm buildings. Just before the first building was a metal cabinet with sliding glass doors, sellotaped to the front of which was a notice that read "Bags of watercress £2. Put the money in the blue box." Relieved to discover that I had £2.00 in change, I popped four 50p coins in the blue box and helped myself to a bag of watercress. The bag was river water cool, and the watercress it contained felt firm and substantial, not like the bags one buys from a supermarket. Considerately, the farm owners had placed two garden benches on the bank overlooking the river. It had started to rain again, albeit lightly. I retrieved the heavy duty carrier bag I had packed in my knapsack for this purpose, spread it out on a seat, and sat on the bench in the drizzle, eating my sandwiches while listening to the bubble and rush of the water. A small weir created a tiny waterfall downstream, although nothing that would trouble a trout. Upstream the river ran over a gravel cascade, producing a gentle sibilance. I wondered whether to get out my umbrella. An aeroplane from a different world moaned overhead, and a chainsaw whined somewhere in the distance. I realised that I could no longer hear the M25.


While gazing abstractedly upstream, I saw the flicker of movement, and the tell-tale iridescence of another kingfisher. I was watching it sitting on the handrail of the footbridge. Every so often it would about-face and I could see a blob of dark red plumage, then it would turn back and become a sliver of turquoise once more. From time-to-time it would dart into the river, and quickly return, but each time to a different place on the bridge. I realised that I was being permitted to witness the quiet charm of the Chess Valley and one of its residents.


I walked a little way further upstream along a footpath that was partially board-walked. This was the Chess Valley Walk proper. At a place where the river bent sharply away I stopped to survey the view. With its woods and fields, a valley and a river, footpaths and footbridges, its birds and mammals, this was an environment in which I should be happy to linger and to revisit. However, it was time to turn back towards Chorleywood Common.

I became aware of a disturbance of rooks. Where I live in eastern Kent, such a disturbance is typical when a buzzard is wheeling overhead. I looked up, and there was indeed a raptor, in fact several. However, unlike a buzzard with its rounded, owl-like wings and convex tail, these birds were leaner, more angular and with a pronouncedly forked tail: red kites. There were at least two adults and several juveniles. Although flying immediately above me, as well as over the neighbouring field, settling in a tree, one even landing on the grass, I was not certain that they were aware of my presence. I was treated to a remarkable display of aerial acrobatics. Their agility was stunning and mesmerising, and I was captivated. I rued not bringing my video camera.


The muddy lanes that speeded me back to Chorleywood were sparsely populated with pleasant rural houses. They were neither country palaces of the nouveau riche, nor tumbledown cottages, just ordinary nineteenth century and twentieth century houses in a delightful location. No doubt too remote for the taste of most people, and maybe considered impractical for full engagement in modern life, these properties spoke of a quieter way of being not unlike life in parts of the North Downs of eastern Kent.

As I climbed up out of the valley through the beech woods back onto the Common, I could feel green tendrils tugging gently at my wrists and ankles. I was already yearning to return.

Friday 6 November 2015

This is one of three weblog postings about the events of one day: Friday 6 November 2015. The other two postings are  À la recherche du temps perdu and The Chess Valley.

The day began about ten days before. It came about due to my daughter being invited to attend a meeting at Pinewood Studios. I told her that I was considering offering to drive her there, guessing that I could probably find some interesting place in which to occupy myself until it was time to collect her: Hampton Court Palace, Kew Gardens, Cliveden and the Royal Horticultural Society gardens at Wisley were some of the many places I considered but then rejected on the grounds of expensive entrance fees that I was unwilling to afford. Examining the map closely, I saw that an area named Chorleywood Common was not too far away, and as though some distant echo, I recalled that I had been taken there as an infant. Moreover, a quick online search revealed a walking route along the Chess Valley, and I was feeling ready for a walk. The weather forecast looked promising, so I resolved to go. My resolve wobbled a little when the meeting venue was changed to Shepperton Studios, some twenty five miles from Chorleywood, hardly close by. However, recognising that I felt disappointment at the prospect of not undertaking the trip, I recommitted myself to the adventure.

I do not use a satellite navigation system. Whilst I have in fact done so on several occasions, it has only ever been with mixed success, and I have on each occasion found myself disputing, or even arguing with, its robotic instructions, and become extremely fed up with being exhorted repeatedly to make an immediate U-turn. I prefer to use maps with which to plan my route, from which I write detailed lists of abbreviated instructions and observations. Several features make my lists superior to those of the Google Maps route planner: I include visual way-points (turn right at the traffic lights with a BP petrol station on the corner); I carefully detail how to handle particularly confusing junctions; I insert means of realising when something has gone wrong, and I devise instructions for getting myself back on track. My care stems partly from the frequency with which road signs in built-up areas do not show the road number, and partly from the fact that street name signs are too often obscured, located in places not visible to a passing car driver, or simply absent. I do use Google Maps street view to examine road signs and lane markings. Preparation of my in-car instruction sheets effectively rehearses sections of the journey which means that, as I drive along a road for the first time, I am recognising various features as though I had driven that way before.

Car parking is important: parking somewhere safe is paramount; parking somewhere for free is better than having to pay; parking somewhere convenient is helpful. Searching online I found several car parks listed for Chorleywood. I noted, however, that the railway station car park charges a substantial fee; a free shoppers' car park has a two hour limit; but a somewhat less-convenient shoppers' car park offers four hours parking without charge. I decided that four hours of parking would be sufficient, so used Google Maps street view to see how I would recognise the car park entrance, which was not especially obvious. While using Google Maps satellite view, I noticed that there is also a car park not listed on the web, eating into the southern edge of Chorleywood Common. The satellite photograph revealed a less formal looking shape, as though there would be no charge, and showed the car park full with parked cars. Provided there were space on the day, this car park would be most convenient.

