... at the house of Peter Randall-Page (2)

Charlotte has prepared a feast of fish and rice and salad ... Simon and his partner Sandra are also staying with P&C and soon we are all sat at the candlelit table in the large warm farmhouse kitchen with its aga, wooden floor, setee, wooden cupboards, two guitars are propped against the wall and the glow of good conversation ...

conversation is rightly dominated by the preparations for the exhibition ... who will be where, what needs cleaning, who will finish off polishing what, what will be packed and when will it be moved and on and on and round and round ... its amazing that Benedict and I have been welcomed into this space so focussed on and driven by this massive undertaking ...

outside the sky grows dark but the sculptors are working on ... at about 10'ish they knock off for the evening and Peter brings them in .... Charlotte quickly conjures up more food and the kitchen table soon has David Hat and Ben sat round as well ... at 11 David decides they have to go and the group breaks up and we go to bed

next morning Simon goes out and comes back with bread and milk ... we sit around the table and eat toast and drink tea ... Simon has become a local celebrity since one of his sculptures featured in a garden at the Chelsea Flower Show and he appeared on the television ... he tells the story of arriving at the shop one day in Drewsteignton to find a large police van outside and several burly policeman sat inside ... he went in and inside a policeman turns and leaves with a large box - "they come here to get their cakes" the shopkeeper explains ... and there outside in the sunshine are very large four policemen tucking into cream cakes ...

Simon, it turns out, shares my fascination with quantum mechanics - I tell him that I have decided that if you reach the point where you think you understand quantum mechanics, then you clearly do not understand quantum mechanics ... Simon appears less than convinced by my country road theory of time and space ... that time and space is like driving down a country lane at night, that the present is what you can see in the headlights but the road ahead is already there just waiting to be illuminated ... that in essence the future already exists and our interpretation, understanding and experience of the present and our concept of choice and free-will is no more than a evolutionary biological adaptation ... he is a proponent of M-Theory ...

Charlotte and I talk about children - the tough choices and problems they face, our worries, guilt and pleasures, the universal concerns of the parent ...

and then we reluctantly pack the car and leave ... Charlotte is off to visit Peter's mother, the polishing, carving, discussion continues in the hot morning sunshine, PJ and David are talking equipment and there imminent trip to YSP to install the first elements of the exhibition ... Peter is in long, deep conversation on the telephone with the YSP ... we say goodbye ...

we head to Bath for lunch with Karen and Bill, and hope to get to Gloucester before meeting up with friends in Stroud ...

... at the house of Peter Randall-Page

... and so we arrive at the house of Peter Randall-Page ...

Peter and Charlotte live in a cob-walled thatched house in the bottom of a wooded valley - a cob and stone barn acts as studio, workshop, and one side to a grassy sloping "farmyard" ... behind this Barn is another, larger more modern barn which is the centre of focused intense activity - two large pieces are being polished, others are being carved and all around lie large sculptural forms either waiting to be cleaned, waiting to be prepared for transport to the Yorkshire Sculpture Park , or palleted wrapped and ready to be trucked north ... we have arrive as Peter is preparing for a major exhibition at the YSP- it opens in 4 weeks time ...

sitting outside the office/barn there is some discussion about where we should sleep - the idea was we would sleep in the cabin in the woods, but this hasnt been prepared so instead we will stay in the farmhouse ...

we make our way through the barn/ studio where PRP is preparing a large abstract drawing and out to where the sculpture are being polished - David is in charge, Simon is on top of one of the large forms carving a detail, Ben and Hat are working on other pieces ... as we arrive, David decides it is time to wet one of he pieces and commence the next phase of polishing - he sprays the form with water and it is transformed from a dull grey to a deep soft grey black shimmering in the evening sunlight ... beautiful

Peter's mother is not well, so he is off to visit her in a nearby village ... he drops us off on the way at a pub and will collect us on his way back ...

the pub is in what feels like the middle of nowhere, low beamed ceiling wooden floor simple tables and benches ... it is full of locals and visitors people ordering meals and exchanging views .... at the bar, three awfully-well-spoken-fifty/ sixty-something-chaps are discussing the state of the sterling euro exchange rate "dont talk too loudly or Charlie will wake up and want to join in " ... Charlie, a large rotund gentleman is sitting behind them snoozing between courses ... the young barmaid tries to get him to decide what pudding he will have ... he wakes up and harrumphs like an old colonel in a Carry On film and after listening to her list the choices goes for the chocolate brownie and ice-cream ... and falls asleep again, waking quite miraculously as the bowl is placed gently on the table ...

