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.

                                                               THE BALLAD OF R.B. ('My name is Barttelot. To the devil with you!')   I may not have been at Eton, And neither, I think, were you, But at least I’m in the Red Book, Though my blood may not be blue. It’s true I have relations Who live in style and state, And dine with generals and dukes Who shoot on their estate (And talk of 'Will' and 'Kate').   My surname’s convoluted And the spelling’s rather hard, But I’m really rather proud of it, Though I can't afford a card; It’s a name which once turned handles And still turns one or two It’s what a gentleman expects, Which can’t mean much to you, (I shouldn’t laugh at you).   When I went up to Oxford In nineteen-fifty-one I was anything but 'hearty' And not much good at 'fun'. I wasn’t ‘academic’ And neither was...

  from A BALLAD OF OPTING OUT   by Richard Barttelot   Now that I've come to forty years I won't for busses run For I have shed my fill of tears And had my share of sun And in whatever time is left Let me be nice or naughty Be out of work, of wealth bereft, But not a fool at forty.   I've had enough of sage advice On sex and economics, I've heard too much about the price Of footballers and comics I've been too suppliant, over-awed , I'll now be high and snorty A cad, a crook, a dud, a fraud But not a fool at forty.   Forsooth the time is getting short The sands are running out When there are no more girls to court And no more rules to flout. I cannot hold back middle age The puffy and the portly Oh let me rage and rant and rave But not be a fool at forty.   I've passed days sitting on my heels Or standing on my head, And but for music and for meals Would sooner be stone dead. Oh make me ...

THE BALLAD OF RICHARD REALF,                by Richard Barttelot   California – here he comes   Into your furthest city; San Francisco – sound your drums   And sing the hills for pity.   He’s crossed the plains of Idaho,   The deserts of Nebraska, From warm, sun-lazy Mexico   To frozen, bleak Alaska.   Oklahoma – there he goes   With his unfinished story; Bison herds and buffaloes   Stampede him on to glory. By dried-up creek and dust-track   He roams through far Montana, Ranging the sagebrush outback   Over the broad savannah.   Mississippi – there he rides   On his unending journey, With leopard skins and lion hides   Ready for tryst or tourney. The wealth of Colorado’s mines   His saddle-bag discloses, Grapes from West Virginian vines,   And Pasadena’s roses.   Arizona – there he lies   Upon the m...