Barton Orchard remembered
Our new regular columnist, Ralph Oswick, looks back (fairly) fondly to his days as a resident of Bradford on Avon
I had the pleasure of living in a delightful cottage in Breton Orchard for about 16 years. I love it there and to tell you the truth I only moved because I kept banging my head.
My bijou residence was right by the gate leading into that semi-private street. The gate kept nothing in and nothing out, but we residents were incensed if a wayward motorist left it open. The sound of tyres on gravel had me rushing to my upstairs window, ready to glare. Every time I bent to look out, I would bash my head on the solid stone. Every time. In the end, fearing permanent concussion, I moved to high-ceilinged splendour in Bath.
Because of the sloping land, the cottages are somewhat eccentric in their layout. The back entrance is on the second floor, with each level joined by an open spiral staircase. The polished wooden treads would often deposit me unceremoniously into the ground floor lounge.
This cosy room was graced with an alcove containing a well. A desirable mod-con in the 1700s. I fitted the alcove with one of those lights favoured by cannabis growers and installed a weeping fig. Approached from the direction of Church Street of an evening, the bright light and the green foliage really did look like I was indulging in nefarious horticultural activities. Much comment in the alleyway!
I still have that shrub nearly 40 years later, which must be a record for a pot plant.
Quaint period feature the well may have been, but I foolishly decided to clean it out. Shortly after, I was in Germany performing in a Christmas show with my Natural Theatre chums. On Boxing Day, I phoned my friend John (yes, our esteemed chairman) only to be told by his wife Alison that he was round at my place, mopping it out. "I wasn't supposed to tell you," she said. Someone had spotted water pouring under my front door, and by the time I got back a week or so later my expensive reclaimed Russian oak parquet flooring had turned into a veritable herringbone dome.
If the current residents are worried by this revelation, don't fret, the insurance company paid for a complete overhaul of the drainage system. And the inestimable Terry the Tiler managed to seal the floor and lower the wooden dome back to a more convenient plain.
It was a very friendly neighbourhood and we would usually have a communal Christmas Day dinner. My cooking skills are zilch so I oversaw the cheese. One year, the country's relationship with our Gallic neighbours was at an all-time low. "We don't want anything French!" came the cry from the redoubtable ladies of the batch. So, I purchased a trolley load of Budgen's best continental selection and spent a pleasant couple of hours peeling the labels off and replacing them with substitutes saying 'British Brie and 'Somerset Camembert. I think enough time has passed for this misdemeanour to be revealed! Some of you will know me by my alter-ego Lady Margaret. She is a grande dame with a penchant for declaring things open. At the time, she was a regular guest on Mile's Kington's weekly chat show on Radio 4. Her Ladyship was required to deliver a topical homily and occasionally sing a satirical ditty. As the programme was recorded with live guests, I was obliged to wear the full outfit, floral frock et al. Which is a bit like Peter Brough, who along with his dummy Archie Andrews, was the first, and probably the last, radio ventriloquist!
Once, I was due to go on tour and unable to attend the studio recording, so the BBC sent a sound man to Barton Orchard to record Lady Margaret's latest rant. For the life of me, I couldn't get the voice right. After many takes, I remembered I had one of Margaret's hats under my bed (like you do). I popped it on, and lo! The voice came out perfectly.
At that point, a neighbour came round with a message. One look through my front window revealed me, in normal clothes, a huge feathered Ascot creation perched on my head, with the sound man kneeling at my feet, holding up an enormous furry microphone. All backed up by what appeared to be an illuminated whacky baccy plant!
They beat a hasty retreat.
Along-term member of Bradford on Avon Preservation Trust, Ralph was Artistic Director of Baths Natural Theatre for 45 years and is now an active patron of Bath Comedy Festival
