Rackwick

One of the posts on my list of posts not hitherto written is one about my visit to Rackwick on the mountainous island of Hoy, the second-largest in the Orkney archipelago. On the way there, I checked out the Dwarfie Stane, which I have already written about - see my post The Dwarfie Stane on 30th June 2025. But Rackwick was my prime destination in the northern half of the island. Here are two location maps:

Click on these to enlarge them, Same with the photos that follow. 

I was pitched at Stromness (upper left in the top map), and had to drive to Houton on the A964 to catch the ferry to Lyness on Hoy. I arrived in the late morning, and had about six hours to see whatever I could. But first stop had to be Emily's, a roadside café, for an early lunch. This was the card I picked up:

And this was how it was on the day. It was sunny and mild: warmer than you'd expect for a Far North shoreline spot in springtime. Even so, I sat inside. 

I beat whatever off-the-ferry rush there might have been, and was able to chat a bit with Emily herself, in between her cooking. I chose something heartwarming, sustaining, and very yummy. 

Orkney is a foody place (be warned) and although Hoy might seem a bit off the beaten track (it isn't really) you cannot go hungry, wherever you may stray. That lot was delicious, but very filling. However, I had some walking in mind to reach the Dwarfie Stane, and then at Rackwick, so I was confident of burning off some of those calories!

In the loo were some Second World War helmets, begging to be tried on. I couldn't resist.

Now who can hold a somewhat heavy Leica X Vario in one hand, and take a picture, while applying lipstick with the other? I can!

That's the very camera whose shutter failed later the same day, and was eventually repaired. I just managed to photograph what I wanted to on Hoy before the thing became inoperative.  

On to Rackwick. Now this really is a remote place. There is one narrow road in, and you absolutely need your own transport. The nearest proper shop is twenty miles away, at Longhope far down in the south of Hoy. So a forty-mile round trip. But then everyone living at Rackwick values the hideaway atmosphere of the place. The resident population is scattered about in little houses, some of them with turf or flat stones on the roofs, so that the winter storms can't blow them off. The place is much visited by adventurous walkers, school parties, and climbers wanting to scale the old Man of Hoy, reachable by a three-mile slog through the heather. (I didn't attempt it, not even for the stunning pictures I'd have got from the cliffs)

So here's the road approach to Rackwick. It's all brown or grey hillside until a broad patch of green comes into view, where the houses are.

The car park was surprisingly full. But apart from an obvious field study group of students, and one or two casual tourists like me, Rackwick seemed deserted. Excellent. I wanted a solitary communion with the bay. I sat in Sophie for a few minutes, to drink it all in. I'd wanted to come here for years; decades.

Time to walk. No jacket needed. Just the red hat. The shore beckoned. I set off down a track, passing a couple of low stone buildings, reminders of a time - long gone - when there was a working community here, and not just seasonal visitors and the odd resident with sufficient other income.

I was surprised that there wasn't more sand visible. All I could see were large pebbles. This was a calm day, but it struck me that the shore must be a very noisy place when heavy waves crash down on those pebbles and suck them this way and that. 

For now it was very peaceful. If I'd had the time to spare, I would have sat down and just let the sun and the peace sink into me. Many people have said this is a special spot, a spiritual place, a place for healing. Well, I needed no healing, and I wasn't spiritual, but nevertheless I did feel that here you could forgot all worries. It was so serene. I found myself getting very thoughtful.

I had planned a triangular route: car park to the south-east end of the bay; then along the beach to the north-west end; then back through the cottages to the car park. Because of the large and unstable pebbles, it was clearly best to avoid the beach and instead follow a path that kept to the turf above. It had the advantage of a double view: sea and cliffs to my left, and the Rackwick valley to my right.

Rackwick's most famous modern resident was Peter Maxwell Davies the composer - here's a piece about him from the NorthLink Ferries magazine:

He lived in one of the small cottages up on the hillside - ideal for a composer who needed to pound on the piano keyboard without disturbing his neighbours! In or near the car park was a board showing the location of each habitable house, there being no road names here:

I wondered which cottage? Had it been the one called Crowsnest? I still don't know. Here's a link to an expanded NorthLink Ferries article on his life in Orkney (on Hoy and on Sanday, another island to the north, where he died): https://www.northlinkferries.co.uk/orkney-blog/sir-peter-maxwell-davies-in-orkney/. 

Next, the walk back to the car park, using a tarred road no less, and passing houses that showed signs of modernity, and civilised living, and were not just tumbledown stone dwellings. But first a look back at the bay. Would I ever see it again?