As I intended to be walking in the countryside for three or four hours, and driving in the car for several hours either side of that, I would need a toilet before setting off on my walk. I am not a fan of attending to my bodily functions en pleine nature, public conveniences are seldom adequately clean, and I prefer not to have to ask to use a toilet in a pub when I have no intention of buying a drink. On the other hand, superstores usually have toilets, and it is possible to check online the availability of this facility. The Sainsbury's superstore closest to my route from Shepperton to Chorleywood would be at Staines.

My sister and her partner live in Maidenhead, over a hundred miles from the village in which I live, so we do not get to meet very often. The trip to Shepperton would take us within twenty five miles of Maidenhead, so the occasion seemed like too good an opportunity to miss a visit.

On ruled paper I wrote myself detailed lists of directions from home to Shepperton Studios, from Shepperton Studios to the Sainbury's superstore in Staines, from Staines to the car park on the edge of Chorleywood Common, from that car park (if full) to the shoppers' car park in Chorleywood, from Chorleywood back to Shepperton (avoiding Staines), and from Shepperton Studios to Maidenhead. Using Google Maps route planner I was able estimate how long each leg of the journey would take, and thereby calculate the required start time for each leg. The two fixed times were the start and the end of the meeting at Shepperton studios. Anyone who knows the M25 will be aware that, despite an American number of lanes along stretches that are often congested, during 'rush' hour, the traffic can slow to a standstill: a journey typically taking 35 minutes can be expected to take twice as long, and can in practice take much longer, depending on traffic density. Arriving on time when using the M25 requires planning and a following wind.

Over the days between my decision to go and the day itself, the weather forecast deteriorated until it became set to drizzle for most of the day. In a knapsack I packed some waterproof trousers and an umbrella, along with a heavy duty plastic carrier bag on which to sit. I charged my digital camera, and ensured that its memory card was empty. Never before having visited the area, at least not as an adult, I have no Ordnance Survey map of the area. I feel more comfortable when out walking if I can follow the route on a map, so I downloaded a pdf brochure of the Chess Valley Walk that I found online. Of particular significance was that it gave instructions about how best to join the Walk from Chorleywood Common. I printed the relevant page of the brochure and popped it into a punched plastic pocket. With optimism comparable to that of a compulsive gambler, I included with my gear for the day a small towel, just in case I got the opportunity to paddle in the River Chess. For once I remembered to pack a hair brush: I guessed that, come late afternoon, having being out walking for several hours, I would probably look like a wild man of the woods. I topped up the car engine with oil and checked the tyres. Late on Thursday evening I set up the bread-making machine so that I could make and take fresh sandwiches. First thing on Friday morning I prepared a flask of a herbal infusion.

Friday morning did not dawn well. Not only was it raining hard, but I had slept, when I had slept at all, remarkably badly. I felt thick-headed with a mild but intrusive migraine headache that subsequently lasted for several days. As usual in such circumstances my tinnitus was also quite pronounced. However, we managed to leave precisely on time, which is unusual. Traffic on both the M20 and M26 was busy but moving fast. Traffic on the M25 was busier, but there were remarkably few queues. By the time we left the M25 I was feeling too travel sick to be able to read my list of directions, so I had to have them read to me, but having researched the route thoroughly, I was able to recognise most of the route as we arrived at each way-point or junction. We arrived forty five minutes before the meeting start time (which I am informed was valuable).

The journey into the centre of Staines was more confusing than I had envisaged, and would have been more comfortable had I researched it better. The toilets in Sainsbury's were adequate but nothing more, and despite a quick look round several departments of the shop, I was unable to find anything I wanted to buy. Entry onto the M25 was via a highly complex road junction, and the northbound traffic was heavier than before. I had no choice but to read for myself my written directions.

An arrow flies straight from the bow to the target. Okay, it travels in a gravity-induced parabola, and in the open air its flight may be influenced by the wind. What an arrow does not do is swing round objects, hug contours, or travel in the wrong direction in order to find a faster path to the target. I have often felt fascinated with the concept of travelling from one point in space and arriving at another. Journeys rarely involve a single straight line, and a journey in a city often requires one to zig-zag this way and that, like a sailing boat tacking in order to travel upwind. Longer, more complex journeys may even demand, unintuitively, that one travels south when the destination is north, and west when the destination is east. Sometimes the two places are already well known to us, and like the sequential memory involved in reciting a poem or singing a song, what happens next on the journey comes into view as we approach it. However, when the destination is unfamiliar, the journey inevitably involves performing a precisely-designated sequence of unconnected actions, like when following the instructions for performing a complex operation on a computer: miss out or change a step and one ends up somewhere completely different, such as Watford, St. Albans or Luton. Sometimes the journey involves trusting to an intuitive sense of direction, and whilst this has worked spectacularly well for me on foot on many occasions, it has also led to some spectacular failures when driving (such as trying for an hour to free myself from the ring of hell that is the one-way system in Milan, Italy). Junction 17 on the M25, it turns out, is signposted to Chorleywood. On seeing this, I immediately wondered whether I had been mistaken in writing J18 on my list. I knew from the map that Chorleywood is only a very small town, and it seemed unlikely that it would warrant the attention of two junctions of the M25. Had I exited the motorway at Junction 17, I should have found that the sequence of right and left turns recorded on my sheet of paper had failed to bring me to the car park on the edge of Chorleywood Common, and I could have been driving around for a quite while trying to work out how best to rectify my error (which is what happened to me in Rhayader, Powys; in Hannover, Germany; and at Olomouc, Czech Republic). It is on those occasions when one is confronted by the fact that roads signs, for all that they look like they are pointing the way, are more reliably an aide-memoire. One of the reasons why I include way-points in my route list instructions is to bolster my confidence that I am still on the correct route. Doubt comes easily to me. All that is required to throw me off course at a road junction is ask whether I ought be heading in a different direction. I very nearly left the motorway at Junction 17 because what was written on the road sign was the name of the place to which I was travelling. Although very much in two minds, I chose to adhere to my instructions and drove on to exit the motorway at Junction 18. Once off the M25 and back onto better-rehearsed smaller roads, I found my way without hesitation. I arrived at the car park I had identified on the edge of Chorleywood Common where it seemed that a single vacant parking space was waiting for me. Somewhat frazzled and distinctly thick-headed, I had arrived.


