outside – in the Country Park

The country park is also a nature reserve that spreads itself over the cliffs to the east of Hastings and further along the coast to Fairlight and Pett. It’s good to escape the town in the early morning and explore and stroll freely before the dog walkers arrive. This environment combines heath, grass and woodland in well balanced amounts, all battered by strong, salt laden winds, mostly westerlies. I liked both images of the town nestling between the two cliffs and really couldn’t choose one or the other  . . .

. . .  seats are placed to take in views of all aspects. This very grainy image into bright 9 o’clock sun taken from the favourite bench offers a glimpse of leisure craft and fishing boats and containers mingling together – they’ve all been out for hours!.

The footpaths are disappearing now under the rampant  growth that happens with a sunny summer with spasms of  useful rain. Brambles are just fruiting up nicely and in fact I picked a blackberry this afternoon.

Water flows through the glynes down to the sea. At this point, the way down to the beach is via a rope  – about 4m long – well secured to the sandstone rock.

Ecclesbourne Meadow is part of a restoration project to prevent the encroaching growth of scrub and bramble but, also, the detrimental effects of modern intensive farming techniques.  Areas of insect friendly wild flower planting is marked off with mown paths offering close engagement for walkers – these areas are also carefully managed by grazing.

Ecclesbourne Glen is the home of ash and scrub oak – with contorted sculptural branches –  bracken and now, epilobium. Pools of shadow envelop the wooded landscape that spills down directly to the town.

The beach belongs

to me. A dark tide

stretching the moon.

Waves splutter

“The beach is ours.

It saves us when

our waters break.”

Pebbles shriek

“We are the beach.

You pound on us

with energy rude

and swell subdued.”

God coughs politely.

“I think you’ll find

the beach is mine.

I share the sea, the sea

with one whose mind

was breached.”  Pam Hughes  The Beach (for Iris Murdoch)

‘tracks, prints and paths’ ravilious

‘Tracks, prints and paths’ is a phrase used by Robert Macfarlane describing Eric Ravilious’ interaction with the South Downs in Macfarlane’s book ‘The Old Ways’ but James Russell is the recognised authoritative voice on Ravilious. Many images from Ravilious in Pictures published by The Mainstone Press are appearing on the web just now so I thought to put together my limited narrative of the Footsteps of Ravilious day exploring the South Downs landscape that inspired him. An event organised by the Towner, where many of his watercolour drawings are in the permanent collection.

Agricultural landscapes were his love . . . . .  and appropriately we started our day at East Dean Farm sitting by the pond that he used as subject matter. This view sets the scene well although now quite gentrified (someone has ‘lined’ the pond) and the farm is now used as a wedding venue as well as a rare breeds sheep farm.

On to the chalk cliffs of Newhaven harbour and the west pier, where the tumps in the landscape (shown below) were made to house lunette batteries that protected the sea defences from invasion by Napoleon.

My view out to sea and, below  ‘Newhaven Harbour’ a lithograph that Ravilious tagged as ‘Hommage to Seurat’.

We follow the line of the Ouse to the north and start the slow climb up Itford Hill carpeted in cowslips . . .

. . and reach the view of Muggery Poke, now abandoned, but a landmark for those who wish to fly . . . and float. All the four legs remain oblivious.

Ravilious experienced a busier use of the agricultural landscape. Mount Caborn in the distance.

Looking down from Bedingham Hill, signs remain of the old chalk pits and Cement Works no 2 that closed in 1968. Barges travelled up and down the Ouse carrying cement. Eventually this became a landfill site  – the black pipes that release the methane are still visible before the gorse and scrubby hawthorn reclaim the area. Ravilious made some studies of the pits, the workings  and the railway.

The sinuous path of the Ouse is quite beautiful . . .

. . .  as is the river Cuckmere in Cuckmere Haven – watercolour by Ravilious.  We drop down passing  Coombe Barn and The Lay turning up the track where the fever wagons were placed. And arrive at Furlongs, the home of Peggy Angus, but owned by a Mr Wilson who managed the cement works. Angus and Ravilious were great friends and she remains an important figure in circle of artists and craft makers here at this time. Furlongs was the gathering point.

Ravilious considered that what he discovered during spells at Furlongs was fundamental : “…altered my whole outlook and way of painting, I think because the colour of the landscape was so lovely and the design so beautifully obvious … that I simply had to abandon my tinted drawings”.

One water wheel is still in-situ by Little Dean . . .

. . on to Firle where the lilac blooms were just breaking forth. And into the walled garden where plastic sheeting has replaced the green house glass. Military canes at the ready to support tomatoes and the almost exact point from where Ravilious made his composition for ‘The Greenhouse: Cyclamen and Tomatoes’.

