THE FARM

“Never say goodbye because goodbye means going away and going away means forgetting.”

“If you shut your eyes and are a lucky one, you may see at times a shapeless pool of lovely pale colours suspended in the darkness; then if you squeeze your eyes tighter, the pool begins to take shape, and the colours become so vivid that with another squeeze they must go on fire.”  - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

There are places in life, much like Neverland for Wendy, that stay with you forever but you can never return to. At least, not unless you're planning to buy a piece of your past for a colossal amount of money which, in this instance, I would probably consider if I had the means.

Fennells Farm was my second home growing up in Gloucestershire in the 1980's and far more than Rodborough Terrace and Trafalgar House it created the Bachelard-like blueprint for my sensibility in relation to architecture and environment.

Firstly, there was the long, dusty, descending driveway that felt epic in itself, like one of those grand introductions to a place by way of a horse driven carriage you might find in a John Ford Western.

Perhaps it was a result of my developing movie sensibility, but I had a sense that there was an almost American prairie feeling to Fennells as if suddenly my narrow 4:3 tv ratio perspective on life had broadened to VistaVision like when you're at a cinema and the curtains draw back even further to reveal the full length of the film you're about to watch.

And there were even real horses in the stables at Fennells, too, cared for by the daughters of the owners of the property who were like a second family to me also.

If the drive and the outside yard area had an American west feel to it, the farm house itself was quintessentially English with its quirky and eclectic spaces inside. The kitchen was how I might imagine Anselm Kiefer's rendering of Hunding's kitchen in 'Die Walkure' to be, but with warmer lighting and a friendlier atmosphere, perhaps more like Badger's kitchen in 'The Wind In The Willows'.

It even had the most perfect, large pantry with a lock bolted door and red carpeted steps where the distinct smell of rare cheeses hung in the air and the hum of fridge freezers created a permanent ambient hum. Numerous washing machines were on standby with their doors half open and on summer nights we would sometimes use the luxurious pantry as our secret exit to the back gardens of the farm where we would roam and play until dark.

There were two living rooms to my memory, both with traditional open fire places. Large, ornate bowls of perfectly arranged pot pourri would blend with the scent of log fires, creating an evocative perfume that infused the lower part of the house. Perhaps this distinctive alchemy of pot pourri and wood smoke is my equivalent of Proust's madelaine cake remembrance of things past.

I also remember watching films (specifically Charlotte's Web on repeat) with the daughters of the farm upstairs in the New York loft style landing linking their bedrooms on what appeared to be a television from the future; in all reality it was probably just a Sony Triniton TV (yellow) that would look like nothing in today's world. My first introduction to Betamax video cassettes also occured at Fennells which I always preferred to the shape and design of VHS.

Shame Betamax lost that battle.

But I digress.

When evening parties were taking place, especially at Christmas, I remember all of us kids would watch movies and gather plates of food from downstairs and wallow in the amazing morsels we'd grabbed for ourselves whilst watching The Snowman, The Tales of Beatrix Potter ballet or The Wind in the Willows on the yellow Sony TV.

Happy days.

Spending spring, summer, autumn or winter on the farm felt like the ultimate place to dream and enjoy the atmosphere of the four seasons of English weather that could sometimes just as easily interchange within one day as in one year. Rainy days were cosy and often the main door to the farm house by the kitchen would be left open as the rain fell from the porch roof into the gutter and the sense of sanctuary from the increasing downpour would be enhanced by knowing just how close the deluge was from the house.

Summers, on the other hand, were all about hay barns, funky looking cattails swaying gently in the large ponds as fish swam beneath the lilypad hidden waters and fiery evening sunsets looked as if the sky was on actual fire.

All of my early sensory awareness of nature, weather and the contrast between interior and exterior (essential for any screenwriter) were developed here at Fennells.

And later, as a young teenager, I would paricipate in summer writing workshops with kids my own age in the converted barn/studio the family had created for such events and enjoy the familarity of the setting with a focused sense of purpose.

Throughout life there are certain locations that remain permanently lodged in your heart and mind as iconic. Along with a few other places I can think of - Tyning Wood, Gatley, 85 Wonford Hill, Hendra and Cotsal, Fennels is still the one that began my own first truly aesthetic appreciation of what a home should be.

Sometimes, I think Fennells would still be my perfect location to write my first novel but I'm not sure the present owners would appreciate a random stranger roaming their private owned land just to inspire his literary masterpiece.

Even though it's not so far from me now, the driveway I still pass often I know somehow is closed to me. Perhaps L.P. Hartley was right when he said 'the past is a foreign country.'

And so then, all I have now are the memories.

Maybe that's enough.