Clouds Hill in Dorset

The name “Clouds Hill” conjures up images from one of the Thomas Hardy books that I had to read for an exam over fifty years ago.

   All of his famous books are set in the fictional county of Wessex which includes all of Dorset and Somerset plus some of the western parts of Wiltshire and Hampshire. Clouds Hill is located in the depths of the Dorset countryside between Bovington Army Camp and Wareham.

   It was built as a foresters cottage in 1803. At some point in the nineteenth century it was vacated, abandoned and started along the path of dereliction and self-destruction at the mercies of the elements.  It was rescued by one Thomas Edward Shaw who, through family connections, was able to take out a lease on the property at the princely sum of half a crown a week. Or in today’s decimalised currency, twelve and a half pence.

   The new tenant chose the place deliberately as the cottage was isolated and close to where he was working in the British Army at Bovington Camp.

   The other reason he chose Clouds Hill was that it was a part of his strategy to try and live normally and anonymously. Afterall, Thomas Edward Shaw was probably one of Britain’s first ever celebrities whose life was being made miserable because of the dogged and intrusive determination of the media to report on his every move.

   Thomas Edward Shaw was the pseudonym of Thomas Edward Lawrence who through fate, predestiny or someone’s master plan went to the Middle East as an intelligence officer and returned as a war hero named by the media as “Lawrence of Arabia”.

   His quest for anonymity was so strong that one afternoon he returned from a cycle ride around the country lanes of Dorset and saw the press pack at the entrance to Clouds Hill. Rather than having any contact with them he cycled off to Cambridge, a distance of over one hundred and seventy miles, to hunker down for a few days with his brother and his family until the press pack retreated to Fleet Street.

   On the day of our visit Heather and I took along Patrick Moore, a monk I became friends with while working on a finance project at a nearby theological college. Patrick was lovely. A gentleman within all the definitions of the word. A scholar and an undiluted aesthetic with an infinite knowledge of the arts. He had read “The Seven Pillars of Wisdom” and “The Arab Revolt” both of which remain masterpieces that give the reader an insight into how the Arabs think and conduct themselves so differently from those of us in the West. General Patreus read this book while rising through the ranks of the American army. When he was chosen to lead the 2007 Iraq War Surge he insisted that his officers obtained copies to read in preparation for the attack.

   With the help of a select few highly trusted friends from the army Lawrence set about the project of making the cottage habitable. Bearing in mind the deprivations he endured in the desert while living with the Bedouin and evading the Ottoman army his definition of habitable was not quite the same as normal people, even those of the 1920’s. When the project was finished there was still no connection to the basic utilities such as gas, electricity and water that we take for granted a century later.  Eventually he did install a bathtub next to what could best be described as a pantry on the ground floor. A rare surrender to luxury.

   It was four solid walls, a roof, a front door, a sanctuary and a place where he could read and write. That is all he wanted.

   From a decrepit and derelict shell Lawrence, as described by Michael Korda who wrote the “Life and Legend of Lawrence of Arabia” said that Clouds Hill was “Like a snails shell” that “would be gradually reshaped to Lawrence’s Spartan idea about living; indeed, it became almost an extension of his personality”.

   Above the main entrance is a grey stone lintel with some carving on it which Lawrence did himself in Greek. It says, “I don’t care”. On the ground floor is the small pantry, the area for the bathtub and a day room. This room is lined with shelves of books that Lawrence had collected. There was a narrow gap on one of the shelves. Could it be where Lawrence had taken a book from before he went on his motorbike on the 13th May 1935 and like him, never returned?

They were all protected from prying fingers and curious minds by plate glass. Taking up most of the floor space is a day bed. This was a bespoke design and build where Lawrence could read from his vast collection of books. In the refurbishment he added a large window to allow more light in which gave him more time to read.

   The three us were in reverential awe at the collection of books and the simplicity of the room. That was broken by a visitor who joined us and asked the guide about Lawrence’s sexual preferences. An embarrassed hush filled the room. The guide did a verbal sidestep that any politician or diplomat would have been proud of. Unable to read the room the visitor  then asked the room at large which deepened the silence.

   What difference does it make? Just look, observe and appreciate what the man did in his short lifetime.

   We made the best possible exit and went upstairs past the small bedroom that had a port hole window cut into the wall above the bed. The space was compact like a ship’s cabin. Not one cubic inch was wasted.

   The second room upstairs is the music room. This was furnished with a leather armchair and a table with a large windup gramophone on top. Across the arms of the chair was a piece of varnished wood. It was quite easy to picture Lawrence sitting in the chair and writing one of his many letters or even the manuscripts for his books. Sadly, our thoughts and imaginings were once again interrupted. The errant visitor from the day room had made it upstairs and asked the volunteer guide the same question.

   For goodness sake change your record and stop intruding into everyone else’s thoughts.

   We legged it downstairs and headed towards the garage and workshop where he kept his Brough motorbike. On the way through the garden, I asked Heather what she thought of Lawrence’s minimalism. She didn’t like it. I asked Patrick and he quite approved of it but wouldn’t take up residence until a proper bathroom and kitchen had been installed.

   In the garage the wall is covered with pictures from Lawrence’s life, black and white of course. Pictures from his childhood, his time at university, life in the desert and life at Clouds Hill. In amongst the ones from his life here is one of him outside a pub in nearby Wareham having a drink. It would have been something like a ginger beer or a lemonade as he was strictly tea total.

   In the centre of the garage there is a bronze bust of him looking along the garden back to the cottage.  It is mounted on a plinth to show his stature. He checked in at five foot six. So unlike Peter O’Toole who played him in the 1960’s who checked in at a lanky six foot two.

   Once again our private and shared thoughts were interrupted. No, not by the visitor asking about Lawrence’s sexual preferences even though we could hear him making his way to the garage. Instead, it was by a “clutch”, the collective noun for a group of motorcyclists, crackling by on their high powered machines along the same road Lawrence was fatally injured on.

   I doubt that in their adrenalin rush they knew that they all owe Lawrence a great debt of gratitude. He died as a result of severe brain injuries about a week after the fateful accident which happened on 13th May 1935 and died six days later passed away on 19th May without recovering consciousness. He was looked after by an imminent neuro surgeon Sir Hugh Cairns. He saw what had happened to Lawrence who was only wearing a leather skid helmet at the time of the accident. As result he then started a campaign that would eventually lead to it being compulsory for all motorcyclists to wear crash helmets.

   While we were waiting for our lunch to be served in a nearby pub we had a conversation about Clouds Hill. We all agreed that despite the tragedy of that fatal motorbike accident there was an aura of peace and serenity. Above all, even though the man was long gone, there was lingering atmosphere of contentment maybe even happiness. Heather was adamant that she would not live there by choice. Patrick and I decided we would have liked to have lived there but there was one condition, Clouds Hill would have to have a kitchen and bathroom fitted.