Alfriston Clergy House ... and a rainbow for Virginia Woolf

Timed tickets booked and paid for in advance are a bit tricky when you have to drive 180 miles to get to the place in question, especially when part of that journey involves the M25, where I spent a happy four hours in stationary traffic with my sons and our dog back in May. 

This time, though, all went to plan, and as I drove across the easternmost end of the South Downs to Saltdean, I began to imagine that my daughter, Jenny, and I might even complete an ambitious itinerary that involved a visit to Alfriston Clergy House, followed by a pub lunch, followed by the all-important timed ticket at Monk's House, the rural bolthole of Virginia and Leonard Woolf at Rodmell.

Alas. It turned out the A27 south of Lewes was closed for the weekend because of roadworks, the traffic along the coast road was worse than anything I'd ever seen in the height of summer, and our eleven mile drive to Alfriston was going to take an hour, according to the sat nav. As we approached a Sainsbury's Local in Peacehaven, I turned down a side street and hastily parked. Time to get some emergency rations in case the pub lunch was off. 

Eventually we reached the ridiculously quaint village of Alfriston, and made our way from the car park, along the River Cuckmere to the Church of St Andrew, a large cruciform building constructed, it's thought, during the 14th century on a pre-Christian site, of flint and all in one go, by persons unknown.  

 

 

On the south porch wall, a scratch sundial ...

 

 ...and this more modern dial, about which I could find out very little, other than there appears to be an indentical one in nearby Alciston churchyard. Maybe they are waymarks for a modern pilgrimage.

The interior of the church is spacious and airy, the walls covered with peeling whitewash. Apparently there are mediaeval murals underneath. It would be so good to see them, but, I suspect, costly to have them uncovered and preserved.

 

 

Early mediaeval font

 

 

 

As well as some mediaeval glass, there was a beautiful East window designed by James Powell in 1904 ...

 

 

... a window depicting the Tree of Jesse, designed in 1914 by Charles Eamer Kempe ...

 

... and a very modern window (2004) of St Peter the Fisherman by Joseph Nuttgens.

 

 

I also like this Arts and Crafts-influenced memorial to the 23-year-old son of the Vicar of Alfriston, William Beynon. Beynon also played an important role in the story of the nearby Alfriston Clergy House, which I'd wanted to visit for many years, ever since I'd first become interested in William Morris and the Arts and Crafts Movement. It was Beynon who involved Morris and the Society for the Protection of Ancient Buildings, along with the mewly formed National Trust, in the campaign to save this early 15th century building, which was in danger of being demolished. 

I was so taken by this beautiful old house, mainly because unlike many mediaeval houses with huge draughty halls, it's on just the right scale to imagine living there.

 

 

The floor in the hall is especially interesting, being made of chalk, which was rammed into the floor and strengthened with the addition of sour milk.

 

 

This carved oak leaf in the hall is said to have inspired the design of the Trust's familiar logo, when it was designed in the 1940s.

 

 

 The garden is also Arts and Crafts-inspired, and structurally very pleasing, although, of course, we were visiting at the wrong time of year for much in the way of colour.

 

We then set off for the village of Rodmell, eleven miles away in the neighbouring valley of the River Ouse, but again the traffic was very heavy and we resigned ourselves to not getting a pub lunch; in fact, we only just made it to Monk's House by 3pm. 

Once inside, I was immediately reminded of Charleston, the house seven miles away that belonged to Virginia Woolf's sister, Vanessa Bell, with its paintings, tiled fireplaces and decorated furniture commissioned from the Bloomsbury Group, although in this house visitors are permitted to take photos.  

 

 

Tiled table by Duncan Grant

 

 

Painted table by Vanessa Bell 

In spite of the difference in eras, wealth and class, there was a moment when I felt Virginia and Leonard  Woolf might have been kin.

 

 

 

Needlepoint mirror frame ...

 

 

... and chair backs

 

 

Portrait of Virginia by Vanessa

 

The house is a lot older than it appears, at least from the outside. It was actually built in the mid-16th century, and I really loved the brick steps that show the passage of many feet.

Virginia's bedroom

 

 

Virginia and Leonard were both buried in the garden, Virginia in 1941, following her suicide, and Leonard in 1969.

In Virginia's writing room at the bottom of the garden, something ethereal was happening with the light,which illuminated her chair and the balls of screwed-up paper on her desk ...

 

 ... and while we stood, a little sadly, it has to be said, in that glorious garden set in the beautiful countryside of the South Downs, a rainbow arched over the Ouse valley. 

 

 

 

 

A flying visit to Cuckmere Haven

One of my favourite vistas is salt marsh. Hard to explain, but like moorland, it feels more accommodating to my eyes than, say, an urban landscape, with lots of long distance focussing, fewer verticals to punctuate the skyline, and no harsh or glaring colours. Perhaps something in me that is bleak and featureless corresponds in some way.

Anyhow, before we get too metaphysical, I made a flying visit to Sussex yesterday to spend time with my daughter and her partner, during which we drove to one of my favourite places, Cuckmere Haven.

Any day trip to Sussex from Bristol is necessarily  rushed, but yesterday the timings got really messed up, as we opted to stop at the pub for lunch first and they must have been short-staffed in the kitchen or something. It was nearly two hours before we were served, and as lovely as it was sitting around the table chatting and escorting wasps that strayed indoors back outside, it would have been lovelier still to exchange some of that news while sitting on the beach or poking about along the shoreline. But so it goes.

By the time we'd eaten, we only had about an hour and three quarters before we had to be back in Saltdean to pick my daughter's partner's car up from the garage, so we walked briskly down the chalk path that runs between the naturally meandering river and the straight channel that was cut in 1846 to alleviate flooding upstream.

One thing that struck me yesterday was that there were a lot fewer flowers - and butterflies - than the last time I was there, almost exactly two years ago. I did see the brilliant flash of a few Chalk Hill Blue butterflies, but none lingered long enough for me to photograph them, and since we were on a route march, neither did I. Maybe the long dry period in May and early June contributed to the dearth of wild flowers.

rock sea lavender

Haven Brow, with Belle Tout lighthouse in the distance

Stone mushrooms!

hagstones

'This is the closest I'm getting to the sea!'

Cwtch liked being on the beach, but even though she was determined to shadow me, there was still no way she was going to get even her claws wet in the sea, and she spent much of her time standing right behind me at the water's edge. 

Seaford Head

the remnants of Viper's Bugloss

the last few yards of the River Cuckmere before it meets the sea

I don't normally wear patterned clothes but couldn't resist this flowered top

As we hurried back up the river to the pub car park, one of us mentioned our forthcoming visit to the Bluebell Railway to ride on the Flying Scotsman, and how much my late father would have enjoyed hearing about it, only for a Spitfire to materialise overhead at that very moment, as if he might have heard us and wished to point out it was planes he fixed during the war, actually ... 

... followed by (we think) a Hawker Hurricane. 

  

Perfect timing, as was dropping my daughter's partner off to pick up his car with a minute to spare, before the long drive home. A lovely day, but next time I'll spend longer on the beach.