The car park looked as though it was and ought to be free of charge, and the cars parked either side of mine were unadorned with parking ticket machine tickets. No parking ticket machine was visible. Ever wary, I walked over to read a small but official-looking notice that, from its appearance could just as easily have been making explicit some by-laws about the use of the Common, such as restrictions on the public use of alcohol, and that all dogs should be kept on a lead. In a sentiment reminiscent of Alice in Wonderland, the notice in fact indicated that between 11.00 am and 3.00 pm (what is wrong with using the twenty four hour clock?) parking in the car park was free provided that one displays a parking ticket machine ticket, and that failing to display a ticket would be considered a contravention for which punishment would be meted out. A parking ticket machine remaining stubbornly elusive, I walked towards the other end of the car park and accosted a dog owner who was just returning to her car. She pointed to a hitherto hidden machine, but then added that it wasn't working. Not entirely reassured, I went to investigate and found it perfectly operational. Clutching my ticket (no charge), I returned to the woman and her dog who were on the point of driving away. She observed that as she had arrived well before 11:00, maybe the machine had simply refused to issue her with a ticket. Lewis Carroll or Franz Kafka?


Boots laced, knapsack strapped, and clutching my plastic-pocketed map, as soon as I set off walking across Chorleywood Common two things became evident: one, that although I have no specific memory of the place, it felt so natural to be there, that I was certain that I had visited long ago. It is precisely the sort of place that a young couple would take their two young sons for a day out from the grime of poor city suburbs. Acre upon acre of grass on which to run like the wind; stands of tall trees hundreds of years old amongst which to hide. Surely that is where we learned to play 'hide and seek'. Second, the entire Common was speckled with polite-looking women walking polite-looking dogs. Frequently in pairs, their dogs mostly on the lead, the women were out for their morning walk to encounter and talk with their friends. I wonder if their stockbroker husbands take their turn to walk the dog in the evening and at weekends. (I apologise for stereotyping.) I encountered a group of women who had found a quiet corner in which to do some dog training together - reminding me of the many ways in which New Yorkers use Central Park in Manhattan. Elsewhere a woman was training her dog alone. It was only down beside the River Chess that I began encountering men with their dogs, and couples with their dogs, as well as more women with their dogs. There are plenty of dogs where I live in eastern Kent, but Chorleywood appears to take dog ownership to an entirely new level.


The descent off the Common was through beech woods. Despite a gentle drizzle, it was a delightful place to be walking. In order to try to avoid arriving back at Shepperton late, I calculated that I needed to be driving away from the car park no later than 15:00. I had set off at 11:40, giving me three hours and twenty minutes, or an hour and a half outbound, plus twenty minutes to eat my sandwiches. I knew that I could not hang around, although it would have been lovely to have lingered.

On reaching the valley floor I arrived at the signposted Chess Valley Walk. Although I had printed the documentation I found online, it would appear that the font size had been chosen by Lilliputians. Consequently I was unable to make out clearly that the Chess Valley Walk crosses the river in a number of places. A footpath spurred off to a just-visible footbridge. Tempting though it felt to cross that bridge, I decided to press on, following signposted footpaths running along the west side of the valley. Initially close to the banks of the river, but getting gradually further away, the footpaths crossed soggy fields, ran through woods, and at one point skirted a substantial marsh or bog. What I had missed was the sign to cross the river on that footbridge and to follow the Chess Valley Walk along lanes to the east of the river. It was this latter route that I adopted on the return leg. I describe elsewhere the delights of the Chess Valley because tonally it was an experience very different from the logistics associated with the day.


Ever anxious to remain on time, and mindful that my return drive along the M25 could coincide with an early exodus for the weekend from London's shops, offices and factories, I strode along the valley floor at a pace that would have a Chihuahua trotting, and might even have had a Dachshund a little out of breath. Certainly I was dizzily gasping for breath as I climbed up out of the valley through the beech woods back onto the Common. It took an age to cross the A404: it would appear that Hertfordshire car drivers may be a little less courteous than those in the corner of eastern Kent where I live. The car was in the place where I had left it, which is always a relief, but not, in my experience, always to be relied on. I had time to drink some herbal infusion from my flask before setting off exactly on schedule. The drive back to Shepperton, by-passing Staines, was mercifully uncongested (the stationary traffic queue on the M25 began from the junction at which I exited) and uneventful, but did require that I navigate a nightmare traffic junction. Although I had encountered the junction some hours earlier that day, traffic bound for Staines used a left-hand filter lane, so I did not have to take too much notice. No such luck this time. The issue is that whilst traffic turning sharp left is predictably required to be in the left-hand lane; traffic merely bearing left is required to use the three right hand lanes; whereas traffic bearing right (along with traffic turning right towards Staines) is required to use either of the two left-hand lanes. At root is the idea that left-turners and right-bearers / turners should use the junction as though it is a roundabout, but those bearing left should drive straight across roundabout's island. It would be reasonable to propose that this arrangement lacks intuitiveness for the uninitiated, and although it has a rationale that makes intellectual sense, it sent my quick-to-doubt driving-self into a tail-spin. I wonder how many other motorists quail the first time they encounter this road junction from the west. I wonder how many road traffic accidents have resulted. Maybe this road layout was devised to reduce the number of accidents. My gut sense is that a flyover would eliminate the complication, confusion and congestion. (Of the six so-called 'magic roundabouts' in the UK, I am unhappily familiar with that in Hemel Hempstead.)


I arrived at Shepperton Studios half an hour early, and my daughter was 37 minutes late from her meeting. Looking for all the world like an industrial estate, which is effectively what the place is, the Studios was not an inspiring place to wait for over an hour. There was little to see but industrial units, no sets at which to marvel, no actors to accost for their autographs, no sense that this is a village in which dreams and illusions are created. The only minor note of interest was seeing a youngish man using a so-called hoverboard (in reality a cross between a skateboard and a Segway Personal Transporter) to travel from one building to another. I wished that I had been able to spend the time walking further along the Chess Valley.

