In search of Ted Hughes

Given all the hoo-hah surrounding Prince Charles’s decision to allow a granite stone memorial to be placed in a secret and remote spot on Dartmoor in memory of his friend the poet Ted Hughes, I expected to encounter something along the lines of Cleopatra’s needle when I went to look for it last week.

The objections to Ted Hughes’s memorial were many and various. Environ- mentalists were concerned about soil erosion caused by the feet of hordes of literary pilgrims and paint pot-wielding feminists. Levellers complained about the exception being made to the ‘no memorials’ rule applying on Dartmoor. What’s so special about a poet? they said. Why not a farmer? Regional patriots were disgusted because Hughes was a Yorkshireman. And republicans raised their voices against it simply because Prince Charles had had a hand in organising its transport by army helicopter. Poor old Ted. A great English poet, a children’s champion and the last shaman of the tribe — vindictively hounded by ideological opponents and pea-brains even after his death.