I entered this house, home of the Darkes.
Jane and Nick and his father before him.
Every stone a poem, every picture a script, every object a story: this
place is made from memories; the creatve spark is the cement that binds it.
Mountains of documents piled up high.
A message from writer to writer, from the past to the future.
Built on the beach of his life, a place with a thousand tales to tell
from the tides. Drifting things, lost things, things from places across the sea.
Playwright and actor for children, for adults, for all. Funny stories, old stories, dark stories, new stories.
An honour to have seen just a glimpse of his life:
I will remember this day, not quite like the others.