The trip to Maidenhead delivered me back to the nightmare road junction near Staines, but approaching from the east was somewhat easier. Traffic on the M25 was now at a constipated standstill so I immediately filtered off to the left onto Plan B. However, towards Windsor the congestion became so bad that many motorists were turning round to find another route. Although tempted to follow suit, I was unwilling to return to the motorway, and therefore we had little choice but to wait patiently. The sun having set while I was waiting, at Shepperton, the world was all bright headlights and yellow streetlights. We were all in need of a nice hot drink, and we were running late. Once the traffic got moving we were disgorged onto a roundabout for which I was unprepared. I ought to have identified this as a junction at which we might stray from our route. Suddenly we were on a fast dual carriageway heading in the wrong direction. "At the next junction, make a u-turn." I knew enough to feel confident that we would soon reach the M4, on which I could travel west to Maidenhead, after which the remainder of the journey was uneventful.

It was lovely to see my sister, her partner and their dog, Crosby. The Friday being sandwiched between Guy Fawkes Night and Diwali, firework detonations were frequent. Crosby was seriously alarmed by each explosion, at which he would bark loudly, and constant attention was necessary to keep him calm. It quickly became obvious that Crosby was incapable of becoming inured to the sound. However, if offered a dog treat as soon as he barked, he would immediately forget about the firework. A cynic might have imagined that he was simply 'onto a good thing', but the degree of his distress at every explosion was evident. My sister and I talked about family-tree matters while my daughter ate chocolate cake. All too soon it was time to leave and begin the long drive home.

Being nearly 22:00 when we arrived back, it was too late to be cooking and eating a full evening meal. Instead, I chopped the fresh watercress I had bought beside the River Chess, and prepared easily the best watercress soup I have ever made. In both a somatic and symbolic way it felt as though I had internalised an authentic aspect of the Chess Valley: a fitting end to a long, intense and meaningful day.

À la recherche du temps perdu

This is one of three weblog postings about the events of one day: Friday 6 November 2015. The other two postings are Friday 6 November 2015 and The Chess Valley.

When I was young in the late 1950s and early 1960s, I lived with my parents and brother on the ground floor of a modest two-storey terraced house in Willesden, a grimy, working-class suburb in north-west London. My parents were poor, and the rent was cheap. At the back of the house were railway lines including what was then the Stanmore branch of the Bakerloo line (now Jubilee line), a non-stop section of the Metropolitan line, and what was the Great Central Main Line (most of which fell under the Beeching axe) and is now the London to Aylesbury Line operated by Chiltern Railways. Whilst I remember the soot-blackened wall at the boundary of the tiny garden, and have some sense both of the clickety-clack of iron wheels running over fish-plated joints, and of the hum of industrial-sized electric motors, I have no visual memory of seeing a train on the lines. I wish that I had. Maybe the wall was too high to permit a small child sight of the trains.

That trains ran along the tracks I was in no doubt, both then and now, for we would catch Bakerloo line trains both from Dollis Hill tube station to the north west, and from Willesden Green tube station to the south east. From Willesden Green we would travel into central London, often changing trains either at Finchley Road tube station onto the more-limited-stop Metropolitan line, or at Baker Street tube station, a station so complex for a young child that it has appeared in my night-time dreams, often nightmares, ever since. From Dollis Hill (a name with which I have been proud to be associated ever since I discovered in the 1970s that it was the home of the Post Office Research Station, where Tommy Flowers designed and built the Collosus machines, the world's first ever programmable computers, for and in collaboration with Alan Turing) we would travel out of London, most often to Aylesbury, where, every-so-often, always on a Sunday it would seem, the four of us would visit my maternal grandmother, appropriately referred to by my brother and me as “Nana Train”. Apart from the delights of a television (my parents could not afford one) on which it was possible to watch Gerry Anderson’s exciting marionette shows, Supercar, Fireball XL5 (my favourite) and Stingray ("Standby for action! ... Anything can happen in the next half hour!" Thunderbirds came later, and I was too old for Captain Scarlet and the Mysterons), and an upright piano at which my grandmother was accomplished and would often play for us, even the journey was a refreshing break from the humdrum routine of pre-school, and later nursery school, home life. We would catch the Bakerloo line train to Wembley Park tube station where we would change onto the Metropolitan line. We would take this through to Amersham where we would disembark and wait for a “green diesel”. I believe that these diesel multiple units (as I now know to call them) would simply ply the route between Amersham and Aylesbury, although their journey might have begun at Marylebone station. I have neither memory nor knowledge of how we travelled from Aylesbury railway station to my grandmother’s flat. Imprinted on my memory, however, are the names of the final stations on the Metropolitan line. Almost a litany, the names were rich in promise, and the places pregnant with potential: Rickmansworth, Chorleywood, Chalfont and Latimer, and Amersham, the terminus. Intriguingly, there was an alternative  terminus: Chesham. Little did I understand quite how rich in promise those places are, lying in and on the edge of the Chiltern Hills.


There were occasions, however, when we did visit Chorleywood. I have this abiding memory from when I was either four or five years of age, right at the beginning of the 1960s, paddling in a shallow gravel-bedded river at a place named Chorleywood Common. Leaves dappled golden sunshine. Emerald-coloured river weed quivered in the burbling and sibilant flow of the water. It was a magical place, like a little bit of heaven. I may have been taken there only once, and we moved away up north not too long after. The occasion has been secreted away in my memory ever since. The memory is a single, albeit multi-layered, image. I have no memory of travelling there, although I am in no doubt that we travelled by the route outlined above.


