“Well, I just said that Jesus and I were both Jewish and that neither of us ever had a job, we never had a home, we never married and we travelled around the countryside irritating people.” Kinky Friedman
I thought I have country-cred.
I do have creditials! I used to live in the West Country for a while. True... I lived in the city of Plymouth for the bulk of that time, (with a brief spell in town in the South Hams) , but it remains my claim to country living. I did what millions of Londoners NEVER do...I left London. For years. And I survived. Okay it was hardly The Life of Grizzly Adams (I think all the streets were actually paved) but I managed to survive without the world’s most amazing city and got to know about what life is like when you don’t share it with another 10 million souls. Okay it didn’t last! Now I live on the very edges of London. But something must have rubbed of as my postal address isn’t even London – it’s Kent. And the view from my bedroom window is almost pastoral as I can see a sheep farm.
It was upon such trivia that I stuck a common cord with the Creative Director I mentioned a couple of blogs ago... the improbably named Che. You may recall he hails from Wiltshire, a county characterised by its high downland and wide valleys. He's very proud of his rural roots and why not, Wiltshire is a lovely county. It’s very pretty and has a lot of things of note – but one of those things wouldn’t be people. Wiltshire doesn’t have a lot of people... there are 7 million more people living in London than in the whole county of Wiltshire. It is PROPER rural. Not a tag that sits accurately on me. I think I may oversold it when I said “OH... I used to live in the West Country! But now I live in Kent”.
I’m a big city girl, who moved to a small city, then a large town, then back to edge of the city where she started off. Kent may well be my postal address but geographically I'm in Greater London - I still have 10 million neighbours!
I think I may have oversold it with that innocent 14 word sentence. I think I created an image more suited to a milk maid from a Julien Dupre painting. An image that was quickly corrected on a drive out to the Vale of Pewsey. This was clearly the time to waive my credentials for country cred by mentioning the town I lived in during my West Country days. I thought that living in a town unconnected to a major city was a big deal (“20 miles of fields either side!” I chirped thinking I was scoring rural points). But instead of being impressed, proper rural Che was very surprised I had never lived in a village. Turned out he hails from a village with a population of less than 700 people. [I am SURE we fitted more people in a phone box during a college dare ...but I digress.] But it turns out that 20 miles of fields either side does not count as rural living.
In the Vale of Pewsey, street lights, paved roads and the distant roar of a major road are not the norm. And so my country-cred points disappeared as quickly as the Salisbury Plains at dusk.
It now appears that Che thinks I am Urbane. He uses the word to mock me, like being urbane is a bad thing!. It is not. (At least to me). I only wish I was urbane – but despite being born in Westminster and once living in Chelsea - I strongly suspect that I can only lay claim to being suburban. However if the man from Wiltshire thinks I am a city dweller at heart then so be it. I see nothing wrong with a deep held passion for sodium lights, asphalt and background noise.
I find it comforting that my street are swept at night by crews of men in whirling machines and that my meat comes pre-cut, shrink wrapped and in a polysomething tray. I love that wildlife cozies up with us people... I gaze with wonder at the squirrels and foxes who tightrope walk on my walls. I love the fact that traffic is calmed by lights and humps and roundabouts, and that there are signs every few hundred yards that tell you where you are or how far you are from somewhere else. I like that I can walk to a train station that connects onwards to the whole country and beyond (I live in Kent... we’re only 22 miles from France at our most extended point). I am born and bred in the regions of tarmac and paving stones and I will not apologise for it.
However I like the English Countryside well enough... I sing ‘This green and pleasant land’ as loudly as anyone else at the rugby.
Che still thinks I am Urbane. All this because I complained about churned mud on country lanes (which had clearly been dragged there by a tractor...no night clean up crews in the countryside... these clods are left to harden and make for an comfortable drive). This utterance of mine was enough to convince him that I share the point of view of those who have little experience of country life but feel obliged to comment freely upon it.
In my defence, my derriere is sufficiently padded for most scenarios... but being repeated bounced and bumped over hardened tractor mud had caused it some notable discomfort. I felt justified in mentioning that I objected to the mud left in country lanes by tractors. It was a complaint that took 30 seconds of to formulate in my head and be spoken. It will probably take a life-time to be forgiven for saying it.
