…. it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us,…”
These lines (from Charles Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities) must be among the best-known openings of any novel in the English language. They came to mind quite by accident today when I made a sudden and surprising discovery. Although we moved into our present home two decades ago we have become keenly aware recently that we brought with us a quantity of stuff that needed sorting out. As we have started to address the possibility that we might need to move house again in the foreseeable future this back-log of sorting and chucking has started to niggle.
This afternoon I found myself in the unfamiliar situation of wondering what I ought to do with myself. I can’t start another picture until at least Saturday, when I can have a session with a friend of mine who has agreed to model for me. My eye lit upon some old files that presented the kind of manageable task that could be undertaken relatively straightforwardly, so I faced up to the job.
Way back in the early ‘seventies I was quite actively involved in voluntary youth work, and led a couple of walking expeditions to Macedonia (the ex-Yugoslav bit!). The first, in April 1971, was a small exploratory visit investigating the possibilities of a trip later with a large group of young people. This second visit took place in the summer of 1973. Re-engaging with this material was a high-impact douche of memory, reminding myself of a world (and an identity) that no longer exists.
The single item that had the greatest effect on me was the discovery of a letter from my first wife, sent to me in Skopje, during the second of the two trips. It enclosed a letter also from our older son, and drawings by both of the boys (the younger was evidently only just starting to attempt to write.) The kids are now in their fifties, with children of their own. Then the world seemed very stable, and taken-for granted. There was a definitiveness about its contents and its prospects. This certainty was, of course, illusory. Asa Dickens observes, “we had everything g before us” but never paused to think what that “everything” might contain.