where are they now eric?
Late May 1965 fifty-four years ago I, along with all other soon-to-be graduates of the Bath Academy of Art (Corsham), prepared for my final evaluation exhibition.
Where did the time go?
The opportunity to bridge those years came when I booked a late-May 2019 trip to England that included a side trip to Cornwall, a county that I never visited when living in England.
Why this particular side trip?
Eric Berry, the only other male in Rosemary Ellis’s photography group at Corsham, and I had reconnected via email and we both liked the idea of getting together again. Unlike me, Eric had stayed close to home and he had invited me to visit his native Cornwall. For most of my time in England I planned to stay in Stevenage, thirty miles north of London, but I looked forward to making an uncomplicated train trip to the south west. I envisioned a leisurely review of the country in which I lived for my first twenty five years.
How naïve am I?
When I emigrated to Canada in 1969, it was with a past that included convenient and easy train travel. My memories were of going to the station without pre-booking secure in the knowledge that, if a train wasn’t due, another would be along within the half hour. So, with this rosy picture in mind, I checked on fares and schedules. Cutting short a long and tedious story, I found that British train travel in 2019 is limited, complicated and very expensive. By contrast, some air travel is cheaper, more straightforward and, of course, much less time-consuming. There really was no choice. With limited means and time, I booked with Flybe - an airline of which I had never heard - and looked forward to seeing the train tracks from 25,000 feet. Had I kept to my original plan, however, I would have missed the spectacular coastal approach by air into Newquay. If there was a down-side to the experience it was that, having elected not to check a bag, the modest sample of Nova Scotian Maple Syrup I was taking for Eric was summarily confiscated at Heathrow. I can only imagine the high-altitude-mayhem I could have caused with syrup.
Eric was waiting for me at Newquay airport. Hair colour and quantity notwithstanding – plenty in Eric’s case, a lot less in mine - recognition was immediate and a three-day adventure began.
Of significant interest was to get to know more about Eric's post-Corsham years. While I had remained in education, Eric had become an expert chronicler, documenter and photographer of Cornish heritage architecture. He lives in a cottage with stone walls that he rebuilt by hand and that is in sight of the house in which he was born. In so many ways his situation is the antithesis of my current 7th floor, 4-year old apartment living, a modest 4,629 km from where I was born. But much more important than a difference in time and space, is the knowledge that Eric and I share three years impactful on each of our respective lives.
The first evening, we fulfilled one of my requests and enjoyed some local beer: an unequivocal blast from our Corsham past. Aside from time spent in the studio and classroom, those years at Corsham included many, if not most, evenings spent in one or more of the half dozen pubs located between the Beechfield residence and the college's home base - Corsham Court. So what better venue to reminisce than in the Pandora Inn at Restronguet Passage, one of many heritage buildings about which Eric has first-hand historic and architectural knowledge?
Our initial task was to complete a how reliable is our memory exercise, a task that Eric and I had begun but not ratified via email. With a hundred and fifty years of aging and unreliable memory between us, it does seem that the important stuff really does take hold. We began to list the names of our photography group peers. My memory held that, throughout our study, Eric and I were in the company of fourteen women. As we compiled a list of names, it turned out that Eric's memory that it was tweve rather than fourteen may have been correct. But we still came up with thirteen names. Was I correct and we were missing a name. Or was Eric correct and I had erroniously attached a name to our group. Each group in our year comprised two men and twelve (or fourteen) women: mind-expanding odds for a kid from an all boys' grammar school. Perhaps that is why my memory may have overestimated the number.
So, who were the women that were stuck with Eric and me for three years?
First names came easily, surnames not so much. In alphabetical order we recalled Anne (King?), Audrey (Redden), Barbara (Topping), Christine (Wheeler), Hillary (Brown), Jennifer (Stevens), Jill (?), Nicolette (Rigel), Salima ((Faiz) Hashmi), Sandra (?), Simone (Girot) and Veronica (Trett) Vivien (Crutchfield)
Having taught post-secondary students for over thirty years I can attest to the fact that women generally tend to be more attentive to their studies than are their male counterparts. Likely, Eric and I should be indebted to our peer group for putting up with us for three long years.