Apparently - in Wiltshire – there has been an invasion of ‘Urbanites’ and they seem to be very vocal in telling the locals what they think of country ways. And according to Che they have no idea what they are talking about. (Really?... 17 jolts to my backside and I thought I was pretty clear in my [all be it truncated ] thought process) However he is convinced the Urbane view should be constricted to the towns.
Apparently Urbanites think the countryside is an unspoiled environment and have no idea how that green and pleasant land came about and just get in the way. Apparently the English countryside is the most intensively farmed landscape on earth and that patchwork quilt of green and yellow that rolls over hill and dale has been fashioned not by nature, but the hard labour of rural men.
I pointed out that the hard labour of rural men seemed greatly assisted by the hard labour of men working in the city based CLAAS tractor factory. (You don’t need my petrol-head knowledge to deduce that the clods of mud on the lane seemed more likely to come from an Axion 800 than a pair of mud soaked farm labourer’s boots.) Not possibly my wisest move as I got the lecture about the ignorance of urban dwellers about the reality of rural living!
Urbanites are afraid of almost every type of livestock but are sentimental about vermin such as rabbits, foxes and squirrels. They are shocked by the sight of animal carcasses and are always asking the village butcher for vegetarian options (but drive for miles out to a supermarket to buy the same meats but shrink wrapped). Urbanites have pushed up the prices of country barns, apparently they watch BBC programmes like ‘Escape to the Country’ and blow their ill-gotten bankers bonuses on turning them into country homes that they don't even live in. They insist on preserving wild flowers and will not understand anything wild should be contained as without ceaseless vigilance the green and pleasant land would return to a wasteland of bindweed, nettle and bramble.
Ah.
I would love to say that I proved him wrong on all these points.
But as I ran away from a cow (it had a murderous look in its eye), got all political in the pub when the local hunt came in (they allow dogs to tear apart a cute red fox), nearly fainted when I saw half a butchered goat hanging in a shop window, totally loved a barn conversion just off the Alton Priors turn off, and thought Dropwort were pretty daisies.... It became clear that I was not the country girl I may have inadvertently advertised myself as.
However, I am pleased to say that I did manage to redeem myself during my brief trip to the wild side. I was called a complete treasure by a farmer in the pub!
Turns out that the farmer had tractor problems. He’d replaced the spindle and brake arm, also the cable that engages the deck. He found that the mower would start when he depressed the brake/clutch pedal, but when he took his foot off the pedal it killed the engine. I have no specific experience of the farmers problem, but I had heard and remembered some advice being positively received during my brief spell as a Townie in the South Hams... this was my moment to shine. So I interrupted and offered 'my' advice that if the spindle turned and the blade when he fitted them then that part is ok but he should have a look at the brake and cable as when he engages the deck the break should release. Next thing I knew... Che was advised that he should hang onto that one as she was a Complete Country Treasure!
And so he should... if he likes a complete country fraud!
It's no coincidence that the only thing I knew anything about in the countryside was a tractor. Tractors are built in cities - then shipped out to the countryside. Bit like me! (Especially if you consider the one I spoke to the farmer about was suffering a countryside breakdown)
Thing is I am scared of livestock, I am sentimental about wildlife and wildflowers, I do prefer my meat in cellophane, and if I had the cash I would pay top dollar to convert a barn and only stay there on bank holiday weekends. I love paved streets, I adore bright lights and I need signs (even if it is just background noise) that there are other people on earth.
But I don’t think Che was fooled for a moment. He made excuses about a long drive back to ’The Smoke’ and bundled me out of the pub.
Later back in London, I had to ask if I had redeemed myself by helping the farmer.
I had to laugh at the reply:
“Face facts Jaxs, you were sweetening him up with all that petrol-head nonsense so that you could ask him if it would be too much trouble if he could sweep up the clods of earth that come off his tractor as they make the lanes uncomfortable for your arse!!.”
As us Urbanites would say.........Busted!
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