I hope you can see the magic of Orkney, at least as I apprehend it. Hoy is the only mountainous island in the archipelago. It's the one with the best scenery. But some of the other islands have small hills, lochs and impressive cliffs too. Plus a castle or two, or a pretty fishing village. I couldn't get to them, although some were visible offshore from the Orkney Mainland. Each would need a ferry crossing and a day for exploration, and I didn't have the time in only a week's visit. I'll have to go back. 

Escaping an obsession

I now have a very long list of unwritten blog posts. I am so looking forward to hunkering down for the winter, and publishing at least a few of these. Just two more weeks' caravanning, and then I can make a start. It's hopeless to try while on holiday. Maybe I could dash a post off on the first evening, but thereafter photography will consume my time, and the blog can't get a look in. 

If you blog yourself, you may have the knack of writing a piece that perfectly expresses what you want to say in just a few minutes. I don't have that gift. I have to allow at least two hours per post. If it's all text, with no supporting pictures, then there will be a lot of words to churn out, with - inevitably - infelicitous turns of phrase and typos to correct. I want to make it all flow well. Elegance is beyond me, but attention to good grammar and proper punctuation is not, and I will not be lazy about writing a post that can, at least, pass ordinary tests for acceptable English.

So what is the obsession that I have escaped? It's the adulation of all things Leica. The longing to own and use a Leica camera started for me in 1973, and it's taken over fifty years to run its course. But it's over now. Note that I haven't turned against the brand. Not at all. But my attitude towards Leica products has changed. I had allowed myself to be seduced or infatuated by Leica's luxury cameras, almost seeing them in a holy light. That's now gone, and I feel better for it. 

I have owned three Leicas: and I thought my next camera would be another, yet more expensive Leica. Maybe still not a new one, but a step up from what I had been using. And then on and on, until old age would curtail my ability to travel and take pictures. Ironically, less travelling would free up more money to spend on even more desirable Leica equipment. There might be no stop to it. There's a Leica World around which I had been circling without fully plunging in. Leica had constantly drawn my attention to that World. It was like a whirlpool. It was enticing, inspiring, rather exclusive, definitely elitist, and peopled by some big-name photographers. But I won't be joining them now. 

What has happened? Nothing sudden or traumatic. It's an accumulation of little disappointments over the span of several years, but recently coming to a head. And finally, a realisation that I had spent money and energy on Leica cameras without achieving significantly better results than I'd had with other makes of camera. There had been an improvement, but no quantum leap. I'd used my Leicas with pleasure, but user-pleasure didn't necessarily translate into exhibition-quality pictures. The shots I took with my Wetzlar-made Leicas were beyond question very good; but in my vast archive of pictures there were plenty of photos taken with other cameras that could stand comparison with them. I'm not talking specifically about outstanding lens sharpness and the capture of extraordinary detail. There's more to consider. I'm talking about the consistent creation of interesting and arresting pictures, with sufficient sharpness but no more. I think overall pictorial effectiveness is much more important than any technical metric. So any good make might be suitable. Some of those other cameras I had used were from way back: I'm thinking particularly of a Canon I bought in 2006, and a Nikon I bought in 2008. And the camera that has outlasted every other since 2009, to which I always return, carries the famous Leica red dot but is a restyled Panasonic. 

Earlier this year one of my Leicas developed a shutter fault a few days into a major holiday. It was my long five and a half week trip from Sussex to Northern Scotland, with a magical week on Orkney. You can imagine my frustration. I had to resort to the camera on my Samsung Galaxy S24 Ultra phone. That phone performed excellently. Thank goodness it did! I didn't like the awkwardness of taking photos with it, but it more than did the job, and I especially appreciated its telephoto abilities. 

On my return home, I had the Leica's shutter repaired - actually, replaced - at very reasonable cost. But some psychological damage had been done. A device that I thought was so well-built that it might outlast me had faltered. It hadn't stood up to heavy use, when it should have. My faith in it was blown. Ongoing, what might fail next? It was no longer completely reliable. One thing that I didn't immediately notice was that opening up the camera for repair had somehow rendered a thumbwheel inoperative. In other words, fixing one thing had created a new issue. Perhaps I shouldn't have been surprised. It's like having work done on any complicated device or machine. Such as replacing a major part on a car. It's never quite the same afterwards. 

