John Salisbury

The Greene Man

Our old house was covered in wisteria, it had crawled up the place years ago, and decided to live there too- the arrangement being that it could have all the brickwork it wanted, as long as it left the windows alone. Even so, every summer without fail it would bravely drip its blooms over the head of every pane, and for a time purple aspect would be cast on each room when the sun rose or set. It was much like this- wood, plaster and skin painted as such – during my parents' separation. That I still remember more than anything, fragmented and foggy as my recollection is since I was only 10 or 11 at the time, but the odd sensation of being curled up, ears covered and cheeks all salt-burnt and wet so often, and just being able to stare and stare at the purple on the wall until I could no longer hear them, that's still indelible, still visible to me as the last impression of a kind of life short-lived on my part. For a long time after this, unless perhaps from somewhere within the blinking light of an answering machine, I would rarely see my father. His great mistake was, I think, the adoption of some idea, misconceived in the mist of mid-life perhaps, of 'going all the way'. He had always wanted to build a house, one that was truly for him, and so that was exactly what he did; as a preeminent architect he was a member of one of those few professions where you're afforded the luxury of standing in the shadow of your own creation- I believe he wished to bathe in it, and that Llyn-Rhyfedd was where he went to do so.