Genius Loci
The spirit of the place. Those were the words that jumped into my mind when Marigold asked me to write something about Bullens Lee. Because it all starts with the house, the place. Calm and welcoming, sheltered from Pains Hill traffic by trees beside the steep driveway, the Aga the heart of the kitchen. Then, the people that made it so. Mrs. Raven and Mrs. Bradford on alternate weekdays; Eli, with a terrible cyst on the side of his face, in the garden; Mr. Horne to drive us anywhere; Rita running the kitchen, with the continuing subtext of boyfriend Alan in the background. She grumbled about Tigger peeing in the sink and had little patience with naïve and clumsy me. “Some mothers do ’ave ’em”, she would say with a hint of satisfaction. And, at the top, Sir John and Ursula, Christina and Marigold (9 and 7, I think) and Johnnie marking time at home with a speeding suspension on his licence. Those were the days — I answered an ad in The Times, and thanks to Mary, got the job after a quick interview with Ursula at the Ladies Carlton Club.
Perhaps no accident that one got there via Edenbridge. I loved all of it. Written scraps survive in the diary, disintegrating now, that I kept at the time. I must have first been hired in 1957 for mid August to the September start of the school year. I earned £3.00 a week, formally handed to me by Sir John on Fridays. I slept in the single spare room, part of the newest extension, above the garage.
1957
And came back for summer 1958.
Summer 1958
We had a gorgeous ride this morning, Poppet, Weenie and me — through the quiet, muddy, dripping woods under a rain sky and a tracery of the latest-green of the leaves.
These were our days. Bluebell, Poppet, Weenie and me on the Iron Horse exploring the Chart, the bridle paths, the woods, plaiting and polishing for lots of local pony activities. Amazing now, that there was no thought of danger, no one knew exactly where we were, no one worried, and we were always home for lunch or tea.
In memory, it seems Sir John was often at home — though he must have gone up to London on occasion. (He also went to America on business, and greatly enjoyed a stopover in Bermuda for peace and painting.) We would all squash into the car for a day trip to Tide Mills. I always got stick for laughing at Sir John’s jokes — just to get the sixpence, they all jeered. Actually I really thought his jokes were funny. The beach at Tide Mills was painful, agonizing stones to hobble across, not the sands of St. Mawes.
Gosh, the Benns are so nice, so très très kind. We went to the sea today. It was really boiling. We bathed, had an enormous lunch, lay and dozed in the sun until teatime. We had tea at (I think) Little Hallands Hotel, Seaford, which is gorgeous. A long low cool house with creeper on it and a walled garden in Sussex. Johnny and I challenged an unknown couple to croquet and beat them. I did a tremendous shot from one end of the pitch to a hoop at the other end, which was a complete and utter fluke, but nevertheless very gratifying!!
This brings back another, less happy, sporting memory — of tennis at Bullens Lee. Johnny had rounded up a couple of people for the afternoon and I had to make the fourth. As Mary will testify, I am the world’s worst at ball games. So glad when that was over. And another terror, on a rainy afternoon. “Come on, let’s all go over to the Henrys and sing rounds.” Unaccompanied. I got through that somehow too.
Timmy came home from Princeton, and Sir John was so proud, following in his footsteps. The house was full, so, everyone being elsewhere, I gave Mrs. Raven a hand with the beds. Like a whirlwind we zoomed our way down from Timmy and Johnny at the top, Ursula, Weenie, Poppet, me next level, Sir John in his study downstairs. Piece of cake.
One year Poppet decided she was going to become a World Champion Baker. I can see her now, apron tied on, solemnly weighing out her ingredients for yet another abstruse sponge. And of course we all remember the always-available Bullens Lee bread. And always, always, soup for dinner. Lovely to have it once again in St. Mawes. One Sunday we had some distinguished visitors — no idea who — for a formal lunch in the dining room. Roast beef and Ursula’s individual Yorkshire puddings. I’d never had those before, really delicious.
