The Shardist

I fledged from a neat semi-detached nest in the cul-de-sac of a quiet green avenue. 

Just a few yards from our front door, were the high wrought-iron gates of one of London’s fine suburban parks, where a world of adventures awaited. This was my world, accessed almost daily, whatever the weather, either through the gates ( locked daily by ‘Parkie’ ten minutes before dusk)’ or via the network of back alleyways behind the houses, that led to the shadier entrances to the park.

Smooth wide pathways wove through acres of well-mown grass, past dense berried shrubberies, bright seasonally exuberant flowerbeds, and kindly old oak trees, drawing the war-weary into a well-managed world of recreational distractions. The generous playing fields included tennis courts, crazy golf, and a cricket pavilion. In pride of place was a miniature steam-train circuit, run at weekends by a team of oily overalled volunteers. Then there was a central playground where bold and sturdy swings and roundabouts challenged young spirits to explore their limits in a world as yet untuned to the dirges of health and safety. Serious accidents were scarce; scrapes and bangs, black eyes and bloodiness were routine. Scabs and bruises and slings were badges of honour. A shallow ornate pond provided a relatively safe zone of all things aquatic for every season; a tuck shop opened its hatch window on high days and holidays for ice lollies and choc ices and potato crisps in waxed bags with little blue paper twists of salt. And the discreet public toilets behind a row of hedges presented the potential for all the experiences your parents unspecifically warned you of, though your instincts recognised the risks, and advised your legs to run, and suggested you go thereafter with company. 

So - I built dens, accumulated spectacular scabs, herded tadpoles, and filled my I-Spy books with a treasure trove of insects and birds and trees and weeds. Sometimes on a weekend - if I was good - I straddled the highly varnished carriage of the little train, and wreathed in steam and smuts, waved goodbye to my parents as we headed for lands far beyond, never to return until the obligatory teatime. Or so it seemed to a small time-traveller, though barely a five-minute circuit.

Most importantly, the park was where friendships were constantly forged, evaluated, disposed of or entrenched. Courage was tested, skills acquired, limits set, risks explored, intuitions developed, values and wisdoms cultivated, rules negotiated. The alleys were where true grit was required and acquired, this being where the bogeymen (and women) lurked, where tramps snoozed, teenage boys leered and jeered, and the ghosts took shortcuts from the vast nearby graveyard to the cricket pavilion. I was always drawn to the back alleys, providing shortcuts, over-the-wall snoopage and insights into other peoples’ worlds, lots of encounters with cats and wildlife, and also the source of what would become a lifelong addiction. 

The alleys were very rough tracks, with deep potholes which were regularly filled with the ever-abundant debris of the local bombsites. Herewithin the source of my ‘treasure’. Shards are broken jigsaw pieces of china, pottery, tiles, glass - the scattered fragments of rudely interrupted normal lives. I was picky, selecting only the most intriguing patterns and colours, but I had soon accumulated a bucketful behind the shed. When I was given my own piece of garden to create and tend, my shards provided an element of decor. My early musings on their provenance has remained a lifelong habit, along with the compulsion of collection. As powerful and irresistible an urge as stooping at the glimpse of a shining conker, my prime hunter gatherer sites are gardens, ploughed land, molehills, beaches, riverbeds and streams. The thrill is in spotting a plain piece, and reaching to turn it over. More often than not it is plain on the flipside too, in which case it stays put. But sometimes the reveal is a fragment of something once beautiful. Many of my scraps end up incorporated in random creative outbursts, others lurk in bowls and boxes and handbags and pockets. The gathering is an act of compulsion, which I have to complete by assuming the responsibility of casual custodianship. 

I seldom set out with sharding in mind, but certain places demand that it be a part of my visit. I frequently drop in on a favourite ancient ruined cottage by a stream, and there I feel it obligatory to hunt. There I usually find chunks of plain and homely pots that once protected precious bread or potatoes, and maybe an occasional chink of plain blue-trimmed tableware. Treasure indeed, however, on the day I found two sizeable shards of good willow-pattern, that would have commanded a place of honour in such a simple dwelling - a breakage that no doubt caused a heartache, a fragment that now carries with it a wee speculative wisp of history. My best collection I keep in my grandfather’s ancient leather fire-bucket: long ago, I stumbled on the riverbank waste tipping point at the ruins of a renowned local mansion, once frequented by the glitterati of the day. There I fished out a few handsome chunks of old posh that I like to think were once licked by Turner.

I recently met up with my son at the remnants of an old abbey. A site long restored and cosmeticised for visitors, it certainly isn’t a place that would trigger shard detector mode. But as we chatted, my eye fell on a small magical fragment. I gasped, I pounced, I cooed, as I gazed on what lay in my hand - a thin curve of glaze of the most intricate medieval design and coloration. Probably my best ever treasure, I gingerly proffered it for my son’s admiration. He carefully took it, and in deference to my breathless excitement, gently touched my arm. “Do you have your glasses to hand?” As I rummaged, he announced “It is rather amazing, but it’s actually a false fingernail.”