Pictures of Burwash
About Burwash
It is from his home in this very English village that Rudyard Kipling penned the wise and wonderful words of his poem 'If'. Kipling first saw the house when, as he later wrote, he ' wandered down an enlarged rabbit warren of a lane' Batemans, a stone mansion with towering chimney's was to be his home from 1902 until his death in 1936. The house dates 17th-century and was originally built for a local ironmaster during the period when Burwash was an important iron centre. During his period of occupation Kipling wrote many of his finest works, including Puck of Pooks Hill. The house is now owned by the National Trust and the rooms remain very much as they were when Kipling was alive.
This picturesque village is spread along a ridge between the rivers of Rother and Dudwell, it began to prosper three centuries ago, when the Weald was England's main source of iron ore. This prosperity shows in the attractive old houses, cottages and shops strewn along the High Street.
The village Church of St.Bartholomew's has a 14th-century iron tomb slab, it is claimed to be one of the oldest in the country. The church has a Norman west tower with twin bell openings.
There is much to do and see in this pleasant Weald countryside. Wonderful examples of gleaming white weatherboarded Watermills are still to be seem, so too, are quaint old Oasthouses. Burwash is about equal distance from the grand town of Tunbridge Wells and the glorious coastline of the Sussex Heritage coast. On a visit here your every possible need is catered for.
Rather than say any more about this lovely area (which you are sure to come and see for yourselves) I will leave you with the words of one of Rudyard Kiplings most famous works - IF.
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, do'nt deal in lies,
Or being hated, do'nt give way to hating,
And yet do'nt look too good, nor talk to wise.
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think, and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two imposters just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to broken,
And stoop and build'em up with worn out tools.
If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And loose and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the will which says to them 'Hold on!'
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch;
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And, which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!
This has long been a favourite poem of mine, it is the reason why I visited Bateman's and thus, chanced upon the delights of Burwash.