I had no idea why that thumbwheel wouldn't now work. Nor was I keen on trying to get it fixed: that seemed like throwing away yet more money for an uncertain outcome. The thumbwheel had controlled several things, none of which I'd used in ordinary daytime photography. That's why it took time to realise that I'd lost some functionality. There was now no way of making a time-exposure, as I couldn't set the shutter to open for more than one second, whether I did it manually or automatically. So no more shots of starry night skies! I didn't do a lot of that, but it was still annoying. The camera wasn't 'crippled', but its scope had narrowed. 

Meanwhile my Samsung phone, and (once home) my Leica-badged Panasonic camera, had together come up trumps, and between them had delivered thousands of memorable shots. Moreover, they were both fully-functional.

I awoke from the Leica Dream. I hadn't been let down by Leica, nor had using my Leica cameras been a dead end. But the spell was broken. And with that came a sense of liberation. 

I still considered Leica a name to salute, but not necessarily to revere. And now I was free to consider other makes. So if I were at this moment in the market for another camera, I would probably look closely at a Nikon mirrorless with a 24mm prime lens. That's the focal length I use most. And for my occasional telephoto shots, I might as well stick with the phone. A minimum kit, reasonably compact and lightweight, and at far less cost than a new Leica. No gear-worship or elitism involved. Sorry, Leica.

My fountain pen is now 70 years old

Continuing the fountain pen theme from my last post, I'd like to record that my own pen - Water Dragon - is now seventy years old. Here it is:

Like the Queen's pen, Water Dragon is a Parker 51, albeit a slightly plainer version than she would have had. I know all about Parker 51s, and I can (from several styling clues, plus a conclusive date mark) confidently say that this one - manufactured in Sussex at Newhaven - was made in July, August or September 1955. Well, here we are on 2nd September 2025, and I think it would be entirely fair, were I so inclined, to open the champagne bottle and toast this long-lived writing instrument. 

You would not think that an easily-damaged and much-used thing like a fountain pen would last for decades. It has an alloy cap that protects the gold nib when on, but obviously not when posted onto the other end for actual writing. You can imagine how vulnerable that nib really is, should the pen roll off a desk or table and take a header onto a hard floor. Most of the exterior is plastic: liable to cracking, and easily broken. Inside is a rubber sac into which the ink is drawn. A metal bar presses onto it during the weekly refilling operation, and although rubber can take a lot of punishment it doesn't last forever. There are tubes and baffles to get clogged up, mostly plastic. Most individual parts are fragile, and it isn't hard to see how even a well-made fountain pen might suffer in the hands of a clumsy or impatient person. 

I bought this one from a dealer in 2019, and conjectured in an earlier post that it might (prior to my ownership) have been the cherished possession of a headmistress, who had used it for a very long time, though eventually becoming too old to write properly with it. So for most of its life it would have been well cared-for, spending only the last few years consigned to a drawer. The dealer had taken it apart to flush away congealed ink and replace the rubber sac, but otherwise I had got myself a truly vintage pen only three years younger than myself. 

And it has never given a moment's trouble or concern. Nothing bad has happened. No leaks, for instance. And it writes beautifully. I use it several times a day, mostly for short, temporary notes, and it is of course my pen for birthday cards. 

But all the time I'm highly conscious just how easily damaged Water Dragon is. So in between use, my pen sits in a soft leather pen case that I made myself, and I re-cap it as soon as I've finished writing. People sometimes ask whether they can try it out, but I have to say no: Water Dragon is just too old and delicate for someone else to write with it, especially if they are not used to fountain pens. It's nothing like using a ballpoint. You don't press with a fountain pen: you let it glide over the paper. That's why smooth paper is needed, and plenty of writing-practice.

Seventy years old though! I don't think I possess any other device that has lasted anywhere near so long, and which I still use today. Well, Water Dragon ought to carry on being useful for the rest of my life. There are plenty of vintage pen dealers who can fix it, if ever a part wears out. It does consume ink of course, at roughly the rate of a bottle each year. And every time I buy a new bottle, the cost has increased, although it's still modest. Ink will be available, online at least, so long as there are artists and calligraphers, and sufficient numbers of other people who enjoy writing well with something special.

I rather like old-fashioned things, provided they are genuinely useful and a viable alternative to their modern equivalent. I'm definitely not alone in this. It may seem quirky, impractical or unfashionable, but I'm sure nobody laughs at me when I take out my pen and use it. The same with my wicker basket, and my red fedora hat. They are all reminiscent of a different time, and perhaps a more congenial one. And people know that they will easily outlast any trendy gadget you might buy today. 

