Ville to Villa

Early yesterday evening, after seeing my cousin Ville and his wife Ceci off in a taxi, I pulled on my walking shoes (Jack Purcells) and shot out the door, with just my keys, a camera, and two pounds in my pocket should I need refreshments. I am still preoccupied with locating the residences of my butterfly lady.

When I was a child we would visit my aunt Mary in Abergavenny every boxing day. I would get terribly wheezy because of the combination of cat and carpet. She had a dart board and trophies; I eyed the glamorous bottles of Babycham in the drinks cabinet. When we left my dad would drive around the town, pointing out his old haunts. I never tired of this: I stuffed my wide peepers full of pictures. We’d slow down in the car when we got to Fosterville Crescent and gawp at this huge, austere town house he lived in for a short while – its grey Victorian stonework telling me of the tiles, bronze figurines, china dishes of potpourri and wooden rocking horse bound to be inside. The story of his connection to this house is an interesting one but for another time.

I think that house effected both my dad and I quite profoundly; the beginnings of a passion for old, elegant buildings and their ghosts. I suppose it’s voyeurism. I love to collect old house names: Madras Villa, Fairbanks, Sunnyside, Viola Sororia.

As I have reported, I have been looking for Eaton Grange and Eaton Lodge. The first I can strike off my to-do list.



But the whereabouts of Eaton Lodge remains a mystery to me. The 1891 census, which I’ve currently spent a tenner on viewing, seems to place it on Eaton Road, but Eaton Road is disappointingly devoid of Victorian houses, with the bulk of them being thirties abodes. There can’t be more than ten Victorian buildings, none of which are called Eaton Lodge, though I did find Park House, which is listed close to Eaton Lodge on the census. I find the absence of old buildings ominous, especially stumbling across Victorian gates welcoming visitors to a modern prestige build.

And I also find ten quid to view a few pages online obscene.

Trailing Margaret

I think, now, I have located Ms Fountaine’s two places of residence. This morning I reached a part in her memoirs that filled me with regret and empathy for her – when she found out that Khalil had lied to her and was in fact married. His relentless affection and apparent devotion had slowly ground down her morals. I found it cruel; and yet, she lived beside him anyway, and honoured him even when she discovered his double life. There is a part of her memoirs, prior to meeting the impish Khalil, where she says: ‘Freedom is the crowning joy of life. Thank God there are few on earth I really care for; I would there were none. I want to see all I can of this beautiful world before I have to leave it, and life is so distressingly short. It is the affections that hold us back from great enterprises, it is the affections that tie us down to one spot – if not in body, in spirit. And then at the end of it all life is over and we have accomplished none of those great things our soaring imaginations one led us to suppose were to be achieved.’