As the exploration came to an end, I thought about the changes in the landscape 80 years on since Ravilious had captured and executed his visions. A good deal of the South Downs is a National park and there are 37 Sites of Special Scientific Interest. This wikipedia link is helpful in understanding the changes in agricultural practice here. And to close, this front garden of one of the village cottages packed with aquilegia and bluebells retains a sense of the past – cottage gardens are back in fashion.

Now a little bit of nostalgia. Below is a water colour drawing by Edward Bawden of his friend ‘The Boy’, Eric Ravilious in his Studio at Radcliffe Road’. They became friends meeting at the Royal College. Bawden, John Nash and Philip Ardizzone taught me at Colchester School of Art.  Edward and John Nash, both small in stature, were impeccably dressed  in tweed suits with waistcoats and perfectly knotted ties. I’m afraid we students were not dressed in a similar manner, after all it was the late 60’s  . . . flares and mini skirts. They would spend quite a while just giggling at private jokes – a sweet pair. I’m embarassed to say that we didn’t really know who these talented tutors were but we did respect and appreciate the knowledge that they imparted and their sense of civility. Bawden taught me to carve perfect circles with a lino cutter but mine were never up to his standard!

This post has connections with Ravilious too. And invaluable reading: ‘Eric Ravilious Memoir of an Artist’ – Helen Binyon and ‘Eric Ravilious Imagined Realities’ – Alan Powers.

A sulky lad scuffs idly through the scree

head down beneath a kite cart-wheeling sky.

Daedalus seals his art to set him free,

pinions fulmar feathers waxed and dry

onto the golden shoulders of his son.

‘Swoop down too low, the sea will drown your wings.

The great sun which fires my tears and stings

Your eyes’, Icarus stumble into flight,

Stretching his wings through a May soaring day,

Higher and higher from his father’s sight.

He reaches for heaven; suns flame his way.

Feathered keenings close a reckless flight.

A falling lullaby of dripping light. Pam Hughes Rite of Passage.

may day and a man

Today, May 1st, a walk beckoned to loosen up stiff limbs from days sitting in cars, sitting at desks, sitting doing drawings on screen, sitting . . . although a session of  stretching in a yoga class was helpful last night.  A walk to the The Long Man at Wilmington was an attractive idea that quickly evolved into a necessity.  This man is a landmark clearly visible from the road and the train that connects Eastbourne to Brighton. He’s also called the Giant and the Green Man and, is thought to be from the Iron Age or neolithic period, but is most likely 16th or 17th C.  On the journey from the village  to the point where the visitor can climb up gradually to his feet, he plays the game of hiding and then being revealed.

Eric Ravilious painted this view in water colours at the start of the 2nd war. Interesting to read his fascination with chalk figures.

At  70m in length, so the height of 40 men, but with no visible baggage. Is he a eunuch? I’m afraid I got a little bored with him especially on discovering that he isn’t made from chalk at all but from concrete blocks  . . .  .   and turned to look about to the surrounding views but thought how lucky he is to see these views all of the time.

Stunning wind swept hawthorns litter the Downs here and reminded me of a painting by Harold Mockford,  ‘Asleep on the Downs’, which is the last thing I see at night and the first thing I see in the morning.

Primroses and wild violets carpet the tufty grassy surface we walk on and skylarks swoop in pairs above our heads . . .

. . . .  towards Newhaven, where Harold  lives, a rather interesting pincer movement of landscape features swirl around the rising land and,  just turning to Birling Gap, the White Horse becomes visible.

Tumuli and chalk pits provide the ups and the downs of this landscape occupied by the ‘locals’ .

Before the crops fully vegetate, the strong echoing lines of the machine rolling over the landscape are still visible . . . .

. .  chalk and flint, the indigenous materials of  The Sussex Downs.

When I walk up on the downs

I think of things you nearly said.

Skylarks broke through the cloudless skies,

bristly oxtongue snared my boots.

I’m sorry that I went away.

 In the grass which we had flattened

purple clover kissed wild thyme.

I looked at you. You had not spoken

chalk and wind and sea blown words.

Untroubled plantain gazed at us,

salad burnet, hurt, eyebright.

We could make it work this time.

 Only mouse-ears heard the things,

high on the downs, you early said. Pam Hughes. Whispers

the severe weather came unexpectedly to the corporate landscape

Meeting up in the coldest place in the city, we shuffled about stamping feet, banging our arms across our bodies and trying to be brave. We’d forgotten how to deal with the cold and needed time to rehearse. Hay’s Galleria can be the most inhospitable meeting point, not only because it’s a wind tunnel but also because the clear circulation and desire lines are destroyed by the loathsome sculpture plonked in the main concourse – my opinion of course.