Did the Queen blink?

The late Queen was famous for coping with anything: never complaining, never explaining, imperturbable in any situation of possible embarrassment. Obnoxious heads of state? Boring ambassadors? Those would give her no trouble. Well then: was she ever incommoded by a breach of protocol, a slip in proper procedure or etiquette, or a gaffe of some sort? No doubt she inwardly rolled her eyes; but there would have been no visible sign of that. No, it would have to be something very personal. And I am wondering whether there was in fact one occasion when the mask nearly slipped.

I visited Guildford Cathedral recently, and wandered into the Treasury there. Not immediately seeing that there was a prohibition on taking photos of the Treasury exhibits, I got this shot:

It was the fountain pen she was given to sign something (as Head of the Church of England, presumably) when the Cathedral was consecrated in 1961 (it was a brand-new cathedral, though very long in the building). It's not in the right colour or style. I think she would have hesitated for a micro-second before picking it up and signing her name with it - 'Elizabeth Regina', one supposes.

Why would she hesitate when given this pen? Well, she had her own, a special Parker 51, basically the same fountain pen that I use. She was a Parker fan. She was shortly going to honour Parker with 'By Royal Appointment' status. But this turquoise-coloured object with gold embellishments was surely a Sheaffer. 

If you are old enough, or have become a fountain pen enthusiast, you will know that by 1961 Parker and Sheaffer had established themselves in the public eye as the two major pen makers. Each company had its fierce supporters, rather like rival sports teams do. There were many other other makers, of course, and if you were a young scholar the well-known value-for-money names of Conway-Stewart and Platignum will ring bells. But owning a Parker or a Sheaffer fountain pen (with a gold nib) was the thing to aspire to. Both had status. Both made excellent pens. But I think it was true to say that Parker definitely had the edge in the UK. 

Most youngsters were given their first proper fountain pen by their proud parents, or perhaps a doting aunt or uncle, and there was no personal choosing involved. That's how it was with me. Fountain pens were always expensive, way beyond a schoolboy or schoolgirl's financial reach, and were never casually bought. They were Birthday or Christmas presents, or possibly a reward for passing your eleven-plus examination. Whatever you got, you tended to stick with it. Most 'proper' pens worked well and faithfully and were easy to get on with, so the match of pen to person was usually a happy one. And more often than not, if you started with (say) a Parker, your next pen when older would be another Parker, and you would become a champion of the brand, irrationally defending the virtues of all Parker pens to the death. The same with Sheaffer ownership. It was all actually very divisive, and very tribal. I have little doubt that in the school staff room, the teachers held similarly partisan views on the right pen to use, and who knows, careers might depend on one's preference. If you favoured Parker, and so did the Head, well, say no more.

It was a completely different world; which pen you used mattered. Rather like which tie, if you were a man. 

And then, as ballpoints improved - stopped leaking and could write a smooth continuous line - and became objects of desire (mistakenly, I craved a fancy Papermate at one point) the Fountain Pen Wars abated, and the Parker-Sheaffer rivalry didn't matter any more. By 1970, only those who remained very keen on using a fountain pen - individualists all - were using them in everyday situations. My Dad did. I did too. But 98% of the population did not, nor did they care. And so it still is. 

But in 1961 the Queen and her entourage, and professional people generally (including, surely, the architect who had designed the new Guildford Cathedral, Edward Maufe, later knighted) would have been daily fountain-pen users, and would have championed the brand they had had a long acquaintanceship with, whether it was Parker, Sheaffer, Waterman, Lamy, Montblanc or whatever. 

As I said above, The Queen was loyal to Parker. It was unthinkable to use another make of pen. 

But she had to use the Sheaffer in the photograph. How so? What went wrong? Who blundered?

I imagine that late on the very morning of the Consecration ceremony it occurred to some lowly young cleric in the Diocesan Office - as he set out the charter, or book, that the Queen was going to sign - that the entire shebang might come to a shuddering halt if no pen were available. All in front of the Bishop and a sea of invited guests! The Consecration was a culminating moment - interrupted by the war, the Cathedral had (so far) taken 25 years to get to a state where it could be used as a place of worship, the symbol of the city's regeneration. The signing part of the ceremony had to go right. There must be no kerfuffle. 

