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Samuel Palmer’s Valley of Vision


The artist Samuel Palmer is widely considered to have painted his best pictures whilst living in the small West Kent village of Shoreham, nestled in the Darenth valley, the only break in the North Downs. Palmer was onto something with Shoreham, a deep mysticism lived within the paradise of the surrounding countryside. Some say he nicknamed Shoreham ‘the Valley of Vision’, though in fact the valley he meant was over the Western down, a wild place of waterless meadows and forest. If you look at his paintings from this period, they are striking in their boldness of colour, the mysterious narratives and deep romanticism for the countryside of old Albion. I see many connections between his vision and the later vision of Edward Thomas, whose poem ‘Adlestrop’ seems to occupy a similar psychological ground as Palmer’s Shoreham paintings.

Palmer was a continuing presence in my childhood. I was born in nearby Sevenoaks, my family home was in Shoreham, a semi-detached, pebble-dashed council house. During my teenage years I used to wash up the dinner plates in the Samuel Palmer School of Fine Art, run by Gertrude Franklin-White, the wife of the late Australian painter Franklin-White. The school was for amateur painters in a row of old workers cottages that had been assembled into one property. For a teenage boy, it was a dark and eerie place, full of dried flowers and giant art books, with Gertrude confined to one area of the house with the Guardian for Arts and the Telegraph for news. I remember the visiting artists, people escaping their marriages for a few days, dark moody men painting furiously in the gardens, women half-flirting with me from the humid grasses at the back of the house, as I carried a wobbly tray of Robinsons’ cordials to the metal garden tables.

Franklin-White’s place had nothing to do with Palmer other than its glib use of his name. He lived in the much neater River House (after leaving the nomenclature suggested squalor of ‘Rat Abbey’), whose wall is covered in broken glass from the 19th century to see off any potential apple scrumpers.

But Shoreham was a paradise for a boy: the many tracks through the woods that could be tackled by mountain bike; the golf course where we could earn a few pounds selling lost golf balls picked from the hedges and sold where footpaths and greens intersected; the steep climbs and oddly birdless woods of the Eastern hill; the ruined pub ‘The Pig & Whistle’ that various parents told us were once smuggler dens for stuff coming off the Thames; the MOD rifle range that could be infiltrated when the red flag wasn’t flying; the dene holes that disappeared into the earth that we would climb down and explore, all without our parents’ knowledge. Back then the public information films were warning us about flying kites too near to pylons or playing near railway lines. There were no warnings about clambering down man-made chalk caves.

But returning to the Valley of Vision, there used to be a dilapidated old building called Shepherd’s barn. It was a dark place in our young consciousness as my father told us that a young farmhand had taken his life there in the early 20th century. This desolate lonely place at the head of Palmer’s valley of vision where a man felt compelled to take his own life by hanging is now crossed by a million people every day on the M25: what Iain Sinclair referred to as ‘Thatcher’s pearl necklace slowing choking London,’ which tore through the valley in a whirlwind of massive ground works in 1985. The barn is now a foot-tunnel with obligatory orange lighting. Either way, it’s a far cry from what Palmer saw.

M25 Shepherds Barn

I rode my bicycle on the M25, six months before it was due to open, when the tarmac was new and unblemished. Here, on my stabilised BMX, I had my first taste of poetry. I had been given my first collection, beautifully bound and fresh to the touch, uncrumpled, not yet stained by exhaust fumes from Derry, by fast food cartons from Pease Pottage, by fag-ends from Dudley, by timbered magic trees from Red Lodge.

(Pierre) Dupont sensed the approaching crisis of lyric poetry as the rift between city and country grew wider. One of his verses contains an awkward admission of this: Dupont says the poet “lends his ear alternately to the forests and to the masses”

Walter Benjamin
Benjamin, Belknapp 2003

The word rift suggests a vacuum, a space between. Perhaps the Motorway has become the physical embodiment of that rift between city and country, but let’s deliberately miss-hear that as a riff between city and country for now, and imagine the sleepers beneath the smatter of stars slipping under the light pollution of the capital, hearing the avant-garde music of the M25. To those awake, the constant drone-rock is like an unlit gas hob, but to those asleep, it is the sound of empty shopping malls, un-let units full of headaches waiting to be discovered on the somnambulist’s sojourns. It’s the sound of human migration being blown into the ears of sleepers, a sandman with an undisclosed interest in the English Motorway System.

Posted 8 years ago

3 comments on “Samuel Palmer’s Valley of Vision”

i too grew up in Shoreham and after twenty years as a townie i moved back three years ago

This piece is a bit weird/eerie on timing. The old franklin white place went up for sale on saturday … it is now very run down and delapadated but quite beautiful and mysterious (how i wish i could buy it and lavish some love on it’s careworn timbers

and the unusable timbers from Sheppards Barn are to be sold off next Sunday after decades of being stored in a more modern barn

The Valley of Vision may have succumbed to the violent intrusion of the M25 but the village remains the same beautiful slightly magical place of rambles and daydreams

Posted 8 years ago by Elie Williams

Hi Elie,

Thanks for that info – I too would love to buy that house. The gardens alone are a magical thing. The house was a series of worker’s cottages I think, which FW bought and knocked through.

The auction of Shepherd’s Barn is funny after all these years, I used to find it really spooky. My memory tells me that it sometimes was illuminated by a single bulb, I don’t know why I remember that, or even if that’s correct. Shoreham is still beautiful. Will post another piece very soon.

Posted 8 years ago by Andrew McDonnell

Thank you for this beautifully written article (Andrew?). Indeed, Shoreham is still beautiful and still feels distant from the city. Franklin White (Painter) was my Grandfather; his son Peter, Franklin White (Dancer) was my father. I spent many magical times there is the gardens, in the “humid grasses” and also in the huge property beyond, before it was sold to a developer to become the Boakes Meadow Estate. At the north end there is a street called “Palmer’s Orchard,” no less! Gertrude was very kind to the little boy from London, when he visited, and I last saw her in about 1998, or so. I stayed over that night in my father’s old room. I remember the teas in the 60s for the students, after the afternoon painting session and after the work was critiqued by Frank, (FW) Edmund, his younger son, and even by my father. I think that white barn/studio north west of the house was still there when I sneaked into the property shortly after it was sold. It was all dilapidated, indeed, and the garden was returning to a forest. Then work the new owners gave done to house is remarkable; it looks as grand as I imagined it as a boy, better, in fact. I would love to see what remains of the garden behind. I’m not sure who the owners are, but I think their mother said they owned a large floral business, near by.

Posted 1 year ago by Michael Franklin-White

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