At what point does fandom cross the line and become outright fanaticism? I may or may not be the person to answer this question, but whether tellingly or no, I thought it would be a great idea to visit Nick Drake’s final resting place in Tanworth-in-Arden. About a three-hour train ride from London, the late singer/songwriter/guitarist’s hometown is a quaint little village in the English midlands that’s full of quaint little houses, a quaint old church, and various other quaint things.
I arrived at Danzey train station a little after eleven and proceeded to trudge uncertainly down the main drag until I caught sight of the not-to-distant steeple of an old church (St. Mary Magdalene’s). I kept on up the road until I reached a little wooden kissing gate that led into this church’s graveyard, thinking there couldn’t possibly be two church burial grounds in as unassuming a hamlet as this. Incredibly, I was upon Drake’s gravesite within the space of a few strides. Here I’d come all this way, thinking I’d be wandering for hours and hours, asking indignant locals for even more indignant directions, and I’d suddenly found myself practically treading on the very object of my pilgrimage, minutes after getting off the train. I didn’t really know what to do with myself.
Still, there I was, standing mere feet from the remains of one of the most brilliant talents of the 1970s and a long-standing personal idol of mine. I knelt down beneath an irritatingly restrictive sign of some verbosity to behold a meager headstone inscribed with the deceased’s name, lifespan, and a brief dedication by his parents (their life spans also). On the reverse side, the haunting lyrical excerpt, “Now we rise and we are everywhere,” culled from “From the Morning,” the last song on Drake’s final album, Pink Moon. I was impressed and relieved by the humility of it all, and the sodden tributes that lay round, including a cracked drumstick, guitar picks, and a few coins (to which I added a shiny five pence), seemed appropriately quiet. Around the base of the stone, someone had planted a cluster of violets. I stood there for a moment, taking the scene in.
Still a grave’s a grave, and being especially impartial to his suddenly “rising and being everywhere,” I figured I’d scarper and leave ol’ Nick to his own devices.
I headed off down the main road and passed the town’s premier pub, The Bell, which I later found out was a really tacky attempt at an upscale hotel (although the food wasn’t half bad). Then I came to a small gap in one of the innumerable hedgerows and discovered a “public footpath” that led into some verdant pasture beyond. My devotion to public life being especially ardent at that moment, I hopped over an awkward stepladder and began an hour’s trudge through the surrounding farmland.
Let it be known that there is, in fact, no “path” involved, and I soon found myself in a fair amount of mud. It was pretty great though. I’ve seen parts of the English countryside before, from out the windows of cars and trains mostly, but actually being there, with all the mud and clay caked to my boots was something else entirely. Thankfully sheep don’t spit, because I most certainly came within range more than once. I struck mortal terror in the hearts of a couple of jittery ducks in a nearby pond and glimpsed the vanishing tail of a March Hare in the middle distance. It was all very tranquil overall, and I could almost imagine the ghost of Wordsworth oo-ing and ah-ing as he tramped through the undergrowth towards Tintern Abbey (not too far away).
At the end of my excursion I wandered down some of the residential side streets, and, by sheer chance, came upon a house that I believe once belonged to the Drake family, which was called “Far Leys.” “Far Leys House,” as it is today, has an air of renovation, and, judging from the shiny gate and CCTV camera perched snidely atop a prominent garage of some sort, I only snapped one photo of the premises (mostly obscured by trees) and one of its gold-lettered nametag.
I made my way back to the church and passed a short while on a bench “gravely reading the stones” until it was time to catch the train back. Pretty tiring day. I’ll post some pictures now. More on my FLICKR page.
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