Anglicana
Exploring notions of nostalgia in the English landscape

Photographs, stories and music

Phil Curry

As a musician I’ve had a lifelong love of what we now call Americana, or American roots music - a term which spans everything from Delta blues to folk and indie rock. This fascination has also spilled over to my photography, through the work of people such as William Eggleston and J Bennett Fitts - those images of places seemingly in the middle of nowhere; of run down motels, signs swinging half off their hinges and empty swimming pools, all portrayed in a dusty desaturated colour.

I began to wonder whether similar places existed in England and more specifically around where I live in Kent. Recently, by chance visiting a friend, she showed me her neighbour’s empty pool, which I just had to photograph. With a bit of post-editing, it could have been taken in 1959 and this planted the seed to search for my own nostalgic locations that have a certain resonance with that Americana atmosphere.

To help reinforce this, I have written short accompanying stories, the protagonists looking back at a time when something happened that either affected them then, or sent them on a journey of discovery in later life. Most of the stories are written as 'stream of consciousness', i.e I start writing without any clear image of what the story will be about. The reader might like to imagine how the narrative unfolds, preferably in a comfortable chair with a glass of something nice.

I have also created a ‘soundtrack to the images and stories which can be heard here and also purchased from from my Bandcamp site:

philcurryuk.bandcamp.com

I like my Americana, so I suppose you could call this... ‘Anglicana’.

Work in progress:

Although all the images and stories shown here (click on the image) will be shown as part of the 'Many Hands' group exhibition at The Pie Factory gallery in Margate in June 2024, the are only 10 tunes available here. I plan to take more images and compose five more pieces of music... so watch this space!

Frank's Caravan

They left Frank’s caravan parked in the garden as a reminder of how his life had been and why he would never go back. Two years before, Angela had painted it using whatever paint she could find in the garage. “That’s a bit random, isn’t it?” Frank had laughed. “Well, the whole thing was a bit random if you ask me,” Angela replied, referring to the way in which Frank’s caravan had ended up in her garden. “It’s ok,” Frank said, “I never liked the colour anyway. The door to the caravan was locked and Frank had thrown away the key. Inside, it was like a time capsule, with all Franks things lying around just as they had been when his old blue Transit finally breathed its last right outside Angela’s house.

The Slide.

When I was young, my cousins were always crashing down the slide, but it never appealed to me. I was a bit intimidated by their total desire to immerse themselves in water before breaking to the surface, spluttering and laughing. It made me wonder what it would be like to drown. I tried it in the bath once, opening my mouth to let the soapy water fill my lungs, forcing me to emerge a second later coughing and choking. They never laughed at me because I had no desire swim but my previous experience in the bath somehow prevented me from ever joining them in the water. Nowadays, with a daughter who swims like a fish, I wish I’d had the courage to take the plunge.

The feed shed.jpg

In later years, when Charlotte recalled what happened in the feed shed that day and how her uncle returned from the war, the first thing she remembered was having to go out in the torrential rain to cover the horses. When she got there, two of them were standing, backs soaked but with their heads in the shed munching their way through a bale of hay. But what took her completely by surprise was the fact that there was a man curled up sleeping in a corner, with an army greatcoat draped over him for warmth. Charlotte coughed to let him know he had company. The man sat up slowly and raised his arm to his forehead as if to see the person who had disturbed his sleep more clearly, “Kto ty”, he asked in what Charlotte later discovered was Russian…

The pool.

The pool was empty now and moss was beginning to grow on the slide. There was no point in getting nostalgic, John thought, the house was sold and all his grandmother’s memories packed up and sent off to storage. One day he would have to face the task of sorting it all out. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out a faded photograph. In it, the pool was full and his grandmother was lying on a sun bed on the left hand side, dressed in a red swimsuit, wearing a floppy straw hat and sunglasses. There was a small table next to her with a drink on. She was smiling and waving at the photographer, which John assumed must have been Paul, his grandfather. Turning it over, he read, “To my only love, always and all ways, Alec.”

The Club.

In the back room, the silence was palpable although there were still a few men in the bar playing snooker, the faint click of the balls penetrating the stillness. “Bastards,” thought Gerry to himself, “…bad as scabs…” although only a few had actually tried to cross the picket lines. Now, the union men at the meeting sat with bowed heads, some clutching their caps, everyone trying to take in the reality of the situation. Snowdown pit was closing, there would be no work tomorrow and Thatcher had won.

Adelaide Farm Cafe.jpg

They used to come storming down from London back then in the 60s and the forecourt would be full of Triumphs, Beezers and Royal Infields. Inside they’d all be sitting in their leathers, scoffing egg and chips or bacon sarnies before taking off to battle the Mods on the beach in Margate. One year, though, Jim and Cynthia came down together and decided to have a look at Deal instead. When they got back to Norwood she said “Jim, why don’t we move down there? It would be a great place for the little ‘un when he comes,” and patted her stomach, where the bump was just beginning to show. At the time Jim just laughed, but one day he didn’t come home from work until late at night. “Where’ve you been?” Cynthia said, “I was worried sick. You haven’t gone and bought a new bike?” But Jim just smiled and threw some keys on the table. “I’ve done better than that Cynth,” he said. “ You’re looking at the new owner and head chef of the Adelaide Farm Cafe.”