He must have run to the Dean with that awful vision. There was no time for careful deliberation. It was a crisis. Instantly fishing out a tenner from his own pocket, the Dean despatched the lowly cleric to the city centre, pedalling furiously downhill on the cathedral bicycle, to procure a suitable writing instrument. The Dean, had he thought of it, could have specified a Parker, but he had no time to think. The lowly cleric (though of good family) had been raised on Sheaffer, and so it was a Sheaffer he bought at W H Smith. 

No doubt he told the girl behind the pen counter (all stationers had a pen counter in those days) that it was for an important lady and must look nice. She guessed - alas, mistakenly! - that he meant his mother, or his aunt. So he returned, pedalling heroically uphill, with a pen that was very suitable for a lady who liked pretty frilly things, but it wasn't fit for a Queen engaged in an extremely important duty - and especially not a Queen who favoured a Parker 51 in burgundy red, and who, in any case - for she was famously well-organised - would have had that personal Parker 51 in her bag. 

The Dean must have blenched when he saw the purchase. But with minutes to go, there was no time to remedy the situation. No time even to warn the Bishop. Oh dear, heads might roll! 

His own career might be over.

The Consecration begins. The Dean, with his secret knowledge of impending disaster, is sweating. He looks ill, in fact. 

The critical moment arrives. It is time for the Queen to sign. You can picture it. The massed congregation, craning to see; the entire top clergy of the Diocese and indeed of Southern England - including the Archbishop of Canterbury - with everyone in full regalia, crooks, mitres, the lot; and of course the Queen, Prince Philip, and Princess Margaret, and all their attendants. The photographers. 

'Would your Majesty sign here, please?'

Before the Queen can open her bag for her own pen, the lowly cleric steps forward, dishevelled and red-faced, and presents her with the turquoise-coloured Sheaffer with gold embellishments. A micro-second passes. The Dean stares in fascinated horror. But the Queen does not blink. She gives no sign of anything out of the ordinary. She picks up the pen. Does the cap pull off, or unscrew? An even chance. She guesses correctly. But it's an open nib, not a hooded one. And the whole feel and balance of the pen is strange and unfamiliar. But nevertheless, she writes a beautiful signature. 

The moment passes. The Dean breathes again. 

Later, the Bishop brings the matter up, and the Dean confesses that he and the lowly cleric both panicked unnecessarily. And now there's £10 wasted. 'Oh well,' says the Bishop. 'I don't think anybody noticed, except of course, the Queen.'

The pen has found its way into the Cathedral Treasury. The Dean became a bishop. Nobody knows what happened to the lowly young cleric. 

Meeting Lord Denning

'Meeting' makes for a snappy title to this post, but of course Lord Denning died in 1999, so in fact I could only present myself at the grave he shared with his second wife Joan. And to see one other thing connected with him. More of both anon.

He was Lord Denning of Whitchurch. Whitchurch is a small town in north Hampshire. I went back to see it again on 7th July, just over a month ago. It hadn't changed much. I was last there in 2003 when M--- and I had a stroll around the place on a warm April afternoon. Before that, on a Saturday in 1975, when I tried to attend the wedding of a work colleague at the parish church. I turned up late, underestimating how long it would take to drive myself from Southampton to Whitchurch. The service had already begun. I felt awkward about opening the church door, and perhaps interrupting the ceremony at a critical moment. I gave up and because I was dressed too well for a country walk, or even to look around the shops in Winchester, I just went home. 

Whitchurch was historically an important market town, and the first location of Messrs Portal, who until 2022 made the special paper required by the Bank of England for its paper money. Whitchurch is on the River Test, one of Hampshire's two best fishing rivers, the other being the Itchen. The town once boasted many watermills. Here is the water-wheel at one of them, taken by me on holiday in 2005:

    

Few things are more soothing or mesmerising than slowly-moving water and the swish, swish, swish of lazy machinery. 

But back to Lord Denning. He lived a long time, being born in 1899. The law of England was his passion. He was called to the Bar (that is, allowed to speak in court on behalf of a client) in 1923, and took silk, becoming a KC, in 1938. His rise continued. He became a judge in 1944, an Appeal Judge in 1948, was made Baron Denning in 1957, and then finally Master of the Rolls, the ultimate Appeal Judge so to speak, in 1962. He held that position until 1982, when after twenty years of deciding the most important Common Law cases, he retired - only to commence a series of influential books on the history and current state of the law. I read two or three of them during the 1980s, and in 1988 actually bought one that he had published in 1984, Landmarks In The Law, which is about key decided cases in our history. Here it is, in a photo I took when lounging about on that holiday in 2005:

It covered these subject areas:

High Treason

Torture and Bribery

The fate of past Lord Chancellors

Martyrdom

Matrimonial Affairs

Freedom of the Individual

General Warrants

Freedom of the Press

Persecution

Murder

His most important case - the Profumo Inquiry

His own life in retirement, with comments on cricket, the beauties of Whitchurch, and the joys of family life in mellow years.