I am reasonably confident that we visited Chorleywood Common, although not that river, on several occasions. I can imagine young parents in their early to mid twenties, taking their young sons to run free in the open air, to shout without being hushed, and to burn off energy bottled-up by life spent in a contained urban environment. As I walked over Chorleywood Common recently, I could feel my feet wishing to take flight, taking me to hide behind tall trees, and to explore bracken thickets. Apart from that sole image of paddling in a river, I have no explicit memory of any one occasion in the past, but simply being there recently whispered to me that this was all familiar from a very long time ago. Moreover, commons and heathland with copses, spinneys, avenues and rides, whilst admittedly far from an acquired taste, was not the kind of terrain with which I subsequently became remotely familiar, and I am guessing that the pleasure I experience now when encountering such terrain arises from those occasions before the formalisation of my memories.

I am getting a little ahead of myself. To backtrack, I was recently offered the opportunity to visit the area to the north west of London. On examining a map I happened to notice the small town of Chorleywood, and from deep in my memory I remembered the name and the promise that it carried. To be precise, the name that I remembered was Chorleywood Common. A different kind of image with which I associate the place name is an E.H.Shepard illustration of a verse by A.A.Milne in When We Were Very Young, called 'Market Place':
"...
I had nuffin',
No, I hadn't got nuffin',
So I didn't go down
to the market square;
But I walked on the common
The old gold common ..."


Then I saw on the map that that there is a river that, by all accounts, has a gravel bed. I am in no doubt that somewhere along the River Chess (I never knew the name of the river when I was a child), between the M25 and Chenies, is that magical place from my childhood, and as though rising out of the mist of my past, the idea of visiting Chorleywood Common, of walking along the river, and of searching for that place in the river where I paddled when I was very young, slowly clarified in my mind. Almost immediately I could hear the voice of Alan Bennett reading Wind in the Willows.

I turned my attention to an online search. This revealed photographs of the River Chess, a Chess Valley Walk, and a delightful weblog posting about how the place was magical in the childhood of other people too. I determined that I would drive there and walk the stretch of the River Chess in search of the paddling place of my memory. In planning the trip, I also hoped to create some new gentle memories, including looking for the footbridge that was mentioned in the weblog posting, seeing some of the less common flora, and perhaps some bird-life, and maybe even once again paddling in the gravel-bedded river.


Tempering mounting excitement, and reining in my expectations, however, I considered it possible that the image in my memory may be inaccurate in some way, or has been distorted by subsequent experience. I also wondered whether I might pass the spot and not recognise it, for much can change in fifty years. Indeed, Google Maps coldly informed me of the distinct possibility that the place for which I intended to search was brutally obliterated many years ago beneath concrete and tarmac that is now the M25.

It is a long journey from the North Downs of eastern Kent to playing in a gravel-bedded river, watched over by parents who have both since died, on a summer's day in the Chilterns.

11 August 2015

A Funeral for my Mother

Sally Case
On Thursday 16 July 2015, we held a funeral for my mother at Bramcote Crematorium, Nottingham. We were given the 45 minute slot from 10:30, which allowed us just over half an hour to do what we needed. The funeral direction was respectful and dignified. There were flowers. A small congregation assembled. I led the cortege into the chapel, some piano music from Einaudi being played over the public address system.
The coffin containing my mother's remains was placed on the catafalque, along with a tasteful floral tribute. This was the closest I had been to my mother in over thirty years. I gave an oration in place of a eulogy. My brother said a few words. All too soon my brother signalled the closing of the catafalque curtains, and we processed out of the chapel to my choice of In Paradisum from Fauré's Requiem. We greeted and thanked the mourners, and invited them to join us at a local public house, although only two did. It was over. The life of a person was packaged and dispatched in 45 minutes.

What follows here is the oration I delivered, but with the addition of music, photographs and text [in red] of elements that would have made the funeral much richer, albeit a good deal longer. A simple funeral programme, illustrated with the photograph above, gave some of the readings below.

------

[Einaudi piano music: Le Onde]


[Cortege enters chapel]

My name is Peter Hughes. I am one of Sally’s two sons. My brother, Carl, is also with us. I regret that Sally’s two daughters, Lisa and Rachel, are unable to be here in person. [I am grateful] to my two sisters, Lisa and Rachel, and to my brother, Carl, for helping me to construct the following account of the first 45 years of Sally’s life, [and for helping me to piece together something of the ensuing thirty years.]
I should like to begin by thanking you for coming here today. The purpose of our gathering is to pay our last respects to the person most of you will know as Sally Case, to say our good-byes, and to remember her life.
This is a time of transition, certainly for those us who knew Sally, and, depending on your beliefs, for Sally herself. Some of our tasks are to accept the reality of Sally’s death; to acknowledge our feelings about Sally, and the fact that she is no longer with us; to make appropriate adjustments to our lives in the light of her death; and to find ways to incorporate our memories of Sally into our ongoing life. Whilst the intention of this address is to help us all today with the latter of these tasks, trying to make sense of her life, I have little doubt that I shall be engaged on some of the tasks for the rest of my life.

Although the Sally I knew believed in ghosts and disembodied spirits, she was neither a formally- nor a piously-religious person, nor were most of the people in her life, so a religious funeral would seem quite out of place. It is not the place of this short funeral to challenge your spiritual beliefs. If you believe that something of a person survives their death, then Sally might have agreed with you. If you believe in past-lives, I doubt that Sally would have disagreed. I think that she might even have flirted with ideas of re-incarnation, but I am not sure. Whatever your beliefs, they mean something to you, so hold onto them. For what it is worth, I am an existentialist by disposition, a Quaker by convincement, and a lifelong atheist.

The structure of this funeral service will be simple. I have prepared an address that I shall read out. After which there will be a short period of silence for quiet reflection, or prayer, if that is your thing. My brother Carl has a few things he wishes to say. After a further brief period of silent reflection, we shall leave the chapel. It is our intention to meet at the Admiral Rodney public house after the service where it might be nice to spend a little while talking with you in a more convivial atmosphere.

Ecclesiastes chapter 3, verses 1 to 8:
To everything there is a season,
    a time for every purpose under heaven:
    a time to be born, and a time to die;
    a time to plant, and a time to uproot what is planted;
    a time to kill, and a time to heal;
    a time to break down, and a time to build up;
    a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
    a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
    a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones;
    a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
    a time to gain, and a time to lose;
    a time to keep, and a time to cast away;
    a time to tear, and a time to sew;
    a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
    a time to love, and a time to hate;
    a time of war, and a time of peace.




