Eric lives in a sort-of Moorish house, deep in the Surrey countryside. There was no answer to repeated doorbell ringing. Entering the house from the terrace on the other side, we halloed. A cat, dozing in the sun, looked annoyed. Down to the swimming pool with its 12-foot-long guitar-in-tiles on the pool floor; no-one there either. Checked the library. A tennis shoe on a table, sunglasses on the couch, a kodacolor of his parents on the end table, gold records on the wall for ‘Disraeli Gears,’ ‘Goodbye,’ ‘Best of Cream,’ the single “Sunshine of Your Love” and both a platinum and gold record for ‘Wheels of Fire.’ Picked one of a large selection of books on the silent screen and settled down in the after-the-bomb stillness. The only interruption was the sudden jangling of the phone. It was Eric’s mother. She wanted to wish him well on the start of his tour. An hour later, Eric came stumbling downstairs in robe and slippers, looking sleepy and abashed. A cup of tea, he changed into his jeans and we went out to the garden to talk.
From the 15th October 1970 edition of Rolling Stone.