Almost There

I almost made a pilgrimage to Nick Drake’s hometown. For those of you not familiar with Nick, he was an English folk singer/ guitarist who left this planet way too soon. Nick was only 26 years old, when he died on Thanksgiving Day, 1974. He had been suffering from severe depression and took an overdose of antidepressant drugs. No one knows if his death was intentional or accidental. Nick’s music is very haunting. Some of his songs have crept into my dreams. More than once I have awakened in the small hours of the morning with Nick’s unusually pitiful and wailing voice sounding the lyrics of “Black Dog” off the walls of my brain. Believe me, there is no going back to sleep after that dirge runs through your processor.

Two years ago, I found myself back in London. It was May, and in contrast to the murderous winter that I had experienced the last time I was there, the weather was pure gorgeous springtime. I had set aside a day in my vacation, to go see Nick. Nick came from a small town in the midlands of England called Tanworth-In-Arden. A three hour train ride from Paddington Station to Wood End and you are there. My trip to see Nick was fully prepared. I even knew the name of the street he lived on (Bates Lane) and that his house was called Far Leys. I even knew where he was buried. In the center of Tanworth-In-Arden is a church called the Parish Church of St. Mary Magdalene. Under a big oak tree, beside a well worn path is the small unobtrusive gravestone of Nick and his parents. I had made the journey to this place many times in my dreams (although I can never find Nick’s grave for some weird reason). I have imagined myself walking down Bates Lane, trying not to look out of place, while searching for a gate with the words Far Leys on it. I have imagined having a few pints in the pub before getting the courage up to take a walk in the church yard.

The day I had scheduled to go to Tanworth-In-Arden, I got up early and told D I was going to be gone all day. But something was stopping me. Normally nothing can get in between GS3 and his objectives but something was telling me to stay in London with D. Maybe part of me wanted this adventure to stay in my heart and remain unresolved. Maybe if I saw Nick’s grave, my dreams (although I could lose the scary ones) would stop. Maybe I was just worried about D becoming the next victim of the Ripper. Whatever the reason, I never made it out to see Nick that day. I always tease myself that the next time D heads off on one of her trips I am going to zoom over there (stand by of course) and complete my mission. Looking back on things, I should have shook off whatever was holding me back that day, and just hopped on that train. I still don’t know why I did not go. I was almost there.