21 JULY 1990, Page 30
Post Modern
And in this time, the beech bowers lead to homesteads ranged about the southern counties: a house completely occluded by green, a lake out of Hitchens and its weeping willows, another under downs with looming yews.
The work goes on. The painters find the genius loci lurking in dewponds; the Pasque flower appears in a new location; the southern slopes warm to the English vine.
It is easy living with trugs and dibbers, firework feasts and baked potatoes; and here are your friends, each one unique, a fount of some particular wisdom.
So why do I leave at a loss when I call, these innocent pursuits seem tinged with vice?
where did it enter, my salt conviction:
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