we drive through the drizzle south-west ... the traffic is light in our direction, but already there are queues heading east ... we weave our way through Wadebridge, onto Trebetherick, deep lanes and to Daymer beach ... and the footpath to St Enedoc ...
I cant quite describe the excitement I feel as we walk past genteel houses, ancient trees and gorse and there, in the midst of the golf course, the spire of St Enedoc ...
the golfers seem unaware ... no retired majors and colonels, but rather van-drivers and financial advisors lashing ball from tee to hole, while girlfriends swap tales of masculine inadequacies in some beachside bar ...
we walk past them all, the closer I come the more I realise that this is my goal, the reason for this trip ... the blue jugs are an interesting addition but emotionally this is why I am here, to be in the place that Betjeman loved, the place where he died, the place where he is buried ...
as an archaeologist I am fascinated by the ritual of death, as an artist by the emotion of death and memory ... St Enodoc addresses both of my fascinations and being in the space occupied by Betjeman is in a strange way almost overwhelming and very difficult to rationalise ... I hadnt realised the personal emotions that this would release ...
as we are photographing the place a group of adults, children and dogs arrive .... I stand back and let them occupy the spce around the headstone ... Benedict takes a candid picture ...
we go into the church and I read one of Betjeman's poems, Trebetherick ...
when we come out, the group is still ating heir picnic, so Benedict goes and tells them he has taken their picture and if they email him he will send them a copy ...
the children read Benedicts dyslexic card with incredulity ...Coriander ... "Oh Coriander should have been dead two weeks ago" ... Coriander their elderly aggresive dog runs off to savage a spaniel ... Louis has disappeared, and we discover him later making his way across the golf course, looking hopefully over his shoulder for pursuing parents ... the camera draws admiring words ..."Oh yaaa ... Nettaaaar" ... its a long while since I encountered the upper middle class on holiday ...
so there it is the goal achieved, and it arrives all too soon in the journey ...
we eat a pasty and have a coffee overlooking the estuary ... we scope out the route ahead and then we head on ... we flirt with St Ives but end up in Zennor ... its a tough life, but someone has to do it ...
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