On that occasion we should have done. Spurned it, that is.With hindsight we certainly would have done.
Spurn Head – a ceaselessly shifting spit of sand at the mouth of the river Humber, with a fascinating history of defence, defence against the elements. My notebook describes groynes 'like ancient and spear-hit soldiers, armoured squares and wounded stabs' and I'd anticipated using the invasive imagery to inform the World War One work I was at that time intending to produce.
In 2007, with blithe optimism, and blinkered as to the need to make a better check, I had booked the only cottage there for myself and a fellow artist to spend a week drawing and painting. A week in June - light, light nights, summer weather, warmth and sunshine ... surely not too optimistic?
But the cottage was a dump – damp and peeling wallpaper, spiders and a temperamental scalding shower. The weather dumped damp too - two days of almost endless rain - just one dry afternoon and one golden evening the second day. The rest of the time it was too wet, too cold - in June! - to stand outside and hold a pencil. I drew, as much as the rain and cold allowed, the festoons of nets and wrappings of rags, vainly attempting to staunch wounds, doomed to ultimately fail. After a day indoors, drawing diligently, we ventured two miles to the pub for a meal - "Sorry kitchen flooded - no food" - and the next morning woke to hear that Hull had suffered floods, as had the road down which we'd travelled - now apparently impassable.
Tempers were fraying too – my fellow artist did not possess the pioneering spirit, and fearful of being stuck there with her for the rest of the week I decided to extricate myself from this particular hole and insisted on driving home.
But the cottage was a dump – damp and peeling wallpaper, spiders and a temperamental scalding shower. The weather dumped damp too - two days of almost endless rain - just one dry afternoon and one golden evening the second day. The rest of the time it was too wet, too cold - in June! - to stand outside and hold a pencil. I drew, as much as the rain and cold allowed, the festoons of nets and wrappings of rags, vainly attempting to staunch wounds, doomed to ultimately fail. After a day indoors, drawing diligently, we ventured two miles to the pub for a meal - "Sorry kitchen flooded - no food" - and the next morning woke to hear that Hull had suffered floods, as had the road down which we'd travelled - now apparently impassable.
Tempers were fraying too – my fellow artist did not possess the pioneering spirit, and fearful of being stuck there with her for the rest of the week I decided to extricate myself from this particular hole and insisted on driving home.
This is my submission for the anniversary edition of Language>place Carnival #11