The Vintage Sale

Clarissa couldn’t remember a time when there hadn’t been a summer jumble sale at the village hall, although she’d never gone, it was really just for the locals. And of course now, they called it ‘Vintage’ - there were signs fixed to the telegraph poles. She had no idea people would want all those old dresses her mother had in the attic, but one early evening, a well-spoken young lady had called at Grove Hall wondering if she had anything she’d like to contribute. At first she’d said no, not really, but as the young lady thanked her and walked back to her car, she suddenly had second thoughts and called her back. Twenty minutes later, the young lady looked at the dresses Clarissa brought from the attic and took a sharp breath, “Do you realise what these are?” “Oh, they’re just Mummy’s old things.” Clarissa said,“But there’s an original Chanel and a Schiaparelli… and I think that’s a Lanvin,” the young lady exclaimed. Later, Clarissa sat down and poured herself a glass of port. It felt strangely as if a weight had been taken off her mind.

The Safe House

He hung out the washing and looked around at the landscape. Apart from the wooden houses dotted about, it was so flat you could probably see someone coming from a long way off. The police had installed cameras at all the angles of the house, as well as on the telegraph poles and lamp posts along the only access road, so as long as he kept a weather eye out, he’d be ok. He wasn’t sure, but he had a feeling that the Department had also rented the white house he could see over the scrub landscape of Dungeness. Perhaps one day he’d pop over and say hello, just to wind them up. The week before, with back up - someone he’d never seen before, he’d insisted on going to the local pub. He ordered a pint and sat in a corner. They were the only ones there, both sitting at opposite ends of the long room. It was decorated with photographs of ships and festooned with items of fishing tackle and a list of boats that had gone down in the Channel, just off Dungeness. “You blokes from London? the young bar girl asked. “Not exactly,” he replied. The back up said nothing but his hand instinctively reached under his for jacket for a moment, before relaxing.

The Moon - or somewhere similar

You should get down there,” his mates said. “It’s insane!”So he did. He’d never seen anything like it. Who knew this stuff was so close to London? The landscape was like the moon… or so he imagined, apart from the skeletons of old fishing boats, stranded by the receding shoreline. And the fishermen’s huts, long since abandoned once it was finally deemed unfeasible to ply their trade from a beach that was rapidly being swallowed by the sea. Where were they all now then? Certainly not in one of the revamped summer cottages dotted about the beach, prized for their ‘artistic’ location by the ‘up from London’ crowd. More likely in a bungalow along the sea wall, from which you couldn’t even see the sea. But he loved the place; so weird and other-worldly, with its massive skies, desert-like scrubland, strange, silent nuclear power station, and the skeletons of huts and boats as a reminder that there once was human life here.

Dilapidated labourer's shack, peeling paint, old shed,

The Pilgrimage

Jakob and his three kids stood in front of the derelict shack. “And you lived there, dad?” Simon, the oldest, asked. “Yes,” Jakob said, his accent hardly noticeable but still betraying his Polish roots. “There were seven of us. We worked in the orchards alongside the road we just drove down.” His thoughts went briefly back to that time. Seven of them cooped up in that shack; the smell of unwashed men and cheap cigarettes. He was the only Pole, all the rest were Romanian. And as the only one with an education who could speak English, he got the job of interpreter, making sure the wages were fairly shared out and buying the weekend beer and extra supplies from the village shop he now owned every Friday.
Stephanie, his seven year-old daughter went up to the door and looked in. “Ugh!” she said and shut it again quickly, “It’s full of dead flies. Remind us why we’re here, dad?” Jakob smiled, he had no need to look inside. “So you know where you come from, kids,” he said, “ Come on, let’s get back to your mum, it’s teatime,” and picking up his youngest son, he turned and set off back down the lane, the other two running along in front.

World War II pillbox, grassy field, deserted building, WW2, defence structure.

The First Kiss

It must have been summer 1959 and I was six. It was still close enough to the end of the war that small boys like myself were fascinated by all the military paraphernalia that still littered the English countryside and this pillbox was no exception. We weren’t supposed to play in it but my friends and I used to ride out to it to play Jerries and English, although no one wanted to be a Jerry. We would fire pretend machine guns at an imaginary enemy somewhere across the fields from the slits in the walls. Susan Kirby often used to cycle by our house with her friends from our class and wave. One day she came alone while I was fixing a puncture like my dad had shown me. She came straight to the point: “I bet you haven’t been inside that pill box at the end of the lane.” “I bet I have,” I boasted. “Well show me,” she said and waited while I inflated my tyre. It took about ten minutes to get there. We dropped our bikes in the long grass and went in. “See,” I said. I’m not scared. Then as I turned around, she kissed me on the cheek and ran out. I followed her and we rode home in silence, neither of us knowing what to say.

