THE RICHARD BARTTELOT SITE

Tuesday 7 March 2018 After lunch we drove to Horton to see Barp. He was raring to go out, not having seen anyone for a week, but I wasn't so keen as he seemed far more doddery and likely to collapse (and his nephew Thomas has expressed disapproval). He insisted. He wanted to buy more birthday cards. We dawdled along the corridor with the chief nurse who asked him if he wanted to go out. He said 'YES' very firmly and out we went. The bookshop in Ilminster has cards and also sells wine. Barp was delighted with the place, tottering round with his zimmerframe, reversing out of corners, with us hovering nearby to catch him. Up and down the steps we went, moving as slowly as it is possible to move, every second close to disaster, but somehow no disaster came. He sniffed the scent of books and stroked their spines, having no way of telling what the titles were without his glasses. But being in a bookshop again was like being in Paris used to be for men of his generation. Then we

Today is the anniversary of the death of my friend R.B. and to mark the occasion here is one of the many poems he sent me over the years,. It's to do with C.S.Lewis, who is not a favourite with me and it is in manuscript form so I may have misread the odd word. I know that C.S.Lewis was known as 'Jack' and his brother 'Warnie' and I remember being told by Richard that Lewis' dog was called 'Mr Papworth' but I am not at all sure about the reference to 'Barboes'  at the end. If you can correct or add anything please do. When Richard was at Oxford he did briefly to tear himself away from the steam trains to hear C.S.Lewis lecture and I know he was an admirer, even managing to smuggle a copy of The Screwtape Letters  (which he knew I detested) into my house, via my wife. The poem has its weaknesses but is laced with the sadness that, as a lifelong bachelor himself, Richard shared with his subject. He signed the poem 'T' which he often used as

13 April 2020 - R.B. (known to us as 'Barpot') fell over in the care home and broke his hip. He had an operation the following day.   Thursday 20 April 2020 Not long after lunch Barpot phoned from the care home and sounded as bright as a button. He really is astonishing. He said he was sitting on the edge of the bed and that he wasn't bandaged but had a scribble on his left leg – nothing else. He hated hospital and is glad to be back though he has had indigestion and feels sick now and then from all the pills. He is missing company. Even the Saturday newspaper is no longer delivered. He asked if there had been any good obituaries. He had spoken to Miss N and was about to ring 'my nephew, Thomas'. I wonder if he even knows he's had a major operation? Perhaps the new lease of life is down to having 7 pints of someone else's blood pumped into him and it will soon wear off, but what do I know? It's grim that he may not be able to see the people he cares abou

  FABLE   The Dook up in the Carsel   Should now be at his ease, Among subservient minions,   Behind protective trees.   To build his crumbling dungeons   The townsfolk swooned and swore – They fought with sleep to finish them,   They fainted by the score!   Oh – high the hawk should hover,   And tall the tower should stand, – So deep its base is founded   In the corroding sand.