As we compared notes Eric recounted a time at Corsham when Rosemary Ellis sent him to photograph a medieval tithe barn. Could it be that Rosemary, who always seemed to be a step ahead of the students, had special insight into Eric’s future calling? She certainly contributed a great deal to my post-Corsham years that included recommending me for my first full-time teaching job. Although I do not recall any hints that she may have had Canada in mind for me.
Interestingly, as we sat enjoying our Cornish beverage, eating fish and chips and recalling our Corsham colleagues, our conversation was overheard by two young women sitting at the next table. They turned out to be recent graduates of the Falmouth School of Art. There seemed to be an ironic symmetry to the moment: two new art school grads reminiscing alongside two ancient art school grads. We spent a few entertaining and informative minutes comparing educational experiences while recognising that much has changed since 1965. As I look back now, I wonder what they will recall of their Falmouth experience if they find themselves sitting together in 2073.
Sadly, the second request that I had of Cornwall couldn't be experienced. Along with a 'good local beer', I had also wanted a genuine Cornish pasty. (For the non-British reader, a pasty is a hand-sized pie). Eric advised that the best pasties came from Ann's in Helston. Bright and early the next day, we headed to Elston only to discover that Ann was closed for the day as it was Floral Day. Ann was attending the festival possibly catering her famous pasties including one on which was my name. We did find another spot in Helston where I enjoyed a pasty and it was good. But was it as good as the best? I may never know.
Aside from the pleasure of his company, I am particularly grateful to Eric and his partner Julia for taking time to be such great guides to their home county. We covered the miles, enjoyed the views, corrected my vocabulary - ‘in Cornwall, fields are bounded by hedges not walls’ - walked through the remains of tin mines and along cliffs straight out of Poldark.
Back at Newquay airport leaving Eric to complete the monumental task of preparing for his daughter Emily's June wedding, I was confronted by an announcement that our plane was experiencing ‘mechanical difficulties’. A Flybe mechanic had been sent for from Exeter (nearly ninety minutes by road). Finally, after what sounded like the roar of perfectly serviceable engines, it was announced that replacement equipment had been sent for from Heathrow. Could this be a case of railway-orchestrated karma coming back to haunt me? Regardless, several hours late, we took off and headed to Heathrow my Corsham to Cornwall, 1965 to 2019 sojourn complete.
Thanks Eric. Why did we leave it so long?
p.s. It appears that the airline Flybe is bankrupt and will not make it out of 2020.
Where did the time go?
The opportunity to bridge those years came when I booked a late-May 2019 trip to England that included a side trip to Cornwall, a county that I never visited when living in England.
Why this particular side trip?
Eric Berry, the only other male in Rosemary Ellis’s photography group at Corsham, and I had reconnected via email and we both liked the idea of getting together again. Unlike me, Eric had stayed close to home and he had invited me to visit his native Cornwall. For most of my time in England I planned to stay in Stevenage, thirty miles north of London, but I looked forward to making an uncomplicated train trip to the south west. I envisioned a leisurely review of the country in which I lived for my first twenty five years.
How naïve am I?
When I emigrated to Canada in 1969, it was with a past that included convenient and easy train travel. My memories were of going to the station without pre-booking secure in the knowledge that, if a train wasn’t due, another would be along within the half hour. So, with this rosy picture in mind, I checked on fares and schedules. Cutting short a long and tedious story, I found that British train travel in 2019 is limited, complicated and very expensive. By contrast, some air travel is cheaper, more straightforward and, of course, much less time-consuming. There really was no choice. With limited means and time, I booked with Flybe - an airline of which I had never heard - and looked forward to seeing the train tracks from 25,000 feet. Had I kept to my original plan, however, I would have missed the spectacular coastal approach by air into Newquay. If there was a down-side to the experience it was that, having elected not to check a bag, the modest sample of Nova Scotian Maple Syrup I was taking for Eric was summarily confiscated at Heathrow. I can only imagine the high-altitude-mayhem I could have caused with syrup.
Eric was waiting for me at Newquay airport. Hair colour and quantity notwithstanding – plenty in Eric’s case, a lot less in mine - recognition was immediate and a three-day adventure began.
Of significant interest was to get to know more about Eric's post-Corsham years. While I had remained in education, Eric had become an expert chronicler, documenter and photographer of Cornish heritage architecture. He lives in a cottage with stone walls that he rebuilt by hand and that is in sight of the house in which he was born. In so many ways his situation is the antithesis of my current 7th floor, 4-year old apartment living, a modest 4,629 km from where I was born. But much more important than a difference in time and space, is the knowledge that Eric and I share three years impactful on each of our respective lives.
