A Hampshire Diary (1)

January 1989

In my late twenties I worked for two years (1987-89) as a research and editorial assistant to the historian Jeremy Wilson, then grappling with the last stages of his great authorised biography of T. E. Lawrence. Lately, for reasons I do not wholly understand, I have found my mind circling back repeatedly to this interlude, which now seems to mark the end of youth: after almost 40 years, the episode has the oddness and intensity of a dream.

This may owe something to the work, which was all-absorbing if sometimes a grim slog; but other factors certainly came into it. Throughout this time I lived a strangely cut-off, almost monastic existence in the depths of rural Hampshire: lodging at an old cottage in the feudal village of Breamore, with its Jacobean mansion and tiny Saxon church; and walking the two or three miles daily to work at Woodgreen, an even smaller place on the edge of the New Forest. As I knew no one and had no transport, long walks on the downs or into the forest became my chief form of solace.

I also kept a detailed diary, some at least of which seems worth sharing. Here — over six or seven posts — are a series of entries from the last months of the project, when the struggle to complete the book became most intense and fraught. (Many private matters have been omitted, and the identity of private persons has generally been disguised.)

The 1989 diary begins in the depths of winter, during a New Year break at my parents’ house in Somerset . . .

---

Wednesday 4 January

Yeovil/Montacute

Much brighter, though still cold. For the sake of getting out, tramped through back lanes to Montacute – at first quite busy, but the old feeling of remoteness once you get past the turning to Thorne. Montacute village mellow in winter sunshine, under the aegis of its queer conical holy wooded hill. The path up slippery with mud, but struggled to the top and then climbed the tower, to get the view across the plain. Popped into the church, where I prayed so memorably that day (and fat good it has done me). Lunch and a pint in the Phelips Arms and then the slow plod home . . .

Jeremy rang later: his plan is to go to the PRO on Monday and then straight to Cambridge on the Tuesday – so I need to find somewhere to stay in London, if I can (Simon B?).

Friday 6

Yeovil/Sherborne

A fine bright morning so town – and then the little bus to Sherborne. Browsed the bookshops in Cheap Street and sat quietly in the Abbey, ‘the light there almost solid’. Lunch in the church house. Finally to the classical music shop on Greenhill and came away with L’Enfance du Christ and chants etc by St Hildegard (A Feather on the Breath of God).

Later a very strange Arena documentary about various odd characters in Barcelona – including an artist who makes sculptures out of human hair.

Sunday 8

Yeovil/Salisbury/Breamore

Lazy morning then roast lunch. Finished packing but struggling to get all my Christmas loot etc in two bags. Train from the Junction at 5, then the problem of getting both heavy bags across Salisbury in rainy dark; caught the last (6.30) bus by a whisker, feeling quite done in. The same story in Breamore, hauling luggage up the unlighted puddled lane to the cottage . . .

Saw Sam H. [landlady], who was friendly – but my room full of junk and lumber from their Christmas. Also very cold.

Monday 9

Breamore/London

Jeremy picked me up at 8.30 and so to London by the usual route (Stockbridge and M3); he talked mostly about the exhibition [National Portrait Gallery Lawrence exhibition, 1988-89], which has been a great success . . . We got to Richmond and the PRO sometime after 10: I ploughed through the files on Anglo-French relations 1917-18 but there was nothing of great interest today Lunch then more of the same till 5.

J. was staying at Leah’s [J’s elderly sometime research assistant] so dropped me at East Putney tube, after a short drive though North Sheen etc looking almost preternaturally dreary in the rain. From here about half an hour to Charing Cross. As some time to kill, strolled over Hungerford Bridge to the South Bank, with the Thames looking quite magical by night – even the nastiest buildings transfigured. A pleasant half-hour in the RFH bookshop – but the lavs full of the most alarming dossers, one quite openly injecting. Wandered back across the river and along Whitehall to Smith Square, where I met Simon [old college friend] on the steps of no. 32 aka the Epicentre of Evil aka Conservative Central Office. We took the Tube to Tower Gateway, then the new Docklands Light Railway – entirely automated – across Limehouse and into the Isle of Dogs: the old docks making pools of deeper darkness within the enveloping night. Simon’s new place at the far end of the line, in Island Gardens. We talked about his job and my job, mutual friends, modern art and architecture etc. . . .

Tuesday 10

London/Cambridge/Breamore

No call from Jeremy, who was supposed to pick me up at Putney or similar – I suppose he has lost the number? Decided there was nothing for it but to make my own way by rail, so left early and onto the Cambridge train at Kings Cross, arriving after 10. Taxi straight to Churchill College, so again saw nothing of the city. Found JMW and we just sat and worked through the Churchill papers until lunch, at a Berni Inn on the main road also called The Churchill. More of the same until 5-ish, then a dreadful journey back in the dark via M11 and M25 – hold-up after hold-up. Not home until 9.