Let us begin by spending a few minutes in silence, reflecting on the purposes and meanings we give to our life and to the lives of others around us; and also to our memories of Sally.

[Five minutes of silence]

Sally Cooper: 1939-2015

Sally was born on 8 February 1939, the only child of Harold Hawkes-Cooper and Dora Bilton. Her parents were never married to each other. Her father, Harold, had never formally divorced from a previous marriage from which he had a son and a daughter, although by the time Sally was on the way, Harold’s son, Dennis,  had emigrated to Australia, and his daughter, Amber, had been adopted. It was only later in her life that Sally chose to mention that she had a half-sister whom she had never known. Harold had led quite a colourful life which included a failed attempt at relocating to the USA when he was 21, owning a plant nursery in Sussex, a plant-hunting expedition to Malaysia, a failed attempt to relocate to Argentina, and working as a keeper at London Zoo. He was declared bankrupt at least once. Other Cooper Victorian forebears were stockbrokers and vicars, and one married the daughter of a Maori chief.

Despite her parents not being married to each other, Sally’s surname was recorded as Cooper on her birth certificate. She had no middle name, although I remember Sally occasionally telling people, with some humour, that a dental practice she attended insisted on Sally having a middle initial B. When she married my father, John, she gave her maiden name as Bilton. The Bilton family history was steeped in stolid Methodism with many of Dora’s direct family and ancestors being ministers. Dora had struck out from home in the 1920s and worked as private secretary to Walter Ayles, a Labour MP for Bristol North.

from Pinkle Purr by A.A. Milne

Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
A little black nothing of feet and fur;
And by-and-by, when his eyes came through,
He saw his mother, the big Tattoo.
And all that he learned he learned from her.
'I'll ask my mother,' says Pinkle Purr.

Tattoo was the mother of Pinkle Purr,
A ridiculous kitten with silky fur.
And little black Pinkle grew and grew
Till he got as big as the big Tattoo.
And all that he did he did with her.
'Two friends together,' says Pinkle Purr.

War having been declared against Germany little more than six months after her birth, Sally entered the world in turbulent and uncertain times. It could be said that she lived her entire life as though needing the drama and chiaroscuro of those first embattled years. Sally was born in the bustling Sussex seaside town of Hove. The family soon moved away to the safety and loneliness of Anglesey. Sally’s parents worked ‘in service’ to Lord Boston, Dora working in the house, Harold as a gardener, chauffeur and master of the hounds. It may have been here that Sally acquired an early familiarity with garden plants that stayed with her throughout her life. However, it may also have been the experience of her parents working ‘in service’ that engendered a tension within Sally. Both her parents were from respectable middle-class families, and on her father’s side, albeit a long time in the past, there had been fabulous wealth. Just as the humble Tess Durbeyfield was seduced by the noble background of her D’Urberville forebears, Sally was never content to see herself as the daughter of impoverished parents working ‘below stairs’, and derived much satisfaction from associating with wealthy, high status people, yet paradoxically she also found middle-class values, such as deferred gratification and the importance of education, difficult to accept.

After the Second World War the family moved back to London. Tragedy must have loomed increasingly darkly for several years as her father increasingly manifested the symptoms of Parkinsonism. He died when Sally was only 14 years old, a loss she never forgot, and perhaps from which she never fully recovered. However, her middle teenage years were also heady times, for they coincided with the cultural emergence of the teenager. Sally revelled in the popular music of the 1950s, including rock-and-roll, and the songs of Frank Sinatra and Shirley Bassey. She worked as an usherette in a cinema and fell in love with the movies, especially musicals, watching High Society scores of times. I remember that she liked the song Moon River, sung by Audrey Hepburn in the movie Breakfast at Tiffany’s

[Moon River, Audrey Hepburn]




She also associated with a motor-cycle gang in north London, and later told stories about how she would roar off on the back of a bike at great speed into the night. Sometime in 1956, a Jewish friend, David Bernard, introduced Sally to a friend of his girlfriend, Marion. David and Marion later married. The friend-of-a-friend was John Hughes.

[Peggy Sue, Buddy Holly]




John had recently been discharged from National Service in the Royal Marines. He had been stationed in Cyprus where a terrorist group were fighting for independence. To Sally, this sounded excitingly masculine. However, John was not a tearaway: he was steady and thoughtful. Like Sally, he came from a family whose forebears had seen better times. Like Sally, John’s parents were not married to each other. Like Sally, John no longer had a father, although John’s father was still alive, just in another relationship that excluded John. I was the inevitable result of the too-swift romance, and was born the following year, Sally a mere 18 years of age. However, unlike their respective parents, John and Sally decided to marry, in a London registry office.
They found themselves a bedsit (a studio apartment as it would now be called) in Palmer’s Green, north London. To accompany the bawling infant they acquired a small dog. I do not know if Sally had lived with pets until that point, but subsequently she rarely lived without a dog, or sometimes a cat. Indeed, her rescue dog, Anna, survives her now.
John Hughes on his wedding day

At the same time that John Osborne was enjoying Broadway success with Look Back in Anger, a play that places angry young people in dingy flats in post-war Britain, it is hard to imagine that John and Sally were especially contented with the stark realities of their new life. Within a few months, my brother Carl was on the way, and John and Sally moved back into John’s mother’s house in Dollis Hill, Willesden, north west London. This move caused considerable rancour between John and his brother, Mike, precipitating what would become a family rift that healed only on John’s death in 1992.

