Fine day, quite warm. Went across the park to look at a trench for a new drain which has been cut from
Road to Whitby
runs straight across the bed of the ancient estuary, but nothing has been
found, and there is fine, clean, hard packed silt to a depth of just over
6’. How delightful if we could find a
boat in this old river.
Lovely evening, light until nearly 6, and the sun setting up the river, blazing in scarlet on the windows of the lovely Georgian houses on the North Brink. The river was running strong and black, and 6 or 7 little pony carts came trotting over the bridge on their way back to their stables behind Horsefair.
Decided to call on Miss Ellis at Old Market, but as I knocked at the door, which was partly open, a most charming, tall dark woman came hurrying down the dingy staircase towards me, and said, “Are you Mr. -?” (something or other). I said no, I wasn’t, I was the Curator. “Oh are you? Well, do come upstairs and meet the Arts Club, I’m sure you’d like it.” Only too delighted I went up the stairs and along a dark passage. We went into a large room which apparently serves as a studio and workshop. There were about half a dozen people there – a rather sad, dissipated looking man, called Harper, a charming fair headed woman called Day Shuker, another woman who looked almost a twin of Dodo Rose, called Mrs Swift, and the delightful woman who captured me, whose name is Charlotte Osborne. Within five minutes of entering the room, in spite of my protests that I can neither paint nor draw I found myself a member.
Everything was very jolly and we had a mug of strong sugarless tea and a bun, and then began to go home. I offered to show Mrs. Osborne where she could get clay suitable for pottery-making, and arranged to take her to Collett’s brick-pits at Emneth next Monday.