Hello Powells!
This letter has gone out later than promised due to experiencing an unexpected mid-week panic about all the things I have to do, which forced me to retreat under a bucket for a few days. I am now feeling better. Thank you for asking.
I can’t remember if I mentioned in my last letter that I was taking a trip to The Lake District. Well I’m back, and I’m pleased to report that I had a glorious few days away. The bell of being on planet Earth another year chimed, that’s 44 bells so far. Quite an achievement.
The hotel I lolled about in is nestled in my favourite village of Near Sawrey; there is also a Far Sawrey, which didn’t seem that far, but I suppose Not-That-Far Sawrey doesn’t have a catchy ring to it. The hotel overlooks Esthwaite Water and attracts few tourists, perfect for me as most other humans make me want to elope to a Black Hole on a one way ticket (Pen Powells excluded, of course!). Near Sawrey is still the most picturesque place I’ve ever seen. Each time I go its beauty never fails to make me weep. I have to be careful not to twist an ankle as I roam around on the rocky terrain, my eyes are so full of tears. It is made up of two pubs, a church, a large Tupperware box set on a table which miraculously refills itself each morning with freshly baked cakes, and a few dozen houses - two of which belonged to Beatrix Potter. In fact, the whole village and 4000 other acres, including a lake called Moss Tarn, belonged to BP before she handed it, in her Will, to The National Trust for safe keeping.
Hill Top, the first house she bought is, much to Stefan’s delight, conveniently located right next door to the hotel. This time, I left Stefan to his pint of Guinness – or Genius as he’s wont to call it – and skipped off by myself to visit HT for the second time in my 44 years. On this occasion I was gifted by The Universe a solitary experience. Yes, that’s right Powells, I was the sole visitor in the 3.30pm slot and had the whole place to myself until closing time, albeit for a collection of birds tormenting worms in the garden and the staff, who kept exclaiming how unusual it was that the house wasn’t fit to bursting with overenthusiastic tourists elbowing each other out of the way to take photographs of floorboards.
Hill Top is a beautiful, inspiring place. I am mesmerised by it. There is something in the air, a magical energy that I can’t quite explain. I love it there and may want to be buried there. I’m sure that could be arranged with Pete Tasker, the resident gardener of 30 years. I would make good compost, I think.
The house is modestly sized and almost exactly as it was 100 years ago when BP used it, containing all her furniture and trinkets that she collected. I say she ‘used it’ because she didn’t actually live there. I was surprised to learn that when she first bought it as an unmarried Victorian woman, you couldn’t do things like swan off to the countryside from London and live alone, so she used it for holidays instead. When she eventually married her solicitor William Heelis they resided in a house across the road from HT. My personal tour guide (given I was the only visitor within 100 miles) explained it beautifully and I shall butcher that explanation for you here: ‘When she was in her house with her husband she was Mrs Heelis, but when she was at Hill Top she became Beatrix Potter’.
After exploring the house 3 times, taking photographs of a wheelbarrow in the garden, and buying a book from the shop, I bought a cup of tea. I settled myself on a bench, basking in the sunshine like a dried up lizard, to admire the garden – not yet in full bloom, but pretty all the same, thanks to PT – and the rolling hills of Near and Far Sawrey beyond. I felt very connected to the place which naturally led me to wonder whether, in a previous life, I actually had been BP herself. Plausible. The timings would work. Worth consideration.
Flipping through my book I was reminded that BP liked to sketch and made quite accurate drawings of dead rabbits. I took it as a sign. Not necessarily to start drawing dead rabbits, there are surprisingly few of those in my house but rather that my sketchbook practice needed reviving (much like BP’s dead rabbits). For a while now my sketchbooks have become stagnant; algae grows at their edges and they emit a strange smell in peak season. I’ve got into the habit of drawing imaginary people, usually around the 40-60 age range, from the torso up, using a black pencil. Nothing wrong with it, perfectly fine but I felt in the garden that it was time I moved Mario to the next level, collecting some gold coins along the way.
I left HT feeling rejuvenated and headed for a pint of Genius where I declared to Stefan everything was going to change, a declaration made so regularly it is now met with no reaction at all. The next day we headed to Coniston water and found a spot in the sun at the very lively Bluebird Cafe, overlooking the lake. Apart from the necessary interruptions of consuming 3 pots of tea and one scone with jam I drew for the whole time.
I’m very much enjoying using my new selection of Derwent watercolour pencils though I failed to persuade Stefan to visit the Derwent Pencil Museum for a second time: I suppose a man only needs to experience The Pencil Quiz once in his lifetime so I gave up and drew a boat instead.
It was a wonderful trip and I returned on the bank holiday, inspired and with lofty ideas of working in the studio, whilst the rest of the country frolicked in fields and drank cider (as we are liable to do on a bank holiday) but I found my studio staircase blocked by a mountain of washing so that put a stop to that idea. Then there was all my birthday fan mail that needed to be read and responded to which took me until Thursday, and on Friday I had to prepare for the weekend so not much work got done at all last week. This week has turned out much the same: wedding preparations have consumed me for the most part, interrupted only by Stefan having a hernia op (he’s fine but is demanding grapes on the hour, every hour).
I jest, of course. Client work is ticking along merrily with 3 projects all in various stages ranging from toddler to OAP. I do sense however, that the steady rhythmic Andante tempo of my metronome is going to start to speed up very soon, increasing as my deadlines draw nearer. I imagine next week it will reach Allegretto, the following week I’ll be somewhere between Allegro and Vivace, and by early May I’ll have crescendoed to Prestissimo and sparks will be flying from my dip pen threatening to set fire to my over-priced Arches paper that seems to run out faster than Usain in a 100 meters relay.
As I draw this letter to a close (pun not intended but works well so I’ve drawn attention to it… oh! I’m on pun fire!) I am pleased to tell you that I have been drawing in my sketchbook everyday (I have included a video as proof!) and I have managed for the most part to expand my imaginary characters past their torsos to include legs and feet. Some have props and one ended up hugging a moose. I haven’t had much time to sketch in colour but I shan’t be too hard on myself: I can hear the metronome speeding up as I type these words so I must take what I can get for now. Long may it continue as drawing really is rather fun.
Until next time Powells!
Yours, somewhere between Moderato and Allegretto,
Powell x
I managed – with the usual, excessive amount of difficulty and frustration anything technical seems to cause me – to record a video of my sketchbooks and the drawings I have done in them over the past couple of weeks. My paid subscribers help to make these letters happen, merely by the fact they are choosing to give me a little of their money on a regular basis and that encourages me to keep writing and ignore the lazy part of me who wafts a freshly baked vol-au-vent in front of my face in an attempt to make me skip them. I therefore want to give my paying Powells something in return and so the video can be viewed for a small investment each month, about the price of a pot of tea, or a supermarket packet of frozen vol-au-vents.
Keep reading with a 7-day free trial
Subscribe to The Pen Powell Letters to keep reading this post and get 7 days of free access to the full post archives.