Tanworth-in-Arden
I visited Tanworth-in-Arden, Nick's parents' home, in August 2000. These are my memories of that visit.
Travelling south from Cheshire where I live we passed south of Birmingham and into the rural lushness of Warwickshire on a gloriously sunny day. Having passed by the metropolis, it's striking how rural this area is, littered with villages with Tolkienesque names such as Wooten Wawen, Inkberrow, Upton Snodsbury and North Piddle. Travelling on the road that leads into Tanworth itself, the large individually-designed houses standing in generous grounds reveal that this is an affluent area but in an understated, not ostentatious, manner. The road leads straight into the village centre where we found the church, pub, post office, corner shop and red telephone box. This is such a quintessentially English village immaculately maintained by the residents - I half expected John Steed to walk around the corner as it so much resembled the opening scene in The Avengers film.
Parking the car beside the church wall we entered the church. Opening the large arched door we found the church itself empty but heard the convivial chatter of some elderly ladies upstairs, presumably preparing their elevenses as it was around 11:00. The church is beautiful with richly coloured stained glass windows, banners and the imposing pipes of the organ arching over the chancel entrance and at the organ keyboard itself we found the brass plaque testifying that one of the organ stops had been donated in memory of Nick. I recall reading of visitors who could not find his plaque and presumed that they were looking for it on the organ stops themselves or that the organ's shutter-type lid, to which the plaque is attached, was open at the time of their visit thus hiding it.
Walking back out of the church we noticed the Visitors' Register book. Starting from 1993, the initial entries dutifully report simply the visitors' names and origins but soon after they are out-numbered by Drakite (Drakonian?) entries reporting who they were, where they were from and their dedications. From all over the world people had come and left their mark in this beautiful place, many saying they had come "To remember Nick" and leaving a favourite or apposite lyric to connect: "Let goodly sin and sunshine in", "Who has taken you far from my land?", etc. I left my own dedication and walked back outside into the bright sunshine.
Walking into the graveyard we went searching for Nick's grave expecting a challenge from previous visitors' reports but surprisingly walked straight up to it, virtually in the middle of the yard and beside the main path. Under a mighty oak stands the small, modest headstone inscribed with the names and lifespans of Nick, Rodney and Molly overlooking the Warwickshire countryside. Attached to the oak is a large, weathered, moss-covered board advising that the Drakes' plot is private land and asking visitors to pay their respects by leaving no more than small tokens and flowers, which all respectfully did. Several of the entries in the Visitors' Register commented on how fittingly discreet and discrete the burial plot is which I whole-heartedly agree with. There is no Liberace-type vulgarity nor desecration such as at Jim Morrison's grave at Père La Chaise in Paris. The plot is very modest and understated, entirely appropriate for a man who made a song, but not a dance, of his own life. In front of the headstone was a cluster of items left by those who had come before: a silk rose; a pot of fresh, white carnations; a jar of dying, pink carnations wrapped with a hand-written "Open up the broken cup, Let goodly sin and sunshine in..." lyric; a broken cup; a small laminated photo of Nick (the one of him looking up while standing over the Hasselblad camera); an orange plectrum; a couple of personal messages that had perished in the wind and the rain; a sad greetings-type card with a handwritten note from a poor boy expressing the despair he felt in his own life and asking Nick to give him a sign that he knew and that he cared.
I recalled a previous visitor mentioning that they found the "And now we rise And we are everywhere" lyric on the back of the headstone. I mistakenly interpreted that this had been scratched into the headstone by a visitor but found that it was professionally chiselled into the back of the headstone in the same font as that used on the front. This was comforting as it showed that those who had commissioned the stone had deliberately left evidence of what Nick achieved in his lifetime and fittingly used the uplifting lyric from the last song on the last record released in his lifetime.
I often find myself singing a lyric in my mind, that when I stop and think, has some relevance to what I was thinking of or doing or where I am. I found myself thinking of Fruit Tree and on reflection that connected well with this mighty oak that towers over the grave plot. I recalled how Joe Boyd had said that in Fruit Tree Nick had predicted his own fame after he was gone and here I was, under the acorn-bearing fruit tree, flourishing now its stock was in the ground, far from Nick's dying day, forgotten while he was here, in a darkness that now gives the brightest light, standing and staring now he's gone. My mind then turned to Northern Sky as I looked at the rich blue sky and the billowing white clouds overhead.
Shortly after, I noticed that the burial mound and the headstone are displaced from each other, the headstone being to the left of the head of the mound. I felt sure many had come and unknowingly stood on the mound without noticing, the headstone being the focus of their attention. I recall reading that Nick had been cremated and the headstone was actually a memorial stone but don't recall this being verified by anyone who actually knew Nick or was party to the burial. Perhaps the burial mound is evidence to the contrary; perhaps the mound is due to Rodney and Molly and the headstone's displacement evidence in support of cremation.
We left the graveyard in search of Far Leys, Nick's parents' home where he lived and died, and took the wrong road that led us out of the village but gave us an opportunity to photograph the famed Tanworth-in-Arden roadsign. On returning we passed a road called Bates Lane that rang a bell and sure enough at the end of that lane on the left we found Far Leys. All of the houses in the lane are different in design, are large and benefit from generous grounds. Far Leys, in particular, being a corner plot has ample grounds. As well as being a handsome building with Georgian windows it has no less than a quadruple garage and separate out-buildings. I recognised the house from previous documentaries and photographs but the only thing that positively identified it was a small Far Leys House sign attached to the garage. Preparing to take a couple of photographs I was conscious of not being an intrusion on the villagers and ensuring visitors were respectful when they came to pay their respects. I recalled a documentary where several people had virtually camped outside of Far Leys giving just cause for complaint to the present owners so we parked the car around the corner and kept our time there as brief as possible. The neighbour who lives opposite Far Leys was disposing of some garden refuse with her son so I greeted her with a "Good Morning" which she returned and I complimented her on the beautiful village that they had here which she graciously accepted. She was unperturbed by seeing me photograph Far Leys, confident I was unlikely to be a robber casing the joint and presumably having seen others do the same. As I've said before, it's easy to contrive some kind of presence of the artist when you're in the same places they've been and it was easy outside of the very house where he lived and died to imagine Nick walking down this leafy lane in his trench coat, smoking on a cigarette or joint, exactly like on the cover of the Fruit Tree box set, and his image evaporating into the ether.
As we drove away, my wife commented how Nick could live in such a gorgeous part of the world and look out of the window and feel depressed. It was a valid point that for me brought into sharp focus what went wrong. Nick never wanted for anything material. He came from a beautiful, affluent place that many would dream of living in. But as the lyrics of Clothes of Sand relate, he needed to make his own way, in his own way. Not the Marlborough / Cambridge / safe career route way, but the way that gave Nick personal expression and definition, which was his music. Having chosen that path and artistically excelled so much at it, it was crushing to commercially fail and that crushed him. The Aix / Morrocco trip was the turning point, where he developed an intensity in his music, where the boy became a man, and where his life changed forever.
We then left this beautiful place on this beautiful day feeling uplifted by the experience of having paid our respects and seen it for ourselves and continued on to Stratford to complete the second part of our Drake 'n' Shake day...
Text © NigelDavies.home@Virgin.net