WW2 airbase, derelict building, Royal Airforce, disused airfield,

The Advanced Landing Ground

Geoff pulled up at the edge of the grass. His leg ached from four hours of driving and he hopped slightly as he got out of the car. “The old war wound,” he quipped, slapping his thigh. “Don’t be daft,” his wife said from inside the old 1942 Riley he had lovingly restored after retiring from the bank, “You fell off your plane and broke your leg! Are you sure this is it?”
Geoff laughed over his shoulder,”Yep,” he replied and walked a little further over the tussocky grass. “And I never left the ground again.”
“Apart from holidays,” Mary said, getting out of the car to join him. They stood in silence for a while, looking at the old concrete RAF building.
“It’s all gone now, he said. “This used to be the squadron office, I think. There was a NAAFI where we ate but otherwise, we lived in tents” Mary slid her arm through his. “I’m glad you never flew again,” she said reflectively. “I might have lost you somewhere over France.”

Derelict industrial site, old factory, overgrown buildings, industry, iron staircase,

The Factory

It was grey day and the sky was just a featureless leaden sheet. I was mooching around looking for something interesting to photograph and suddenly the sun came out and made shadows on the brickwork of the factory. I took the shot, not knowing how it would turn out and went into The Turner’s Arms right across the road for a lunchtime pint. Leaning against the bar, trying to look local, I got talking to 80 year-old Jack who said he’d worked there. I paid for his pint and mine; “Thanks very much mate,” he said, then we went over to have a look at the place.
“Bloody barbed wire,” he said. “I could’ve shown you around. It might look shite now but it was different when I was a lad.”
“What, you mean prettier?” I was joking a bit.
“No, proper. It was working.” He laughed, reminiscing; “When I started there, they sent me down to the stores to ask for a Long Stand. I stood there for ages and finally said, what about that long stand?”
“Haven’t you stood there long enough, they said. They thought it was hilarious.”
That made it for me, whether I’d taken the shot or not.

corrugated iron shed, farm building, storage, workshop, disused barn,

The Red Barn

My dad used to get the car repaired there. It wasn’t really a mechanic’s but he knew the bloke that owned it who used to repair farm machinery, so perhaps he was a mechanic. I often went with dad to pick up the car when it was fixed and the barn always smelled of sweat, oil and petrol and something indefinable I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then in the 70s, I went to university and recognised the sweet vegetational whiff of grass. I was never one for that sort of thing, I always preferred a drink, but one day when I was home for the summer, I heard the unmistakeable tones of Charlie Parker coming from the study. I knocked on the door in a way I’d never done before and went in. Dad put down his sax. I said, “Dad, blast from the past…when I was a kid did you and Mac ever smoke grass at the Red Barn?” He laughed; “You found me out. Of course we did, we were both jazzers. Everyone who played back in the 50s used to smoke weed. You kids think it was all rock and roll but we were doing it way before you ever picked up a guitar.” He paused, “Don’t tell your mum though,” he said conspiratorially and winked, as if I was finally allowed in the jazz club with him.

WW2, disused station, overgrown railway tracks,

Disembarkation

“You all right, granddad?” Stella asked. “Yes,” he replied, “I’m just remembering.” They stood for a minute in silence in the middle of the railway lines, certain in the knowledge that no train would be coming. “I’m just remembering. I think it was here we disembarked from the troop trains. It’s different now, of course, but not much. Yes, I’m sure it was. There would have been a roof then, though.” He stopped, his memory giving out, which at 98, wasn’t surprising.
“Where are we, love?” “Folkestone, “ Stella said, pronouncing it Folkstun. “You wanted to to see it.” “Ah yes, Folk Stone,” Harry replied, pronouncing it as two words. “Then I just went back to Yorkshire and married your grandma.”
“As if the war had never happened, “ Stella said.
Harry paused, “Yes, as if the war had never happened.” And they stood there in silence.
“But it had,” he added, as the memories suddenly came flooding back.

Frank's CaravanPhil Curry

00:00 / 03:13

The Feed ShedPhil Curry

00:00 / 03:53

The Pool/Clarissa's waltzPhil Curry

00:00 / 02:24

The SlidePhil Curry

00:00 / 02:29

The Pool Phil Curry

00:00 / 03:25

The Safe House Phil Curry

00:00 / 02:31

First KissPhil Curry

00:00 / 02:29

The Red BarnPhil Curry

00:00 / 03:17

DisembarkationPhil Curry

00:00 / 02:22

Adelaide Farm CafePhil Curry

00:00 / 03:11

Anglicana Exploring notions of nostalgia in the English landscape

Anglicana
Exploring notions of nostalgia in the English landscape