An Obsession with Pine

I was, for a time, addicted to pine furniture.

I look back now, surrounded by MDF, rubberwood and ash or oak effect laminate and can hardly believe it.

It started quite innocently.

I had a few minutes to spare during my working day and was lured into a sleepy antique shop by the smell of caustic stripping fluid and Briwax polish. I was a fool. Of course I was going to succumb to the temptation of pine.

I was, at that time, a frequent visitor to the town of Horncastle, the self professed antiques centre of the Lincolnshire Wolds. The main through street is a blur of well lit shop windows displaying collectables and ephemera, even at the regulation speed limit of 30mph.

Anything and from anywhere can be easily purchased. If you know what you want then the proprietors of the town know where to source it from. The wilder or rarer the request, the more determined they are to scour the four corners of their shops for it.

In a pine and antiques emporium in an old schoolhouse I saw them. Nestled in between a commode on a stand and a glass cabinet of Toby Jugs were two deep reddish hued, pitch-pine church pews. They were substantial. Obviously a pair formed from a full nave to aisle length.

The pew ends were shaped and comely, the back slats neat and regimented, the seat well worn by the corduroy and tweed of the worshipful. I had to have them.

As if by magic, a small bespectacled man appeared at my side and led me through a door at the rear of the shop. I found myself in his office. He wanted to know means of payment  and if I was equipped to remove the goods from the shop. I was not sure of either.

Easy terms could be agreed if necessary. I handed over my debit card, frantically trying to think if the mortgage was due that day or tomorrow which would determine if I was in funds. I did not want to get into any sort of financial obligation to this man.

With an electronic peep and staccato roll through of the acknowledgement slip my payment was approved.In retrospect I should have paid hard cash for a transaction that now had a permanent record in my bank statements.

Fortunately, the rear parcel shelf and seats in my car could be removed and folded down. The pews were bundled out of the shop by two leather apron wearing pine strippers. I was a bit worried by the all-pervading odour of the burly men, akin to soggy sheepdog and the forecourt of a petrol station.

With expertise from a lifetime of moving and pushing bulky goods, I could visualise them on door-duty at the town night-spot on thursday girls night, the pews were soon in place and the hatchback was firmly banged shut.

One pew, presented to my young wife, was well received. Two pews however brought on reluctance and some hesitation. It took some time for me to persuade her that it was natural to have a nice pair.

Buffed up they looked magnificent and they went well with our village house.

Like a cat having affirmation for dropping a dead mouse on the carpet I was now hooked on the pine-thing.

Over the next few months I must have boosted the profits of the Horncastle Antiques Guild members.

My next acquisition was a pine cupboard. Probably from a school or vestry. Tall, large door with authentic wooden knob. Three shelves, a bit wormy but treatable.

This was followed by a magnificent table. The dealer told me it had come from the preparation room in a bakers shop. Long, low, three drawers, fully restored in all its virgin white pine, unfinished. Stout and shapely legs, strong enough to sustain the heavy works of a Master bread maker. I could imagine the updraught of fine flour after the impact of warm, pliant dough on the table top.

Bloomers, Crusty Cobs, Tiger Bread, Rolls and fancies would all have assumed a part of the character of the table.

In the house it fitted exactly into the chimney breast alcove in terms of depth and only slightly impeded the opening of the door from the dining room to the kitchen.

We did not really have much time to savour the pine table as we were about to move house. Our purchaser dragged on and on in the process and, at the eleventh hour of signing Contracts she had the audacity to offer a lower price than that agreed. Our own plans were in tatters.

We offered the table as a sweetener to the deal. We had noticed that she had lingered in the dining room during her viewings of the house, drawing her hand with unreasonable pleasure along the grain of the table top.

The negotiation was swiftly completed with no more dramas.

My addiction was worrying me now. In a backlash reaction I started to buy just anything that was not pine. A replica brass bell from the Titanic 1912, an enamel advertising sign for Pears soaps, a foxes head together with badly hound chewed ears, a wood burning stove, two tons of reclaimed brick-pavers, a selection of stone slabs one of which had obviously been used for practice by a monumental mason, a bundle of Look and Learn comics from the 1930's. I had to stop.

The house move at some increased distance and a hefty Bridge Toll from the attractions of Horncastle served to be the antidote.

Many years later and we are down to a single pew.

I have a strong emotional connection to it. Notwithstanding it's beauty and provenance it also represented one of the first pieces of furniture bought in our early married life.

I am however a realist and if our combined energy costs spiral as they did during the extreme weather of this time last year, I will have no hesitation in exploiting the chemically infused pinewood of the pew as a long and slow burning fuel on the living room coal fire. Sounds like a perfect cure to me.

First written in 2011