The first evening, we fulfilled one of my requests and enjoyed some local beer: an unequivocal blast from our Corsham past. Aside from time spent in the studio and classroom, those years at Corsham included many, if not most, evenings spent in one or more of the half dozen pubs located between the Beechfield residence and the college's home base - Corsham Court. So what better venue to reminisce than in the Pandora Inn at Restronguet Passage, one of many heritage buildings about which Eric has first-hand historic and architectural knowledge?
Our initial task was to complete a how reliable is our memory exercise, a task that Eric and I had begun but not ratified via email. With a hundred and fifty years of aging and unreliable memory between us, it does seem that the important stuff really does take hold. We began to list the names of our photography group peers. My memory held that, throughout our study, Eric and I were in the company of fourteen women. As we compiled a list of names, it turned out that Eric's memory that it was tweve rather than fourteen may have been correct. But we still came up with thirteen names. Was I correct and we were missing a name. Or was Eric correct and I had erroniously attached a name to our group. Each group in our year comprised two men and twelve (or fourteen) women: mind-expanding odds for a kid from an all boys' grammar school. Perhaps that is why my memory may have overestimated the number.
So, who were the women that were stuck with Eric and me for three years?
First names came easily, surnames not so much. In alphabetical order we recalled Anne (King?), Audrey (Redden), Barbara (Topping), Christine (Wheeler), Hillary (Brown), Jennifer (Stevens), Jill (?), Nicolette (Rigel), Salima ((Faiz) Hashmi), Sandra (?), Simone (Girot) and Veronica (Trett) Vivien (Crutchfield)
Having taught post-secondary students for over thirty years I can attest to the fact that women generally tend to be more attentive to their studies than are their male counterparts. Likely, Eric and I should be indebted to our peer group for putting up with us for three long years.
As we compared notes Eric recounted a time at Corsham when Rosemary Ellis sent him to photograph a medieval tithe barn. Could it be that Rosemary, who always seemed to be a step ahead of the students, had special insight into Eric’s future calling? She certainly contributed a great deal to my post-Corsham years that included recommending me for my first full-time teaching job. Although I do not recall any hints that she may have had Canada in mind for me.
Interestingly, as we sat enjoying our Cornish beverage, eating fish and chips and recalling our Corsham colleagues, our conversation was overheard by two young women sitting at the next table. They turned out to be recent graduates of the Falmouth School of Art. There seemed to be an ironic symmetry to the moment: two new art school grads reminiscing alongside two ancient art school grads. We spent a few entertaining and informative minutes comparing educational experiences while recognising that much has changed since 1965. As I look back now, I wonder what they will recall of their Falmouth experience if they find themselves sitting together in 2073.
Sadly, the second request that I had of Cornwall couldn't be experienced. Along with a 'good local beer', I had also wanted a genuine Cornish pasty. (For the non-British reader, a pasty is a hand-sized pie). Eric advised that the best pasties came from Ann's in Helston. Bright and early the next day, we headed to Elston only to discover that Ann was closed for the day as it was Floral Day. Ann was attending the festival possibly catering her famous pasties including one on which was my name. We did find another spot in Helston where I enjoyed a pasty and it was good. But was it as good as the best? I may never know.
Aside from the pleasure of his company, I am particularly grateful to Eric and his partner Julia for taking time to be such great guides to their home county. We covered the miles, enjoyed the views, corrected my vocabulary - ‘in Cornwall, fields are bounded by hedges not walls’ - walked through the remains of tin mines and along cliffs straight out of Poldark.
Back at Newquay airport leaving Eric to complete the monumental task of preparing for his daughter Emily's June wedding, I was confronted by an announcement that our plane was experiencing ‘mechanical difficulties’. A Flybe mechanic had been sent for from Exeter (nearly ninety minutes by road). Finally, after what sounded like the roar of perfectly serviceable engines, it was announced that replacement equipment had been sent for from Heathrow. Could this be a case of railway-orchestrated karma coming back to haunt me? Regardless, several hours late, we took off and headed to Heathrow my Corsham to Cornwall, 1965 to 2019 sojourn complete.
Thanks Eric. Why did we leave it so long?
p.s. It appears that the airline Flybe is bankrupt and will not make it out of 2020.