Thursday 19

Breamore/Woodgreen

A quite miraculous uncanny frost: partridges skittering in the lane, a dead fox stiff and blanched, cold mists swilling on the river . . . Found J. copying documents: he also showed me letters from Anne Williamson (Tarka guy’s executor), the son of Major Young, and some old chap expressing his delight in the NPG catalogue – well I should think so, after our struggle to get that together! Endnotes for Chs. 12 –13 today – this is really taking some time. J. got very tetchy again in the afternoon – the diet I suppose – and insisted on working till 6.45: no lift back so 40 minutes’ plod via freezing pitch-black lanes.

Friday 20

Breamore/Woodgreen/Salisbury/Yeovil

Dark and drizzly. Worked to the end of Ch. 13 . . . but J seemed preoccupied with the idea of publishing the TEL–Henry Williamson correspondence, saying that Anne W.’s letter had given him the perfect excuse . . . We worked on till 6, when I insisted on leaving to get my bus and train. A damp walk back to the cottage, bustled in and out with bags, then waved my torch wildly to flag down the 7 o’clock bus — my only lifeline. Dad met me at the Junction 8.40 then home for food and wine . . .

Sunday 22

Yeovil/Salisbury/Breamore

Bright but cold. A gorgeous beef joint at lunch: talked in more detail about my work and found myself grousing rather, then wondering if I was being fair. Indeed, it’s hard to know how happy or unhappy I should be at the moment: the work is often interesting, but the main problem is seeing nobody much save JMW, who for all his great merits . . . The rural isolation also difficult, especially at this time of year when you can’t even get out and walk. A sleepy afternoon then train from the Junction c. 5 (just in the light). Made a plain omelette then more or less straight to bed. Feeling a bit dejected to be back: life seems to have shrunk.

The bridleway a mess of mud, but pressed on to Gallows Hill and the banks of Grim’s Ditch, with long views across the downs . . . A couple of roe deer went plunging across the fields and I was able to watch them until they became blips on the horizon. Frost lingering in the hollows but elsewhere the first hints of spring. For ten minutes watched the sun setting behind a tree full of noisy birds – and striking a cold fire from the flints on the hill.

Saturday 28

Breamore/Salisbury

Up and packed a bag with the intention of getting to Bath – really just for a change – but then noticed the fine rain and decided to leave it an hour. After which it was raining harder. So in the end stayed around the house till 1 then bus to Salisbury to have my usual mooch around the shops. A silly incident on the bus. For some reason my ticket snagged in the machine, leaving me without the part I needed for my return. At the next stop I walked down the bus to speak to the driver, who was busy flirting with a couple of girls in the front seats; he retrieved the rest of the ticket, but did so in a surly mocking way that made me feel that I was costing him a world of trouble. This in front of the girls, who laughed obsequiously. I hardly know why I mention this, except that I ought to have grown out of feeling self-conscious about such things – and I clearly haven’t. After that a fairly pointless maunder around the shops, feeling seedy and slightly ill. Bought some calamari, just because I’ve never tried it – hey-ho, live dangerously, that’s my motto! A quiet slobby evening with the paper and the radio: not to mention the bottle.

Sunday 29

Breamore/Wick Down

Misty at first, with a deep frost, but later becoming gloriously bright. Still feeling pretty dulled so when Sam went out just slumped in front of the TV in her little room – I sat through most of the EastEnders omnibus for God’s sake! Perhaps in shock at this, forced myself out for a walk and very glad I did. Plenty of others with the same idea as I strolled through the lanes to the church, where I loitered among the graves before climbing through bare woods to the bare downs beyond. The bridleway a mess of mud, but pressed on to Gallows Hill and the banks of Grim’s Ditch, with long views across the downs in three directions. A couple of roe deer went plunging across the fields and I was able to watch them until they became blips on the horizon. Frost lingering in the hollows but elsewhere the first hints of spring: gorse in full flower and even (astonishingly!) a few open-faced dandelions. For ten minutes watched the sun setting behind a tree full of noisy birds – and striking a cold fire from the flints on the hill. Back home through the now darkening woods.

Monday 30

Breamore/Woodgreen

Frosty as I walked in, very mild later. Found J. suddenly enthused by the idea of publishing an edition of L’s wartime reports; he rang Liz C. at Heinemann, to see if they would have any objection – and it turned out predictably enough that they would. But I don’t think he has given up on the idea entirely. Worked through the Ch. 16 notes at some speed, then J. insisted that we have another go at the Preface (‘Sense and Nonsense in the Biography of T. E. Lawrence’), which he wants to use as his speech to the Portrait Gallery seminar. I don’t think we improved it much: J seemed tired and obtuse, perhaps because he is back on the ‘strict’ diet this week. Home in the cold dark. A quiet evening reading; also some very beautiful Estonian music on the radio, which for some reason made me think of dear !*!*!, for the first time in years. Hot whisky before bed.

More to come . . .