Blue Remembered Hills

I was recently seized with the desire to give a chap a slap. Not really done anymore and I fear my slapping days might be past. So what to do, where is Modigliani when you need him! Once a drop of claret was lime in the mortar. Zap him with a poem, that will do the trick. Back in the days of cloisters and conkers we did some rousing stuff, dodgy, shades of Empire. I needed a fellow old Marion, Henry Newbolt, even a boy of the Commonwealth could get it, Vitai Lampada. Checking it out, it's been a long time, and there was Newbolt by William Strang. The desire to duel was dissipated, "play up, play up, William Strang. Strang is a keen draughstman and a consummate printer. His drawing really is fluent and the prints sometimes lose some of the drawing's sponteneity. 

He seem's not to have perfected the wipe, more Durer than Rembrandt. But then, there is Newbolt by a different master, William Rothenstein, an entirely different kettle.

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Skilful, strong drawing, confident hand, Rothenstein's portrait portfolios are stunning. To confess I am Rothenstein reared, both in word and picture. Once upon a nearly forgotten time I tried to buy the ruinous old forge at Far Oakridge in Gloucestershire. I travelled the length and breadth trying to raise enough cash for an auction deposit, needless to say I failed. Rothenstein loved the Golden Valley. He stayed in a rented cottage in Oakridge Lynch before finding and buying Iles Farm in 1914. In retirement he had his second Oakridge home built, Far Oakridge House, he died there in 1945.

The countryside, it's buildings, it's inhabitants fed Rothenstein for most of his creative life. I fear William is going to appear and reappear in these little sagas, he has travelled with me for forty years and will see this innings out. Given the days we live through I have great news, on your bikes, in your motors, The Butchers Arms, The Daneway, The Crown, The Stirrup Cup and The Bear Inn are still pulling pints.