Into each life some rain must fall*

A Welsh interlude with unexpected encounters

Welsh rain...The rain is like a separate element. A man can lose himself in it as if lost by a fog. It flies, abetted by its companion the wind, to the left and to the right. It even blows upward over the edges of high places. It runs round corners with the wind. It finds its way up your sleeves and down your neck. H. V. Morton "In Search of Wales"(1932)**

The Grey Squirrel improvises to provide shelter against the deluge

The blue -tits are always appreciative

I had such plans. Late Spring in a lush green valley would bring bouncing lambs in soft sunlight: I would sit on Llangattock Escarpment, amid the wild thyme and cuckoo flowers, looking down over the grand sweep of the Usk valley, with the Black Mountains beyond, perched with my paints spread about me, drawing and painting all day long. A whole week of bliss.

But alas it was not to be. I arrived just as Storm Kathleen did her worst and each day the forecast dashed all hopes of venturing forth. The rain was relentless. Each day the forecast promised a reprieve, only to disappoint as I walked up the hillside with my drawing kit, to be soaked again.

The chaffinch looks on in disgust

In my last visit in October, there were days of rain too, but not like this. And if anyone else says, “Well, what do you expect, it is Wales…”, I might not be responsible for my actions. My forthcoming visit had shone ahead, and having visited for the last three Springs, my hopes were not unwarranted, and I suspect that is why my disappointment was so affecting.

But many of my usual companions were there to greet me, which did bring cheer. I always visit armed with a bag of bird food, first sprinkling it next to the bank vole’s residence in the drystone wall, and on the stone table for the nuthatch, chaffinches and robin and, of course the squirrels, and I watch and wait.

The poor blue-tit waits

My rucksack, stuffed to the gunnels, with art materials, remained mostly untouched, (though I snatched some tiny sketches) until the last day, when I went up to that hillside on a promise that it would be dry (it wasn’t) and took out my drawing board and continued through the mizzle. Llangattock Escarpment, is an unearthly landscape, where nature has cloaked the spoil heaps of a long ago abandoned quarry, into strange green conicals. Ravens cronk overhead, red kites drift along and wheatears flit among the rocks.

I perched myself by the remains of a lime kiln, the walls now studded with tiny ferns. Even on this drear day, there was the sense of peace that I had been hoping for all week. I became absorbed in this remnant of Welsh industrial history, with the oak emerging from the cracked bricks, fanning out against the inky sky. As I sat, the first cuckoo of the Spring called, and my heart filled with gladness. I could not have wished for a more fitting end to my week.

“The day the cuckoo came” Mixed Media on paper

But it was not quite over yet. I decided to take a detour on the way home to Compton Verney, after seeing a review by Laura Cumming, of an exhibition being held there called, “Landscape and Imagination.” How could I resist?

It was my first visit to this grand Georgian mansion, now a stunning art gallery, and I couldn’t have had a better introduction. I confess that since Covid I have felt anxious and uncomfortable in crowded situations and visits to London have been forestalled. As a consequence, my experiences of seeing art again in the flesh, have been few and I had forgotten the thrill of seeing paintings in a gallery setting. Here it was quiet and spacious and I walked around this glorious exhibition brimful of joy. If I could have summoned up the perfect exhibition to visit after such a long hiatus this would have been it.

There was a late work by Samuel Palmer, The Villa D’Este, where we are told it was so chilly he had to wear his wife’s petticoat, and two mackintoshes, to keep warm. There was Canaletto’s “Grand Walk, Vauxhall Gardens” where we glimpse the fashionable and decadent strolling along the boulevard - if I could slip back in time for an evening, this is where I would go. There is nothing to compare with seeing a painting in the flesh, you feel so close to the artist, sense their presence and see the magic of how these sumptious figures in satins and silks are conveyed in such a few deft brushstrokes.

But there were two paintings that were very happy discoveries. The first was “The Annunciation” by John Shelley (1938 - 2020), who reminded me of the ruralist David Inshaw. Shelley shares the myticism of Stanley Spencer in seeing the English countryside as a form of paradise. I loved the bindweed weaving its way with white campion, in the foreground, and how the clouds echo the bulging domes of topiary.

The Annunciation, John Shelley Oil on board Copyright the artist’s estate The Tate Gallery

I realised that I had also missed drawing in a gallery. Carrying a little sketchbook and making a rapid drawing of the forms and composition help you notice and appreciate details that you might otherwise have missed. You can just take a photo on your phone, but drawing helps you connect to the work and see it more intently.

I discovered this in looking at Stanley Spencer’s “Bellrope Meadow”, a Cookham garden filled with the profusion of late summer asters, tied up to contain their volume, but oddly the border is edged by barbed wire, giving a strange sense of menace to this paradise.

Detail of “Bellrope Meadow, Cookham”, Stanley Spencer © Rochdale Arts & Heritage Service.

While sitting drawing Constable’s “Golding Constable’s Flower Garden”, a voice broke through asking the guide if he knew where the Palmer was. This caused some confusion and so I decided to pipe up by sharing where it was. The gentleman looked surprised and came to sit down next to me. “Do you like Palmer? I have an etching of his at home, along with a small Rembrandt”. I was a bit bewildered, but he continued. “ I grew up as the only child of a head gardener and kitchen maid on an estate such as this, and the owners, having no children of their own left me 400 works. I am only now just realising quite what they are”. He went on to ask about my drawing, then wandered on to Thomas Hardy, whose sister had lived near him, and how his friend used to go to John Piper’s house for tea. It was the most extraordinary encounter and the most perfect end to a week full of surprises.

Something to listen to

I listened to lots of podcasts on the long journey there and back , but these two rise to the surface. I still miss Kirsty Young on “Desert Island Discs,” she is a peerless interviewer: warm, fearless, honest, and her interview with Philip Pullman on “Young Again” elicts the best of her. It is a rich conversation, so good I listened twice. Her interview with Peter Capaldi is also fascinating - but I should heed a warning, he goes “full Malcolm Tucker.”

"Inspiration is a reward for hardwork, not a necessary starting point" - Philip Pullman

I must also mention the Private Passions episode with Neil Hannon, of the Divine Comedy, whose musical choices had me cheering in agreement.

Something to watch

The Assembly - just in case you missed this, this interview by a group of neuro-divergent people, is the most joyful thing I have seen. What a lovely man Michael Sheen is. I defy you not to shed a tear…

Sian Philips at 90 - I discovered this in the i-Player archives. What a remarkable woman.

Something to read

“Rain - Four Walks in English Weather”, a favourite exploration by Melissa Harrison. You can find her here in Witness Marks

*The Inkspots

**quoted in the wonderful anthology by Alice Thomas Ellis, “Wales”.

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