Far From The Madding Crowd

In the Fens, standing firm within the sunken landscape, was a palace that was never built. Its opulence was renowned; it was a palace fit for a King. And for a real King the palace had been constructed. It was all he had thought of for two years or more and those around him were only to pleased to indulge him. Courtesans whispered each night into the King’s ear, broadening his vision, galvanising his resolve. And every night he conceived of further embellishments and extended the dreamscape further and further. In the morning, Artisans would receive these alterations with hand wringing and furrowed brows, yet still they would pledge to make this dream a reality. It would be the new centre of everything, the King said. All who came to see her would proclaim his palace the very cornerstone of beauty. The King, himself, would be confirmed as the most Regal, the most Just, of all history.

But it was not to be. History pressed down upon him and foretold that despite much convoluted effort and endless revision, the creators of his vision would be destined to spend their time fruitlessly. Time would pass and he would have his head severed from him, leaving time to gather up the intricate plans, his passion and dreams, and rush on forward without him.

And yet there it stands. Or can do so for some – a matter of perspective.

The site selected for the King’s extravagance would remain as it was then, some said, as an old Stone Age mound of burial. With enough time, people would come and with great care they would dig and prod at the earth, with painstaking slowness. They would excavate even the slightest of detail of historical relevence from out of the ground and package it within the halls of places of learning. Stand them before plaques inside centres for such relics where entirely different people would gape haltingly at these exhibits and wonder. Flint crafted in various shapes of utility. Round pebbles laced on twine. Large rocks hewn from elsewhere and carried to the hilltop; placed for some purpose that could not be known but drew the most detailed of speculation.

It was here a palace was ostentiously conceived, many said, but never built. Here, on the edge of the town, some said, that was never constructed – where The Fens had been predicted to prosper and shine. Here, this very same spot, where the foundations plunged into the side of the mound. The mound that had been told a piecemeal history of a people long passed on. Where once a people of tools and stones had been appropriately remembered, a small community hospital had been perched inside the innards of the ground emptied of its peat and clay, fallow grass and wildflowers.

“NHS: Charlemont Community Hospital”, the placard noted in quiet, hushed tones of white and blue.

Together with this, a tagline that read: “Charlemont House: Sanctuary For the Mentally Ill”.

This building was considered easily, for there was little in the way of local opposition. The architects had been mindful somewhat to hide much of the hospital inside the mound so that people could easily pretend it was not there if they so wanted. Only on the one side could it be seen jutting out like a broken molar in the swampy gum of peat, bog and water. Here it would resist for a while until the Fen’s inevitable move toward its extraction. Just like the stones and tools, but unlike the grand schemes of Charles II.

The hospital was a two horned building that gnawed through the sagged ground. It refused all efforts to sink it further through the provision of a solid foundation. Despite all the effort of the Fenland elements, aimed toward its removal, it was sturdy and resolute. Drilled, some said needlessly, into this soft, yielding, welcoming land – where the glaciers had once lived, then bears, wolves and dense forests – was this commonplace structure of the National Health Service. Charlemont House: A small purpose built conclave for those adjudged to need it. Where such people could be cloistered off from everyday life and spared from the turmoil of living amongst other people. Charlemont was a reserve, a temporate but natural home for people ferreted away by police vans, or carted off via Ambulance or the vehicles of carers. Unfortunate ones, people deposited inside the shallow grave of a Stone Age mount.

Only the locals knew of its presence, so well hidden was it, inside the remains of the old cemetery. Only the locals could direct officers of the law to its gates; for oddly they always forgot where in the Fens Charlemont House resided and could not seem to keep it in their heads or locate it on a map. Like the palace and the mound before it, the hospital shimmered in the Fen mists only at certain angles. You would have to look closely to find it. For many it remained unseen. Lost amidst the endless mundanity of the landscape; cloaked in the flat, moribund, uniformity of the Fen.

For some, it was undoubtedly better this way. Better to play out the score of madness – likely to be the most garish scenes of their lifetime – here; in this invisible place, where others could not deign to laugh at them, or scald, pity, or empathise. A place where no one need stifle any kind of reaction, or feel the need to avert their eyes and steady themselves in their own reassuring sanity.

The people around the hill, the local community, farmed and passed their lives on an endless surface of horizonce. Where the glaciers had once smoothed out crags and rock, pummelled them until granular to create this homely perch for settling mists, people grew houses and bank accounts and tended to families.

Further out was The Fens, the place where folklore and boggles roamed unknown amongst the living. Where the living were distracted by agriculture, family troubles and eking out a living. The people engrossed themselves with old and new religions, . They played with the cars that zipped up and down scarred straight roads and long country droves. The lorries cruising along the A road to supply the overfed, bloated superstores and mad garages that guzzled fuels into tanks; where their denizens drank the coffee that made all things run just that little bit faster.

One driveway; one entrance, one exit. If it were not for these, Charlemont would remain a myth to all who heard of her.

For now it was here to stay, as time allowed it.

And time rested a while, hunkered down, time sat still, as it does for a while.

Charlemont. A refuge from journies, from lives and living time.

Charlemont, a hidden pocket within the ironed out fabrics of the wondrous skies and The Fen. 

Charlemont, a place of rest, of oddity, and occasionally, of nightmares, and sometimes, sometimes that is, of relief.