|
I’d been much taken, when I first saw his garden, with the way Derek Jarman used beachcombings as garden features. Shingle flints, buoys, fenders, sea-corroded iron, bleached driftwood, lobster claws, boat hooks, propped every square foot.
Keen to borrow this idea, I was always on the hunt for such found art. But life on a hill delivered little but sheep skeletons.
|
However we did, it turned out, have treasure of our own—buried treasure. As we cleared and dug over the place, we’d unearthed an ever-increasing mountain of rusting ironmongery: hooks and chains and engine parts, gate hinges and latches, plough shares and cutter bars and weird crooked spanners.
Pride of place so far went to an old single-barreled twelve-bore shotgun.
Chapter 16, Return of the County Organiser
|