I think you will agree that this is an interesting list. I hope it will encourage you to get a copy of his book and read it for yourself. It's written in his very recognisable style, and is easy to follow and absorb. The cases concern many historical figures you will have heard of, though not always to their credit, and tell of shocking deeds and perverse miscarriages of justice that created a backlash and led to a change in the law. 

Lord Denning wrote half a dozen books in retirement. All concerned the law. Each was greatly anticipated, and each was received with proper seriousness, for he had become a national figure of immense weight. He profoundly overhauled the Common Law of England - meaning the law that is made by judges on the many matters not subject to Statute Law (which is that body of strictly-defined law contained in Acts of Parliament: tax law, for instance, which I had to pay close attention to all my own working life). Common Law is dynamic, based on what you might call natural or fundamental principles, some of them many centuries old. But it can develop as modern life introduces new situations and standards. Common Law tries to keep up with the times, although it is also subject to the rule of precedent, where any principle established by a judge must be followed by subsequent judges unless the case currently being decided by them features something entirely new or different, so that new ground can be broken. Lord Denning did not like being bound by narrow hoary precedent, especially if it led to an injustice. He felt that the first duty of a judge was to be bold, and intervene if it would achieve the right and proper outcome, and 'do justice'. He became famous for clearly-expressed, far-reaching, innovative and important judgements that swooped in like a breath of fresh air. 

But some of his judgements were controversial. Not everyone approved of them. So some were overturned. But mostly not. He became a household name, and (at least to many) a well-loved figure. The man on the cover of my book does indeed look old and wise, and if not necessarily kindly then at any rate a person who understands human nature. The sort of person I can speak easily to. I do wish we had met. 

Well, I did what I  could. I would find his grave. My first port of call was the parish church at Whitchurch. He was not there. There was no memorial to him, except a note that one of the bells, the newest, was called 'Great Tom' in his honour. It was ready for his 100th birthday in 1999. 

His grave must be in the town cemetery. I looked it up and found it. It was only a short walk away. I already knew that it was no big, gaudy grave. It was modest. In fact, after a methodical search that took me to a quiet corner of the cemetery, I saw just how modest it was. Here are my pictures of it. 

The carved words that mention him were not prominent, certainly not the bit about his being Lord Denning of Whitchurch, which were almost hidden by the grass and those neglected flower pots. And they came underneath the larger words about Joan, his second wife, whom he married in 1945. (She was 92 when she died in 1992. So he was eight years a widower)

It was a very ordinary grave that you might easily walk past and never pay attention to. Yet this had been one of the best-known judges of the last century. Even so, I felt that he wouldn't have minded ending up in this small and very plain grave. I am also sure that back in 1999, when he died, the people of Whitchurch considered something grander for their most famous son. It could be highlighted as a must-see tourist stop. But that didn't happen. And so Lord Denning's bones rest at peace, tucked away, undisturbed and unnoticed.

And the other thing I saw? 

Just inside from the entrance to the cemetery was a shelter, shaped a bit like a merry-go-round, with dividing walls. On each wall was a wood-carving on a panel, showing a religious scene. I don't know who the artist was, nor when these rather good carvings were done, but I'm guessing it was shortly after Lord Denning died: in the year 2000 perhaps, perhaps as a Millennium thing. One of them commemorated Lord and Lady Denning.

Here are some of the other panels. There were eight in all.

I think that the same artist carved this panel at the entrance itself.

Well, that was that. Show over. Nothing more to see.

I did wonder whether a statue of Lord Denning exists - outside the Law Courts in London, maybe. But somehow I doubt it. If there ever was one, it would be a target for those who are alert for prejudicial remarks, and instantly take extreme offence. For Lord Denning said some dismissive and disparaging things about certain groups of people. Certainly those whom he felt were the irredeemable enemies of traditional English Christian life and values, a threat to proper standards of decency and morality, and likely to be disloyal to Crown and Country. Above all, he surely had distaste for those for whom the beauty and gentle pursuits of rural England, and especially Hampshire, meant nothing. 

I'm not saying I'm exactly like he was, but I know what he meant.