When Peter returns to pick us up we sit outside and one of the awfully-well-spoken-fifty/ sixty-something-chaps comes out - he, too, is a John and a good friend of Peter and Charlotte ... it turns out that he cultivates old and rare hops organically... he has been disappointed with the brews that have been produced from his crop and is looking for, well, at first I am not sure what he is looking for but it turns out that Gordon (Benedict's brewmaster lodger) may be what John is looking for - a methodical, meticulous, chemistry trained, brewer - Benedict promises to put them in touch

we head back past Castle Drogo to the farm and food ...

to Torquay and Dartmoor

we say our farewells and we are off again ... Jack and Heidi are getting married in August and are having the reception at the Living Coasts cafe in Torquay ... there are directions so we use them to navigate from Totnes to Torquay ... once again we are on the free-flowing side of the road - the traffic on the other side of the road is log-jammed for two maybe three miles outside Paignton ... the blue jug gods are smiling on us once again ...

what a fine place Torquay turns out to be ... more continental than Scarbro, certainly warmer, but really not as nice

we explore the harbour, ogle the floating gin-palaces, walk up and down the main shopping street and make our way back to the cafe at Living Coasts for lunch ... we sit on the terrace looking out across a sun-drenched Torbay munching on cauliflower cheese and chips .... yumyum!

Torquay is Martin Parr territory and the lure of photographing the uniformed Hinkley Youth Marching Band, the retired and the holiday-maker baking gently in the sun is too much ... but those images are all on film so it will be some time before I can see if i have captured a gem or two ....

the non-Betjeman aim of this trip is to photograph a small selection of my collection of blue and white souvenire ware in the places that they commemorate .. I hold the object at arms length and photograph it ... while I am doing this Benedict is photographing me with his medium format Mamiya ... this is not an anonymous process ... however, what is interesting is the almost total lack of interest in what we are doing ... so far, only the three small children at Bourton-on-the-Water have approached us to ask what we are doing .. on the harbourside in Torquay although surrounded by people, no-one watches us and no-one asks us what we are doing ....

and it is the same in Princetown in the heart of Dartmoor ... we toy with the idea of setting up in front of the prison gate, but Benedict rightly suggests this would not go down too well and as we do not want to include a night in the cells on this trip, we opt for a more distant vista of the prison and Princetown ...

and then we have a cream tea ... I can feel my arteries hardening ... then to find the house and workshop of Peter Randall-Page where we will be staying tonight

the drive from Princetown takes us to the northern edge of Dartmoor and a view back north ... the trip is drawing to a close ...

... to Totnes

Polperro, wednesday morning, and outside it is raining ... steady, heavy, rain ...

inside the B&B, the breakfast is fine and delicious ... the hostess turns out to be Sybil to the "Basil" who we met last night when we booked in ... Benedict asked for a receipt, but when "Basil" couldnt find any, he cursed his wife for forgetting to print some out saying he would have to beat her later ...

however, meeting Sybil first when she comes out to supervise me parking the car, then this morning at breakfast it becomes clear what an empty threat this was ... she clearly rules the b&b with a rod of iron, exclaiming loudly "he cant even get that right" when she discovers "Basil" has written Benedict's name down incorrectly ...

Benedict, clearly unnerved at being caught in the cross-fire beat a hasty retreat and only discovers the hotel keys in his pocket when we get to Plymouth ...

we improvise a photographic session outside the hotel and set off for Plymouth where Benedict has arranged to meet up with Mike Phillips ... on the way Benedict is sent spiraling into a deep dark hole when the Inland Revenue ring him, only for the call to get cut off by O2's fantastic network coverage and then to find the IR have left the wrong number on his answermachine so he cant get back to talk to them ...

the chat with Mike helps calm Benedict down ... we meet in the state of the art building that Plymouth University has in the City Centre ... the lift has a random button - press it and it selects floor at random and goes straight there ... something, I tell Benedict later, that I bet gets used mainly when people are on their way up and not when they are going home ...

