where are they now eric?
It’s late May 1965, fifty-four years ago, when I along with all other soon-to-be graduates of the Bath Academy of Art (Corsham) was preparing for my final exhibition.
That was then. Where did the time go?
The opportunity to bridge those years came when I booked a late-May 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. For most of my time in England I was planning to stay in Stevenage, thirty miles north of London, and looked forward to making an uncomplicated train trip to Cornwall: a leisurely look at 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 memories of easy train travel. I harboured memories 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 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. With 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. On the up-side, had I kept to my original plan 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. Imagine the high-altitude-mayhem I could have caused with 250ml of Nova Scotian 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 silver-haired, three-day adventure began.
Of significant interest was to find out 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, 4,629 km from where I was born. But more important than this particular difference in time and space, we share three years that have been impactful on our respective lives.
The first evening, we fulfilled one of my requests and enjoyed some local beer: a clear 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 base in 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 good 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. 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 compiled 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 recalled 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 this particular 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 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 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.
Sadly, the second request that I had of Cornwall couldn't be experienced. Along with a 'good local beer', I also wanted a genuine Cornish pasty. 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 my time in Cornwall coincided with Floral Day. Ann was attending, possibly even catering with her famous pasties, Floral Day. 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 will 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 a great guide to their home county. We covered the miles, enjoyed the views, corrected the terminology - ‘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?
That was then. Where did the time go?
The opportunity to bridge those years came when I booked a late-May 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. For most of my time in England I was planning to stay in Stevenage, thirty miles north of London, and looked forward to making an uncomplicated train trip to Cornwall: a leisurely look at 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 memories of easy train travel. I harboured memories 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 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. With 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. On the up-side, had I kept to my original plan 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. Imagine the high-altitude-mayhem I could have caused with 250ml of Nova Scotian 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 silver-haired, three-day adventure began.
Of significant interest was to find out 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, 4,629 km from where I was born. But more important than this particular difference in time and space, we share three years that have been impactful on our respective lives.
The first evening, we fulfilled one of my requests and enjoyed some local beer: a clear 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 base in 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 good 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. 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 compiled 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 recalled 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 this particular 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 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 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.
Sadly, the second request that I had of Cornwall couldn't be experienced. Along with a 'good local beer', I also wanted a genuine Cornish pasty. 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 my time in Cornwall coincided with Floral Day. Ann was attending, possibly even catering with her famous pasties, Floral Day. 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 will 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 a great guide to their home county. We covered the miles, enjoyed the views, corrected the terminology - ‘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?