Title : Workshop in Kent: A Trek through Time
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Workshop in Kent: A Trek through Time
(By Róisín Curé in Kent) I gave an urban sketching workshop in Kent and East Sussex last week. I visit the area a lot, as some of my husband's family live there. He is from London, and has no desire to return to Britain. "The South-East is like a museum," he says. Maybe so, in some ways. But I for one have had enough of the wild beauty that is everywhere in Galway, and I could do with a bit of controlled, civilised beauty. The part of Kent that we visited is stuffed to bursting with incredibly beautiful buildings spanning hundreds of years, and Kent's great gardens often feature in inspirational gardening books. The population is older than the national average, everyone is exceedingly polite and law and order prevails. I love it.
The workshop was centred around Tenterden, a pretty little town not too far from Ashford. Our group started with the twentieth century at Tenterden Town Station. We were due to take the beautiful steam train to Bodiam Castle later on in the morning, and meanwhile the vintage signs on the station platform provided plenty of mid-twentieth century atmosphere.
After our trip to Bodiam we sketched the stacks of old suitcases. The station master passed me as I sketched. He was not a tall man, bespectacled in gold-rimmed glasses, a magnificent red curly beard and an immaculate uniform in black, trimmed with red and gold. He wore a large cap with a shiny black peak. "If only those suitcases could talk," he said. "What would they say, do you think?" I asked. He pointed out the one on top on the right. "That one has been to Mauritius and back," he said, "in 1978. I nearly stayed there, but I met a lady here...I couldn't say for sure, but I think my father may have brought it to war, and I know it originally belonged to my grandmother. That dates it to the 1930s."
We looked at the others and tried to guess their provenance. In the end I made them "talk" in my sketch.
At Tenterden Museum I was touched by the coat of the sergeant. As I sketched I thought of the soldier who wore it, and how he sacrificed his life for his country in the First World War. Then afterwards I drew the soldier himself from the photo beside the coat. Apparently there had been false reports of his death sent to his family, and when they discovered that he was still alive and well they flew the Union Jack from the top of an oast house to spread the good news. He came home safe and sound and lived to be 97, and was a keen double bass player and skater. Happy ending for once! And it's the only drawing I made of an oast house, which are everywhere in Kent.
The next day we went to Cranbrook, to visit Union Mill. We had been promised a private tour. It really couldn't be prettier, and the amazing Chris showed us round. The mill is still operational, and Chris got a few of us to grind a little bit of flour. Enough for one scone, I'd say. I bought a jar of bramble jelly from the little shop on the ground floor. I figured my husband would like that better than any other gift (okay, I was thinking of myself). I spent much time as a teenager trying and usually failing to get blackberry jelly to set, so I was very happy with my purchase.
The mill was built by a lady who lived next to it for her son, so that he would have an income, back in 1803 (mothers!). That worked a treat until the end of the Napoleonic Wars, when parts of the economy crashed. The mill had a succession of owners and has been beautifully restored now as a tourist attraction.
Up to the fourth level we went. "Make sure to come down the steps backwards," advised Chris. The ladders got progressively steeper as we climbed. Chris was a terrific character, insisting we push ourselves to the edge of our comfort zones: he made me stand on one of the grain trapdoors just to prove to the assembled onlookers that they only open upwards.
My eye was caught by these bags of grain. They made a good example of some of the techniques I was teaching. The bag of flour at the bottom of the sketch was suspended from a balance.
"A farmer turned up with the balance one day," said Chris. "He'd been using it for years to measure feed for his sheep. 'You can have it back now,' he said, 'I don't want it any more.' We told him not to bother but it came back anyway."
That afternoon we visited Sissinghurst, where Vita Sackville-West lived with her husband Harold Nicholson. The garden is magnificent. Beautiful. All the superlatives you can possibly think of. I recognised a couple of scenes from my Reader's Digest Good Ideas for your Garden. Gardeners everywhere. A huge tower, a folly, is a focal point of the garden: it closes next month for renovations - why didn't I go inside when I had the chance? Instead I painted bricks for the class and froze, for although it was very sunny it was cold and windy in the shade. Then, just before our scheduled minibus home, we challenged ourselves to a last twenty-minute sketch. As the clock struck 5.30, a few drops of rain began to fall. My sketch is on the left but I did the bricks when I got home. I hate doing that - the way I approach a sketch means I do everything on site - but this time it couldn't be helped.
Next day was our trip to Rye. After some terrific weather, it was better again. Hot, sunny and still. We made our way to Rye Castle - Ypres Tower (I got its name wrong on my sketch) - and were awestruck by its simple lines and satisfying symmetry. This time the challenge was stone walls and shiny metal, as there were cannon and cannonballs on the ground in front of the towers.
The street is cobbled, making it heavy going for those unsteady on their feet. I will always remember my 16-year-old daughter in mint green stilettoes that were never meant for actual perambulation trying to walk along those cobbles a year ago, at her auntie's wedding. "I can't walk on this terrain!" she wailed. "You have to help me!" It was more physical help than she had accepted from me or anyone for years, but the alternative was breaking an ankle.
The street is also full of doves and pigeons, so I drew one...
We spent the afternoon in Smallhythe Place, onetime home of Ellen Terry, a famous actress. More outstanding beauty of a quintessentially English nature.
The next day we met up in Little Dane Court, the B&B where some of the group were staying. Rod, the proprietor, is a lover of all things Japanese, and he has blended Tudor and Japanese in his house and garden in a delightful way. The students painted whatever took their fancy, trying to put into practice some of the things we'd gone over during the workshop, and it was all very relaxed. One of our number had a stroke of inspiration: we would all paint a postcard and each choose one blind, so to speak. After that everyone went their own ways the length and breadth of England and as far away as Switzerland (and of course Ireland).
I climbed into a taxi for the airport and left sunny Kent behind. In the airport I had to decant my precious bramble jelly into miserable plastic bottles - and back again once I'd landed - but there was no way it wasn't coming to Ireland with me.
I was sad to be back home in Galway. The summer is over and it's not a bit museum-like in the West of Ireland, being neither remotely tidy nor groomed.
Lucky for me South-East England is only a couple of hours away.
A somewhat extended version of this article is available on my website here.
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