It came about, as it always does with ponies, that Bluebell was outgrown. Through the grapevine we heard about a bigger pony for sale. (I don’t think we looked at any other ponies.) For some reason, Poppet, Weenie and I were dispatched on our own with Mr. Horne to try her out. That went well, because grey mare Secret arrived on trial — she must have passed the vet — and stayed to become a member of the family.
Ursula has just been in to say goodnight & is so so so terribly sweet. Thank God sincerely that such a super nice person still exists in a world which stinks of profiteers, swindlers, social climbers & all the brittle artificial hypocritical and mean people one sees around. We’re going to London tomorrow — I do hope it’s not too hot. Goodnight. I have just been reading about Wolfe in search of a spiritual father — well, I’ve found my spiritual mother.
That trip to London may have been the time I met Walter Carrington — very briefly, on a staircase as I remember. Hasn’t stopped me from saying: “You know I actually met Walter Carrington once…” to any Alexander Technique people — then hastily moving on before being asked for details.
1959
I was invited back for the holiday in Scotland. We put the car on the train in London — King’s Cross to Inverness I think. Ursula was worried about the possibly grimy sleeping car blankets, so we safety-pinned sheets inside them for Christina and Marigold. Then the lovely drive into the Highlands, most memorably the winding road along the shores of Loch Maree. (I’m sure it features in Harry Potter shots around Hogwarts.)
And now here I am in Scotland — north north north and cold. It’s like the bitter autumn but so amazingly beautiful. Literally not more than 10 houses and 2 hotels and the beautiful sea loch right outside my bedroom window. Only snag is that at the moment Weenie and I are sharing a double bed because of some muddle, and I do do need a room to myself much as I love the Benns. However I think things will sort themselves out within the next few days.
Oh, but it’s terrific up here. The last 3 days have been brilliantly sunny and we have picknicked on lovely sea loch beaches round here, and bathed and climbed mountains and onto semi-islands and got sunburnt. The proprietor’s son Richard has a small fiberglass sailing dinghy with a red standing lug, so Poppet, Weenie and I go out for a spin on Loch Ewe every morning after breakfast.
Today we went through Gairloch to Shieldaig and on to Red Point — it was lovely — partly small with houses and creeks and partly wild and bare and desolate with grey grey tarns or lochans… we went to a sheepdog trials at Gairloch t’other day, and it was fascinating. We met a fascinating Scottish family from Sutherland whose father took in 2 dogs and won a prize.
We sat on a hillside to watch, beside a couple of shepherds chatting away comfortably in Gaelic.
Life at Poolewe Hotel meant there was little domestic for me to do, so I took on the hand-washing. Ursula’s stockings and really old-fashioned bloomers! I swear she hadn’t changed the style of her knicks since the twenties! And I remember Sir John getting impatient with me for being so slow over my coffee. He could always swallow burning hot liquids with enjoyment!
Sadly, Poppet cooked up a temperature, so she and Ursula had to head home a little early. But back at Bullens Lee all was well again, and I remember days of golden autumn weather before having to leave and head back to uni. It must have been then that I put my boots on outside the back door and disturbed a wasp that had decided to hibernate in one — owwww!
1960
On Tuesday we went to the circus in Oxted, a tiny, creaky country one with the same people doubling up as jugglers and tightrope people and bareback riders and selling programmes first in the front…
So I was invited again in the spring, my last time. This must have been the Beowulf visit — Poppet and Weenie drilling me after tea. “The Geets…” said Poppet; “the Gay-arts”, I endlessly corrected, as we slogged through him. (PS. Thanks to you, girls, I got through Finals with a 2:1)
And Ursula’s sonnet. One evening in 1957 I was obviously doing some Eng. Lit. reading and mentioned to her that all the old poets were writing sonnets like mad, so why weren’t we? I said I’d have a go when I wrote my next letter. So unexpected and lovely to get one back!
Sonnet to Ursula
Sonnet from Ursula
Not the only Bullens Lee poet:
Thank you for suggesting this, Christina and Marigold. I hope it brings back as many happy memories for you as it does for me.
