Dark rooms and a Rocking Horse in Scaplen's Court
By chance, one grey November morning, I came across a passageway leading off Poole Old High Street - I'd walked down there from Falkand Square and the Dolphin Centre - I'd gotten tired of looking at bland outlets - the cheery cries of the Big Issue vendor seemed suddenly to be pitiable - when I saw the vendor's drawn face, I thought that I was looking at a character in Mayhew's London Labour and the London Poor - in WH Smiths, the front pages of the Daily Mail exposed a benefits fraud -
Stepping off the Old High Street, I entered the passageway - smooth paving stones were underfoot - each side of me were walls composed of roughly dressed stone - I emerged into a courtyard, open to the cheerless sky -
I was standing in the heart of an old stone house - now, it seemed, managed by Poole Museums Services - in one dark room, set out as a Victorian Kitchen, a woman dressed up as a witch told stories to a group of small children - I remembered it was the week of Halloween -
I walked through the kitchen, looking at a sinister cauldron, suspended from a hook - I made my way up some stairs, to enter a number of large vaulted rooms - in one, there was a display of stuffed animals, frozen and staring in glass cases - I looked for a long time at a rabbit, which looked as though it might haunt my dreams -
One room was set out as a Victorian classroom - the small desks were heavily ink stained and brightly varnished - there was a blackboard, and a relief map of the British Isles - a black clock with stilled hands was fixed to the walls -
I craned my neck to look upwards, at the web of wooden beams holding up the roof - lead latticed windows let in pale smudges of light -
In one room, I was transfixed by a rocking horse - it was placed next to a window, prancing upon a scarlet base - the horse's ears pointed forwards like horns - sharp elegant looking hooves pawed at the air -
I thought of the rocking horse in the story by DH Lawrence - I'd imagined the rocking horse in the story to look very much like this one - I imagined the frail boy, rocking back and forth, entranced, hearing the horse whispering to him - I thought of touching the horse's neck, but I was unable to do so -
Pesvner tells me that the house is called Scalpen's Court, and that it dates from 1500 -
By chance, one grey November morning, I came across a passageway leading off Poole Old High Street - I'd walked down there from Falkand Square and the Dolphin Centre - I'd gotten tired of looking at bland outlets - the cheery cries of the Big Issue vendor seemed suddenly to be pitiable - when I saw the vendor's drawn face, I thought that I was looking at a character in Mayhew's London Labour and the London Poor - in WH Smiths, the front pages of the Daily Mail exposed a benefits fraud -
Stepping off the Old High Street, I entered the passageway - smooth paving stones were underfoot - each side of me were walls composed of roughly dressed stone - I emerged into a courtyard, open to the cheerless sky -
I was standing in the heart of an old stone house - now, it seemed, managed by Poole Museums Services - in one dark room, set out as a Victorian Kitchen, a woman dressed up as a witch told stories to a group of small children - I remembered it was the week of Halloween -
I walked through the kitchen, looking at a sinister cauldron, suspended from a hook - I made my way up some stairs, to enter a number of large vaulted rooms - in one, there was a display of stuffed animals, frozen and staring in glass cases - I looked for a long time at a rabbit, which looked as though it might haunt my dreams -
One room was set out as a Victorian classroom - the small desks were heavily ink stained and brightly varnished - there was a blackboard, and a relief map of the British Isles - a black clock with stilled hands was fixed to the walls -
I craned my neck to look upwards, at the web of wooden beams holding up the roof - lead latticed windows let in pale smudges of light -
In one room, I was transfixed by a rocking horse - it was placed next to a window, prancing upon a scarlet base - the horse's ears pointed forwards like horns - sharp elegant looking hooves pawed at the air -
I thought of the rocking horse in the story by DH Lawrence - I'd imagined the rocking horse in the story to look very much like this one - I imagined the frail boy, rocking back and forth, entranced, hearing the horse whispering to him - I thought of touching the horse's neck, but I was unable to do so -
Pesvner tells me that the house is called Scalpen's Court, and that it dates from 1500 -
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