Mike is on a tight schedule of project reviews so we leave him and we mooch around down-town Plymouth - I actually like Abercrombie's Plan and many of the buildings which date from the early 50's are very fine ... unlike the 70's Civic Centre which is as bad as bad can be ...

on The Hoe, there is a rather sad, windswept gathering of garden-centre-type stalls - plants, wooden furniture, terrible wooden animals, decking, and a tiny sink piped up to a huge solar heating panel - and maudlin, bored stallholders ...

all are viewed haughtily by the Pirate Drake - we may think he is a national hero, but really he was a successful pirate who engaged in 16th century terrorist acts against the Spanish ... anyway there he stands all haughty and aloof, quite wet and appropriately manured by the seagulls ... we leave ... Totnes awaits

we arrive at the house of Benedict's friend Jack - and Heidi, Sheena and Theo - and step straight into the maelstrom of family life - i had forgotten the intensity that a 6 year old and a 2 year old bring to life ... exhausting ... I find that Theo and I have quite a lot in common and he soon masters my mobile phone ... after a lovely meal (a very low point score for you weightwatchers and brides-to-be out there) Benedict Jack and I do the manly thing and go to the pub ...

Jack enlarges upon Theo's story which Heidi had started earlier ... born at 23 weeks, survives against all the odds - he is a boy, very premature boys usually dont survive - he could be brain damaged, his lungs are damaged - a time of intense stress for the family ... Theo is famous and the centre of intense medical study, but he is also a typical two-year old - charming, frustrating, interested and interesting, boisterous and noisy - a fine lad

we sleep in the front room, eventually falling into our improvised but very comfortable beds at 1am ...

Lands End, Mousehole, Falmouth, Looe, Polperro

what a day ... we end up, exhausted in Polperro in a lovely B&B ... 1145pm, fed watered and blogging once again ...

Lands End first ... windswept but free of people perhaps we have beat them all here

Mousehole, the harbour, a rapid rain shower, children paddling trying to catch fish,

Falmouth, busy, art students with strange shoes, big ships, vegetarian breakfast for mid-afternoon lunch,

Looe, tired, weary, wondering where we will stay tonight,

Polperro, all welcoming and beautiful in the evening sun

a strange loop around this tip of the world, but fascinating, not only for the actions and the jugs, but for the landscape, sea and sky ... the sky is one minute grey and heavy with rain the next an audition for the Simpsons ...

the sea is wild and threatening at Lands End, calm and welcoming in the sheltered harbours of Polperro Falmouth and Looe ...

the west is flat and treeless, then within a few hundred metres we are plunged into deep wooded valleys ...

an awesome, awe-inspiring day that makes you feel small and insignificant ...

the evening in Polperro - without doubt the most beautiful and interesting of the places we have visited so far - restores some degree of humanity ... good food, good beer and a comfortable bed for the night ...

zennor ...

we stay in a backpackers hostel in Zennor ... clean reasonable and next to the pub ...

the pub is warm and welcoming and we watch a company of holidaymakers, walkers, cyclists and locals parade before us ... there are Germans and Londoners and goodness who-from-where-else, but it makes for an entertaining evening ...

back in the hostel we blog the night away in the company of the family groups that pass as backpackers these days ... of course I too am nowhere near what might be reasonably defined as a backpacker so who am I to cast nasturtiums at my fellow hostellers ...

we are in a dormitory of six beds, and we are the last to go to bed ... every creak and rustle of the wooden bunk and sheets seems amplified to Metallica proportions ... but no-one leaps out of bed, not even the two Germans to tell us to be quiet ... the sunburnt Englishman seems intent only on moaning gently to help distract from the pain of his roasted skin ...

next morning the Germans are away at the crack of dawn .... and we leave at 930 ... the busiest day for blue jug action lies ahead

St Enodoc ... and Sir John, at last

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 ...