Across the river, the panorama of ‘new’ London at this point looks like a dog’s dinner – an architectural mess of geometric shapes, materials and lumpen forms. Sad and I’m still cold and grumpy! At More London, the intention is clear but the choice of the only living organism planted here within the urban mix is poor. Poor red oaks need taking off to a nursing home for recuperation or perhaps kinder to axe them now. The trees are slowly dying – planting is too close, little water can percolate to the rootball and underground services are seen to be more important than the trees but . . .

. . . beautiful colours today – bright sun, blue skies and the warmth of the autumn leaves helped mind over matter. Need to look at the positive issues. We have a beautiful city. Groups of tourists and visitors and inhabitants bustle around involved in their many languages . . . .

. . . fine details can be experienced as well as ‘in yer face’ items. We were here last year.

Plenty of delicate textures too, relieve the impact of the deadening effect of the corporate built environment . . .

. . . hurrah for the urban designers and plants people who make a difference and warm our souls and hope here for these red oaks in a better position by Potters Field.

Here I hang. I cut myself

apart for you with knowing

tenderness. Shoulders,

legs, spare ribs and spleen.

Liver gleaming in a dish,

Set out neatly for the crowd.

Look at my last gift to you.

Blood and sweetbread.

Nothing new. Pam Hughes  Ecce Home

texture – colour – weight – narrative – nature – intimate – shadows

art gallery – shop – discreet – space – light – colour. A few words noted whilst waiting in the lobby. The lift in the Towner Gallery  – try it out  – is a good experience. When you exit on the 2nd floor, this is the view to the west. A sky that resonates with me. Resonates as has a feeling of some skies painted by Harold Mockford.

What to say about this exhibition? Excellently hung and fulsome. What to say about the work? Words are just meaningless and images from the web are also unsatisfactory so my thought was to include poems by Pam Hughes ‘reflecting the friendship and mutual inspiration that they have taken from the Sussex landscape’ (Shadows on the Downs).  Harold paints from memory and, I believe, that’s the spark. By inviting the viewer to be involved as a bystander in the composition it’s possible to engage with his imagination. He’s good at green too which is rare.    

   

A few images to follow that were not in the exhibition. Below ‘Refugees’ . . .

Cast a way, a drift, a shadow,

die and death, a part, a light.

An eye, a vote, a shoe upon

the path I fled in mud strewn fright.

 Lullaby the watchful spirits,

etch your name inside my heart.

Scramble through the goats’ hooved

spiked tussocks. Melt the past

with tears through karst.

 Summer draws all memories from me

as my thoughts stretch into words.

Unravelled by a gentle touch,

a word, a smell, I make a map

 from buried fragments. Plunge

into flaming collage, searching

words and tastes and sound.

Anything that will remember

you and me for ever bound     Pam Hughes  Song of a Refugee (for Anne Michaels)

Fallen Angel above and Asleep on the Downs below.  Note the sky. The only reason that I regret not being in the UK now  is not being able to revisit and revisit. A few words noted whilst waiting in the lobby:  texture – colour – weight – narrative – nature – intimate – shadows.

When I walk up on the downs

I think of things you nearly said.

 Skylarks broke through the cloudless skies,

bristly oxtongue snared my boots.

I’m sorry that I went away.

In the grass which we had flattened

purple clover kissed wild thyme.

I looked at you. You had not spoken

chalk and wind and sea-blown worlds.

 Untroubled plantain gazed at us,

salad burnet, hurt, eyebright.

We could make it work this time.

Only mouse-ears heard the things,

high on the downs, you nearly said.  Pam Hughes  Whispers

being a tourist

Friday, in Béziers, means stalls along the Allées Paul –Riquet offering flowers and plants for inside and out. The 19 C theatre sits at the elevated north end – pretty.

If you purchase some stems, branches, pots then you can choose complimentary ribbon as part of the packaging.

On offer are plugs of vegetables ready for autumn planting such as brussels sprouts which have become rather ‘the thing’  . . . .

. . and varieties of salad attractively displayed. There’s another great market in Place David-d’Angers on Friday mornings but don’t spread it around!  Wandering around the narrow streets, decorative compositions offer themselves up for a shot . . .

. . . .   a roof revamp that looks like lace . . .

. . .  and something tiny watching the caged birds on the balcony opposite. A little out of focus but worthy  . . .

. . .   around Cathedrale St-Nazaire, there’s good use of Caisse de Versailles to denote spatial areas. Well scaled and not looking too much like plastic although they are of course. Town’s busying up so straight off to the beach at  Sérignan where the salt marsh is erupting into a vision of mauve . . .

. .  limonium and scirpus and something that looks like a yellow flowering samphire.

Beach and sea pretty perfect and just a short amusing piece by Pam Hughes.

I carry a bag

Brie, rillettes, saucisson sec,

I sing. You glower. Pam Hughes  Dieppe Shopping