Tuesday 29 March 2016

A Haunted House

When I was a child, Snowshill Manor was an astonishing place. I vividly remember the fleets of wooden ships, the shelves overflowing with theatrical masks and musical instruments, the darkened room full of Samurai armour at the top of the stairs. As an adult, the magic is a little faded. You become more discriminating, notice how the vast collection contains nonsense as well as wonders. You see the acres of bad paintings and the faded stuffed toys. You wonder at the necessity of hundreds of bicycles jammed incongruously into an attic. Beautiful workmanship nestles against rotting kitsch.

You notice other things too.