Wednesday, 30 September 2020

Ted Hughes and Lumb Bank Reflections

On Ted, Assia and Shura

I learned recently of the final resting place of Ted Hughes' lover Assia Wevill and their daughter Alexandra Tatiana Elise (known as Shura). After my wanderings, I wrote a poem to crystallise and preserve my thoughts, which is at the end of this blog. 

I visited the area around Heptonstall and Ted's house he bought in the late 60s, Lumb Bank, now a writer's retreat, pictured below from the public footpath leading down into the Calder Valley. 



After the filicide/suicide of Assia and Shura at their London home in Okeover Manor, Clapham Common, Ted cremated their remains rather than carrying out Assia's earlier request for burial. It has only recently come to light where the ashes have been laid to rest. I travelled to the area, where the sycamores grow and absorbed the atmosphere and feeling of the valley. 



This seemed to be the right kind of place to close a chapter and bury the past away from prying eyes. Although there is no memorial spot, I believe Ted acted in good faith considering the pressures he had been under to spill the beans on his relationships. But a secret, or private, resting place, known but to himself, could be seen as an act of dignity and respect rather than a way of hiding any perceived controversy or hullabaloo. After all, Sylvia's headstone has been vandalised a number of times, fuelling more division than harmony. 

From this we can see a secluded place of rest was the best option to calm the public and private commotion. After this Ted went on to marry and continued to write. Maybe the burying of the ashes was not only a symbolic gesture, but the only avenue open to him in order to move on and develop his life and his talent. 

On Assia and Shura Wevill

In the copse no corpses here where both you rest
Skin so scorched it has become the land
Bones as powdered as lava sand

Descended to the underworld by a burdened hand
Hurriedly but thoughtfully as secretly as dreamers fly
Hidden proudly away from those that may pry

You now play where sycamores sky-scrape
Dance with their keys on the summer breeze
Huddled together, daughter and mother, in the winter freeze

Lumb’s shadow reaches out to touch the remnant memories of the valley
Where lives given were extracted too soon from their birth
Into the ground, into the seasoned earth.