At the turn of the twentieth century, Dollis Hill was a pleasant, prosperous and highly-desirable London suburb. However, like John and Sally’s forebears, it had declined in status, and had become cheap enough for poor Irish immigrant families to make their home, along with people who had sailed into Britain on the Windrush. I remember Sally’s friend, Renate, a German woman living alone in a bedsit just up the road: only 15 years after the end of the Second World War, German people were still commonly viewed with suspicion. Sally would occasionally come out with Yiddish (German Jewish) phrases, and make lokshen pudding, a simple, traditional Yiddish dairy noodle pudding. Sally, Carl and I would also spend time round at the Bernard’s house. In other words, Sally was comfortable mixing with people of various cultures and nationalities. I should also add that a man called Henry, a friend of my father, would come round to the house sometimes, or we would visit him. I now recognise that Henry was gay, an orientation that troubled neither of my parents, years before being gay was decriminalised.

[Fly Me To The Moon, Frank Sinatra]




It can’t have been easy for Sally living in the same house as her mother-in-law. Moreover, John, who attended evening classes to improve his education so that he could get a better job, proved to be too steady for Sally, too reliable, too unexciting. So in 1962, Sally left us and went to live with another man, and then at the end of the summer decided to return. I still remember the reconciliation meeting because it was the first occasion on which I was permitted to taste the fizzy drink Seven Up, such are the memories of children.
John was a man of principle and conviction, and lost his job more than once in those early years, so we never had much money. I think that the family was seriously poor. For example, it was not until 1966 that we first had a television, and only at the end of the 1960s that a telephone was installed. On Sundays we would often visit Sally’s mother, Dora, and her partner Maurice, who now lived in Aylesbury where Dora was the daily cleaner at the family home of the Weatherheads, a well-to-do family who owned the famous bookshop in the town. Dora also played the piano for a children’s ballet class. Sally never found it easy to get on with her mother. On a lighter note, John and Sally would occasionally take my brother and me on a picnic to Chorleywood Common, or to Kew Gardens, in Richmond, Surrey. Mostly, however, Sally would simply take us for a walk in nearby Gladstone Park. Occasionally we would visit an art gallery or museum together, and Sally retained a lifelong interest in representational painting, her final house being lavishly adorned with paintings, prints and photographs.

[Habanera, from Bizet's Carmen]




It must have been very difficult for Sally to make ends meet on so little money, for not only was she still young, but during the time that I knew her, budgeting never emerged as one of her strong points. John and Sally had many rows, mostly about the lack of money, and these rows continued throughout their marriage.  In London, Sally did part-time shop work, to which she returned a few years later. By the 1970s she had worked as a cook in a school, which still makes me shudder because her cooking skills were often rudimentary, and as an office cleaner, a school cleaner, a ‘daily’ home cleaner (like her mother), and a private gardener. The only job about which she ever talked with real affection was having worked as an usherette.

Sally and John's house in Dunstable
Sally and John were given a new start in 1964 when John finally landed a half-decent job in Luton, north of London. Accompanied by the surviving pet cat of two, the four of us relocated to [a rented semi-detached house in] nearby Dunstable, Bedfordshire. Sally bought a pedigree Irish setter she named Kerry, and a third child was decided upon. Kerry was delightful, but highly excitable, untrained and as poorly behaved as all the subsequent pet dogs, including border collies, a basset hound, a Pyrenean -cross and a black labrador. Sally soon struck up a friendship with a neighbour, Mary Chapman, and the two remained in periodic contact for the rest of Sally’s life. Sally also took to visiting a friend of her mother, called Tess Vevers. Tess was the wife of Geoffrey Vevers, a significant London socialist, long-time Superintendent at London Zoo, the person who set up Whipsnade Zoo, not far from Dunstable, mentor to Gerald Durrell, and erstwhile colleague of Sally’s father. Tess and Geoffrey lived in a house they built in the zoo, muntjac deer nibbling the flower beds and wallabies on the lawn. Sally had previously taken Carl and me to Regent’s Park Zoo in London, and she took us all to Chester Zoo on many occasions. I think that Sally may have been attracted to the romance of wild beasts collected from foreign parts. Sadly, John’s job did not last, and we were soon on the move again. Just before we left Dunstable, Lisa, Sally’s first daughter, was born.

After a brief but uncomfortable interlude back at John’s mother’s house, the five of us, plus cat and dog, moved to Chester, Cheshire. John had secured a job in a desolate industrial nightmare called Widnes , then Lancashire, now Cheshire. However, for the first time, certainly since her father’s death, perhaps in her entire life, Sally was living in a house in which she was not a tenant. Moreover, although small, it was detached and had gardens at both front and back. Sally considered that, at last, she was moving up in the world. Although not a natural gardener, she took an interest in growing flowers, and had a particular fondness for gladioli and Michaelmas daisies. With considerable labouring support from her family, the two gardens gradually took shape. Sally soon showed a preference for flower arranging over maintaining a large garden, but I was interested to see that, in her final house, she had turned a dingy back yard into a delightful green oasis.

Sally and John's house in Chester
Chester is a provincial town, where things tend to remain the same. Sally was not a provincial person, content with her lot, enjoying quiet relationships. She preferred intense relationships, and racier, cosmopolitan city life. No doubt feeling constrained, at the beginning of the 1970s Sally decided to learn to drive a car. Although petrol was then very much cheaper in real terms than it is now, the cost of buying and running a car was not really an affordable option, but as she had a little income from her part-time jobs Sally felt determined. Sally was not a natural driver, but she persevered. Once she had passed her driving test, Sally was determined to get out and explore North Wales, and she often took her four children and pet dog, but rarely John, to places such as Moel Famau. She also loved visiting formal gardens, such as those belonging to stately homes. Over the years, although forever constrained by poor personal finances, Sally’s taste for adventure included trips to the Netherlands, France, Portugal, and in 2011 on an Atlantic Coast cruise and in 2014 on a Nordic cruise.

Sally (right) with a friend on board a cruise ship
Sally on board a cruise ship


Ithaka by Constantine Kavafy

As you set out for Ithaka
hope your road is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of them:
you’ll never find things like that on your way
as long as you keep your thoughts raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians, Cyclops,
wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter them
unless you bring them along inside your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front of you.

