Wormingford Mere

Wormingford Mere is a sinister little lake not far from my old home in East Anglia. It is an unvisited place. Legend has it that in the Middle Ages a dragon lived in the mere and after eating all the knights who tested themselves against it, it was killed by a local lad. The village, Wormingford, is named after the dragon, or worm. But in the local church there is a window depicting a crocodile. So I reckon the 'dragon' was one of those things than turn up so often in my drawings - a crocodile! This croc was picked up by a crusader in the Middle East, and the crocodile escaped and hid in the murky old mere, coming out only to steal sheep and bash up knights. The rivers around here today are inhabited by terrapins with similar experiences, ex-pets who take up a wild life.

I'm sure there are many more tales of the strange Wormingford Mere, but those who could tell them are long gone. It is a fascinating place, with the whole history of Britain tangled in its broken trees and dark reflections. If you look into it you might see the ghost of a neolithic man, a roman solider, yourself when old, a past or future life even. Such thoughts bubble up around Wormingford Mere. The three drawings here are from a group of 12 I made of it. I haven't been in a while. I may go tomorrow. Here is a fragment of a poem I wrote about Wormingford Mere at the same time as making these drawings:

If a new-made spirit awoke here
and took it for a world
a mossed-in heart carved on oak
is the best evidence of man.

Wormingford Mere is a sinister little lake not far from my old home in East Anglia. It is an unvisited place. Legend has it that in the Middle Ages a dragon lived in the mere and after eating all the knights who tested themselves against it, it was killed by a local lad. The village, Wormingford, is named after the dragon, or worm. But in the local church there is a window depicting a crocodile. So I reckon the 'dragon' was one of those things than turn up so often in my drawings - a crocodile! This croc was picked up by a crusader in the Middle East, and the crocodile escaped and hid in the murky old mere, coming out only to steal sheep and bash up knights. The rivers around here today are inhabited by terrapins with similar experiences, ex-pets who take up a wild life. I'm sure there are many more tales of the strange Wormingford Mere, but those who could tell them are long gone. It is a fascinating place, with the whole history of Britain tangled in its broken trees and dark reflections. If you look into it you might see the ghost of a neolithic man, a roman solider, yourself when old, a past or future life even. Such thoughts bubble up around Wormingford Mere. The three drawings here are from a group of 12 I made of it. I haven't been in a while. I may go tomorrow. Here is a fragment of a poem I wrote about Wormingford Mere at the same time as making these drawings:
	If a new-made spirit awoke here and took it for a world a mossed-in heart carved on oak is the best evidence of man.