Magic

Until I grew up, my dad was a god-like figure to me. I compared myself to him and consistently failed to live up to his greatness. He was an idealist, which hurt, and a weaver of magic, which was brilliant.

He was an art teacher and was involved in the Hornsey College sit-in, in 1968. After which, he became convinced “men in grey coats” were following him and that our phone was tapped. In 1969 he saw Easy Rider and decided that was it; he was going to throw off the system and live life his own way.

I was four and my brother seven when my parents split. I was too young to realise what I was going to be missing for the rest of my life. My brother wasn’t so fortunate.

We left North London and Mum and went to live in Somerset, in a small cottage near (you guessed it) Glastonbury. The cottage became a craft centre called Dove Cottage (there’s supposed to be a Zodiac mapped out around Glastonbury and we were in the dove-shaped bit. I know there’s no dove in astrology. Don’t ask me.). When drop-outs from the rat race began to arrive from various parts of the country, my dad built bunk beds for them in the living room.

I guess this is when our house became what is commonly known as a “hippie commune”. I didn’t exactly welcome the new family members, and I absolutely hated nut rissoles, but I learnt to enamel copper, make jewellery and throw a pot (amongst other things). When no more hippies could be squeezed into the cottage, my dad bought an old run down farm round the corner. He had it rebuilt, with areas added for craft workshops – pottery, weaving, drawing and painting, etching, carpentry, jewellery – and named it The Dove Centre.

The place soon filled up with society’s disaffected. Entire families arrived and set up home. All the residents were to be called “Craftists” and The Dove Centre was to be made self-sustainable, teaching the locals art and crafts. The place soon became my dad’s third child, and a very demanding one it was too.

That was when it really hurt. Dad was so busy running this place, he didn’t really have time for me and my brother. I didn’t get on with my new mum much, either. And I missed my real mum desperately. When she was due a visit, I would sit at the top of the drive, watching the cars go past, hoping the next would be hers, speculating “It’ll be the fourth car counting the next one. One…”. I could sit there for hours.

One night, I sat in the pottery workshop, alone in the dark, crying tears of self-pity. One tear fell on my dad’s desk. I circled it with a pen and wrote “My tear”. Erm, I think I was trying to tell him something. My dad found it, but I didn’t get exactly the reaction I’d hoped for. The story of “my tear” became an amusing anecdote for all the hippies to chuckle about over their boiled cabbage and lentils.

Do I sound bitter? It’s OK, I’m coming to the good bit. See, my dad believed in magic. Still does. And for a young boy, how wonderful is that? At night, he would tell us mind-blowing “make up stories”, which were way better than anything you could read in a book. In the day, he made the world seem an amazing place, full of fairies, goblins, lay lines, ghosts, spaceships and adventures. I wasn’t badly treated, no, I was privileged. While my schoolmates lived in a relatively mundane world of practicalities; the world my dad created for me was one of endless possibilities and seductive mysteries, where magic beamed from every sunset, boomed with every thunder clap, hid in every shadow and sneaked through every forest. And for that, I celebrate him.