Blythe’s memoir is a warm-hearted, discursive ramble though the years he spent living in Suffolk, mostly in Aldeburgh. He describes his friendships with Britten, Imagen Holst and many others. A whole host of writers whose work is little read today, like Blythe himself, populate the book’s pages. The book is redolent of a lost post-war Britain. There’s far more poverty, but far more idealism as well. It feels as though the Britain Blythe describes still retains its ties to the nineteenth century and those that preceded it. Much of the book is written in the shadow of George Crabbe, a figure more or less forgotten today. There are anecdotes about Samuel Palmer, Shakespeare, Clare. The romantic link between countryside, art and daily life is celebrated in the works of writers, composers and artists. Nowadays it feels as though the British countryside, (particularly in Suffolk) has become a privileged retreat, colonised by second home owners and the wealthy; transformed from a county whose hardship people like my grandparents sought to escape. Blythe’s book therefore captures something that feels as though it is irretrievably lost. The car, central heating, out-of-town supermarkets: all these things have transformed rural life. A glimpse of how the author lived that transformation, for better or for worse, is also to be gleaned from this memoir.
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