Mark Twain, who stayed a summer at Dollis Hill House in 1900 said, “I have never seen any place that was so satisfactorily situated, with its noble trees and stretch of country, and everything that went to make life delightful, and all within a biscuit’s throw of the metropolis of the world.”
This is Sam Burcher’s take on Dollis Hill House set within Gladstone Park today.
A green haze shimmers over tennis courts and goal posts. I cross the emerald fields to a crack-crack sound of ball against bats, feeling tiny tremors of worms beneath my feet and then a goods train rumbling through Dudding Hill Junction.
I witness the last vestiges of ‘Gladstonbury’ – a full nappy, shards of glass, and a pink metal bangle. Gladstone Park is a microcosm of the Universe enjoying more of itself.
The banner says, “We haven’t stopped fighting!” across the boarded doors of Cricklewood Library on the periphery. Makeshift bookcases are storage boxes with polythene flaps containing books that by rights should be inside the library.After all the people are paying to keep this building empty.
I take my pick to higher ground, to William Gladstone’s old house. But the walls of Dollis Hill House have been brought down, because it’s cheaper to run to ruin
the local spaces serving a community function.
I study the foundations. Rooms are strewn with grass and feathers, and floor lights that light it up at night like a mini Acropolis.
But in my mind I rebuild the cafeteria; a ribbon curtain keeps out the flies, the lofty counter, the ice cream freezer behind. Would you like cornets or wafers?
We’re a family of six, we need a big block of Cornish with wafers – I can still taste them.
Now only one wall has survived the devastation: a glassless window gazes over the abandoned bowling green -not much left for the old or young generation.
If Gladstone stood here, he’d see the steel cradle of Wembley Stadium.
Why did I return to Gladstone Park? To show the London Plane trees how I’ve grown. They remember when the little slope to the playground would tire me out. My limbs are longer, everything is much smaller now.
But where is the witch’s hat, the see-saw and the roundabout? Health and Safety has put paid to risky Pleasure Grounds. Just the squeaking swings remain and new adventure walkways – loops of creaking chains traversed by kids in hi-viz jackets
who don’t care if rust is falling off the railings.
The Plane trees have grown too. In summer, their topmost twigs overarch the playground path to become a cathedral: flying buttresses of branches and green leaves entwine above my head. Only synapsing clouds and the sun glancing off a steel slide is higher than this living edifice.
I return to Gladstone Park to say “Hi” to Ken Livingstone, a local resident walking his Golden Retriever. “Sorry you lost the election,” I said. Sorry I didn’t vote for you, I meant. I didn’t vote for Boris either. I went Green, they’ve been so good in the London Assembly and Brent. But second choice Ken is resolute,“More time to spend with the kids,” he said.
Like Gladstone’s house was burned, then razed to the ground against Ken’s wishes, the careers of politicians often end in ashes.
In the environmentally friendly long grass area I stumble onto a butterfly path. Rising wings flap darkly against tall, swaying, sun-scorched rye, small dogs hide from calling owners, and a young woman with bleached hair sunbathes in a black bikini, a zip divides her assets.
I spy all this glorious Gladstone Park life, then rest awhile against the trunk of an oak tree. I want to bond, to meditate and gain strength. But, always the restless one,
I float on the breeze to Dollis Hill Station and back again. The sun sets over Wembley. A sea of fire spills across a petrol-blue sky to rise again over the minaret in Willesden Green.
Careful not to tread on dusky bees in clover. I see myself a solitary bee in Gladstone Park without my family. And like a bee, I’m attracted to the high-walled flower garden,
nosing the yellow roses, just as sweet as white or crimson.I hone in on marigolds, two-faced pansies, spiny cupped flower heads of thistles the colour of the Aegean.
I followed my spirit and found my way back home.
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