260 feet above the sea on Harlech Cliff
An Arts & Crafts gem
Murmur-y-Don
(“The Whispering of the Waves”)
FIBRE OPTIC WiFi
PETS WELCOME
SLEEPS SEVEN
ASTOUNDING VIEWS
ABOVE THE BEACH
260 feet above the sea on Harlech Cliff
An Arts & Crafts gem
FIBRE OPTIC WiFi
PETS WELCOME
SLEEPS SEVEN
ASTOUNDING VIEWS
ABOVE THE BEACH
Flushed with success at releathering an old desk in London, I set my sights on a bigger project. Not just a desk but my whole study, the throbbing nerve centre of fotoLibra in North West Wales. My desk had been looking a little tired for years and I hadn’t really noticed; much like the growth of extremism, it just crept up on me. Remove the pile of papers and this is what I saw.
But after I’d done the releathering in London, I saw my Harlech study with new eyes. The desk has admittedly seen better days, but then so had the whole room. Frankly, it had become a tip, and we hadn’t even noticed. So a decision was made — redecorate!
The walls are now in Dulux Parchment, the skirting boards are in Little Green’s latest hue Urban and the rest of the woodwork is in Wilko’s Moonlight White Satin. Von has cleverly recycled curtains from Stortford and they fit perfectly.
And look at wot I done to my desk! This is a significant feat of releathering, and it doesn’t come cheap. It’s a nice piece of schmutter, as we say in Harlech. I hope and pray our summer pobl respect it and treat it well, and not use it as a cutting board for infantile projects. If they do, it’ll cost them £300 to replace it.
It sort of came to a head last year when a visitor to Murmur-y-Don rang to say the upstairs lights had fused.
“No problem!” I chortled merrily. “The fuse box is under the stairs and all you have to do is locate the holder for the broken fuse, pull it out of its bakelite range of sockets, find a card with 5 amp fuse wire on it, cut off a length — 2 or 3 inches will do — unscrew the screws holding the broken fuse in place, thread the replacement fuse wire through the ceramic tube and … hello? Hello?”
“He hung up on me,” I reported to Yvonne. “I’m not bloody surprised,” she replied with asperity. “Your great-grandmother contracted Joseph Swan to install that fuse box back in 1897. Isn’t it time you trundled into the twenty-first century?”
Did you know you don’t have to do the thing with the wire-cutting any more? The EU has introduced us to an object called a Consumer Unit, a damn fool name for a fuse box but a fuse box nonetheless. This is a work of genius. We’ve bought two of them. As I write we haven’t got any power in the green room, the yellow room, the landing, the hall or the study, but that’s not the point. Look at these wonderful shiny white objects, with lots and lots of switches. Every man’s dream. When it’s all connected up, as Gary the Sparks has been promising for three days, we will have electric power in all the places we had electric power before.
And when a fuse blows, all we will have to do is flip a switch, I think.
We’ve kept the Bakelite breakers because once Brexit is implemented it’s my belief we will be compelled to reinstate them. And we’ve got the Whitworth screws to mount them with, instead of those filthy foreign Metric ones. Floreat Britannia and all that. Flipping a switch to change a fuse will be left to those effete, jejune, epicene European devils, not man enough to wrestle in the dark with pointy bits of wire. Hmmph!
As a child I used to lie in bed staring at this reproduction picture on my bedroom wall, the Green Room in Murmur-y-Don. I was gripped by it, and made up endless stories about the characters. When the bedroom was redecorated the picture was never rehung, and gradually I forgot about it.
I rediscovered it at the back of a cupboard several years ago, and rehung it in the Blue Room, which is now my bedroom.
It retains its hold on me. What is the story? I still haven’t found out; it’s one of those fascinating, enduring mysteries, like where the heck Port Vale Football Club is.
But I have unearthed a little more about the artist and the origins of the painting. ‘Between Two Fires’ was painted circa 1892 by Francis Millet, an American artist living in Broadway, Worcestershire. He drowned on the Titanic twenty years later. It’s owned by the Tate, but being wholly unfashionable it is probably locked away in some dungeon. It’s certainly not on public view.
The point of this blog is not to criticise the Tate (again) but to praise them. In their online catalogue they reproduce the painting, supply a little background and then — here’s where credit’s due — they provide some of the best keywording I have come across. fotoLibra contributors take note. Look at this:
I’d like to know who did this excellent work so I can credit them properly. Well done.