Hope your road is a long one.
May there be many summer mornings when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you enter harbours you’re seeing for the first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind -
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to learn and go on learning from their scholars.

Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you’re destined for.
But don’t hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you’re old by the time you reach the island,
wealthy with all you’ve gained on the way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.

Ithaka gave you the marvellous journey.
Without her you wouldn't have set out.
She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full of experience,
you’ll have understood by then what these Ithakas mean.

On relocating to Chester, Sally not only had her hands full with two young sons and a baby daughter, but she was also completely removed her from any possibility of support by her mother, mother-in-law or friends, all of whom lived in or not far from London. Not having any siblings, nor experienced many childhood friends, Sally was a long way out of her depth as a mother. As a consequence, I had already manifested some quite troubled behaviour that ought to have rung alarm bells. This dislocation of Sally’s support had several serious consequences for her. Wisely, she started to grow a new support network, first through the Young Wives group of the local Anglican parish church (although her religious faith, such as it was, was very far from conventional), and subsequently through parents’ groups at the schools attended by me and my siblings. This is how she came to meet Margaret Townsend, who became a regular ‘listening ear’, a role taken over and continued by Margaret’s husband, Geoffrey, when Margaret died some years ago; and Joan Flood, with whom Sally also remained in contact. Second, Sally was prescribed tranquilisers that she continued to take for many years. Third, to add to her near-lifelong addiction to nicotine, Sally began drinking spirits more regularly and more heavily. Fourth, in 1968 she attempted to revive a past romantic relationship in north London, a choice that created additional tension with John. Fifth, Sally made several serious attempts to end her life. Clearly, the picture I am painting is of a troubled and unhappy woman. I am unclear why her unhappiness was not medically diagnosed as a condition that required a good deal more attention.

The arrival of my second sister, Rachel, in 1971, was unexpected, and although a joy to us all, placed the family finances under additional strain. John took a second, evening job, in a bar, distancing him further from the family. Sally also expressed considerable discomfort about the top-up fees being paid to educate three of her children in semi-independent schools. Things went from bad to worse when John was made redundant in 1975. Sally’s family life began to fragment.

Sally and John's house in St. Albans
As before, when things were bad, a relocation and new start were proposed, this time back in south east England. John managed to secure a job in Palmer’s Green, and together John and Sally bought a house in St. Albans, Hertfordshire in 1976. However, this was to be their last house together, and by 1979 they were divorced. Sally was already in another relationship when she bought a house in Garston, a suburb of Watford, Hertfordshire the following year. Rod Case was an ambulance driver, not a pen-pusher, and a hard drinker. His fluctuations in mood and temper matched those of Sally. For reasons that I do not understand she respected his aggression and occasional violence. They [relocated to Nottinghamshire in the 1980s, and] married in 1995, and Sally remained with Rod until his death in 2006.

Sally and Rod Case on their wedding day

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the tension within Sally was always present: feeling pulled between a need for drama in her relationships against the need for stability. When life became too ‘dramatic’ with Rod, Sally would seek solace with her friend Collin Dennison who was a much quieter person, and of whom, I am informed, Sally was extremely fond for 35 years. Collin sadly died at the start of June this year, an event that may have propelled Sally even further into drowning herself in bottles of vodka, an assault with which her internal organs were unable to cope. [Sally died on the morning of Tuesday 30 June 2015 with Tony and Andy at her hospital bedside.] 

from Macbeth by William Shakespeare

Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,
To the last syllable of recorded time;
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

For me, the elephant in the room is that over a period of years, three of Sally’s children, including me, chose to sever all contact with her. Few people who experienced Sally will be in any doubt that she was a person with whom it was challenging to remain in relationship. Indeed, it was always Sally who challenged the relationship. For sure she could be charming, but there was frequently a sting in the tail. Decades of working as a therapeutic counsellor convinces me that, from the onset of her adult life, Sally ought to have been diagnosed with, and treated for, borderline personality disorder. Had she received the right treatment, I believe that Sally’s life could have been less tortured for her and less of a trial for others. The drama and tragedy of her life did often elicit some of the best in other people, acting out of compassion for her. I am especially grateful that several people, both around Nottingham, particularly Tony Nelson and Andy, but also Beryl, Steve and Carol, plus some further afield, have felt able to support Sally over these many years when I have been unable to do so. Despite living the best part of a thousand miles away, my brother Carl, and his family, maintained an unbroken link with Sally, whereas I could not.

Sally with a friend

Sally was a person I shall remember as having an appetite for drama, whether on the movie screen or in real life. For all that her words were often mired in clay, she was also a romantic, loving musicals and happy endings. Much like any girl of 14, standing on the threshold of life, it is as though Sally felt pulled in two directions. On the one hand she was attracted to drama and adventure, but found the dramatic and adventurous emotionally demanding, and it was hard for her to cope with the consequences; on the other hand she yearned for the safety and security of an idealised family life, but found it equally difficult to cope with the prosaic reality.

Sally with unknown infant

There are several short but meaningful passages in the funeral programme. I should like to close with one of them: Water-lilies by A.A. Milne. It was a personal favourite of Sally Cooper, the girl.

Water-lilies by A.A. Milne

Where the water-lilies go
To and fro,
Rocking in the ripples of the water,
Lazy on a leaf lies the Lake King's daughter,
And the faint winds shake her.
Who will come and take her?
I will! I will!
Keep still! Keep still!
Sleeping on a leaf lies the Lake King's daughter. . . .
Then the wind comes skipping
To the lilies on the water;
And the kind winds wake her.
Now who will take her?
With a laugh she is slipping
Through the lilies on the water.
Wait! Wait!
Too late, too late!
Only the water-lilies go
To and fro,
Dipping, dipping,
To the ripples of the water.

Let us now spend a few minutes in silence, remembering the life of Sally in the context of what we have heard, and reflecting on the meanings we give to her life and how she lived it. If you pray, this could also be a time when you might wish to do so.

[Five minutes of silence]

My brother Carl wishes to say a few words ...

...

The funeral closed with In Paradisum, from Fauré's Requiem.