where are they now eric?
It’s late May, fifty-four years ago, I along with all other soon-to-be graduates of the Bath Academy of Art (Corsham), was preparing for my final exhibition.
But that was then. Where did the time go?
The opportunity to bridge those years came when I booked a trip to England that included a side trip to Cornwall, a county that I never visited while living in England.
Why this particular side trip?
Eric Berry, the 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. For most of the time, I was planning to stay in Stevenage, thirty miles north of London, and looked forward to making a train trip to Cornwall. What I had in mind would be an uncomplicated, leisurely look at the country in which I had grown up.
How naïve am I?
When I emigrated to Canada in 1969, it was with memories of easy train travel. I had been able go to the station without pre-booking secure in the knowledge that, if a train wasn’t due any minute, another would be along within the half hour. So, with this rosy picture in mind, I checked on the internet for fares and schedules. Cutting short the long and tedious story, I found that travel by train in 2019 is limited, complicated and very expensive. By contrast, air travel is cheaper, more straightforward and, of course, much less time-consuming. There really was no choice for me as I had both limited means and time. I booked with Flybe - an airline that I had never heard of - and looked forward to seeing the train tracks from 25,000 feet. Had I kept to my original plan, I would have missed the spectacular coastal approach to 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.
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 silver-haired, three-day adventure began.
Of significant interest was to find out more about Eric's post-Corsham years. While I had stayed 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, 4,629 km from where I was born. But importantly, we share three years that have been so impactful on each of our adult lives.
The first evening, we fulfilled one of my requests and enjoyed some local beer. This alone was a blast from the 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 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 architectural knowledge?
Our initial task was to complete a how good is our memory list, 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. First, I must admit that I was wrong about the size of the group. My memory held that, throughout our study, Eric and I were in the company of fourteen women. As we put together a list of names, it turned out that Eric was correct. There were only twelve. Each group in our year comprised two men and twelve women: mind-expanding odds for a kid from an all boys' grammar school.
So, who were the twelve that were stuck with Eric and me for three years?
First names came easily, surnames not so much. In alphabetical order we named Anne (King?), Audrey (Redden), Barbara (Topping), Christine (Wheeler), Hillary (Brown), Jennifer (Stevens), Jill (?), Nicole (Rigden?), Salima ((Faiz) Hashmi), Sandra (?), Simone (?) and Veronica (Trett).
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 retroactively should thank the peer group for putting up with us for three 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 vocation? She certainly contributed a great deal to my post-Corsham years. 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 female 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 alongside two ancient art school grads. We spent a few entertaining and informative minutes comparing educational experiences acknowledging 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.
Aside from the pleasure of his company, I am particularly grateful to Eric for taking time to be such a great guide to his home county. We covered the miles, enjoyed the views, corrected the terminology - ‘in Cornwall, fields are bounded by hedges not walls’ - and 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’s wedding, I was confronted by the 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, we heard that replacement equipment was en-route from Heathrow. Could this be a case of rail-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 I leave it so long?
But that was then. Where did the time go?
The opportunity to bridge those years came when I booked a trip to England that included a side trip to Cornwall, a county that I never visited while living in England.
Why this particular side trip?
Eric Berry, the 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. For most of the time, I was planning to stay in Stevenage, thirty miles north of London, and looked forward to making a train trip to Cornwall. What I had in mind would be an uncomplicated, leisurely look at the country in which I had grown up.
How naïve am I?
When I emigrated to Canada in 1969, it was with memories of easy train travel. I had been able go to the station without pre-booking secure in the knowledge that, if a train wasn’t due any minute, another would be along within the half hour. So, with this rosy picture in mind, I checked on the internet for fares and schedules. Cutting short the long and tedious story, I found that travel by train in 2019 is limited, complicated and very expensive. By contrast, air travel is cheaper, more straightforward and, of course, much less time-consuming. There really was no choice for me as I had both limited means and time. I booked with Flybe - an airline that I had never heard of - and looked forward to seeing the train tracks from 25,000 feet. Had I kept to my original plan, I would have missed the spectacular coastal approach to 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.
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 silver-haired, three-day adventure began.
Of significant interest was to find out more about Eric's post-Corsham years. While I had stayed 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, 4,629 km from where I was born. But importantly, we share three years that have been so impactful on each of our adult lives.
The first evening, we fulfilled one of my requests and enjoyed some local beer. This alone was a blast from the 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 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 architectural knowledge?
Our initial task was to complete a how good is our memory list, 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. First, I must admit that I was wrong about the size of the group. My memory held that, throughout our study, Eric and I were in the company of fourteen women. As we put together a list of names, it turned out that Eric was correct. There were only twelve. Each group in our year comprised two men and twelve women: mind-expanding odds for a kid from an all boys' grammar school.
So, who were the twelve that were stuck with Eric and me for three years?
First names came easily, surnames not so much. In alphabetical order we named Anne (King?), Audrey (Redden), Barbara (Topping), Christine (Wheeler), Hillary (Brown), Jennifer (Stevens), Jill (?), Nicole (Rigden?), Salima ((Faiz) Hashmi), Sandra (?), Simone (?) and Veronica (Trett).
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 retroactively should thank the peer group for putting up with us for three 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 vocation? She certainly contributed a great deal to my post-Corsham years. 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 female 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 alongside two ancient art school grads. We spent a few entertaining and informative minutes comparing educational experiences acknowledging 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.
Aside from the pleasure of his company, I am particularly grateful to Eric for taking time to be such a great guide to his home county. We covered the miles, enjoyed the views, corrected the terminology - ‘in Cornwall, fields are bounded by hedges not walls’ - and 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’s wedding, I was confronted by the 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, we heard that replacement equipment was en-route from Heathrow. Could this be a case of rail-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 I leave it so long?