Sign on a pub in the Wye Valley. Photo: Jeffrey St. Clair.
It’s always dramatic when you leave London for a spell in the English countryside.
In the English countryside, people still say hello. Trees are tall and knowing. The old as well as young work the shops. A pothole becomes a talking point. History, especially Druid or Roman, never seems far away.
In the English countryside, people are less concerned about US politics. The skies are crammed with stars. Wood pigeons coo from working chimney tops. Graveyards are pocked with freshly placed flowers. Keyless thefts of vehicles take place in isolated car parks.
In the English countryside, parks have goalposts with fresh netting. Sisters shape lists of recommended streaming. More terrifying than any dark city lane is a road thick with fog. Temporary ice rinks have been constructed. Bookshops thrive.
In the English countryside, farmers receive sympathy over inheritance tax. Sculptures in fields are temporary. Lime trees replace dying—therefore dangerous—oak trees. The class system is alive and kicking. Celebrities go unrecognised. Allotments are extensions of nature, not lifestyle choices.
In the English countryside, divorced fathers spoil children with coffee only fathers enjoy. Postmen, even in winter, wear shorts. Sherry is drunk. Roadkill is a commonplace. Charity shops smell of the past. Tramps play 12-string guitars.
In the English countryside, WW2 Czech pilots are buried in unseen clusters with brand new headstones. Single mothers walk tall. Hedgehogs hide out in ground-level thickets. There are no Ubers. Birds really do sing. Cowpats encrust. The rubbish collectors are quiet.
In the English countryside, men in their 60s jog in dated shorts. Domestic cats wander unchallenged from garden to garden. Relatives of neighbours say they lived in Kensington, or Shepherds Bush, depending on who they are talking to. People watch soaps like Emmerdale. Unkissed frogs hide in ponds.
In the English countryside, dogs are let off leads. Pharmacy queues are well informed. Green-winged teals are recorded on birdwatching sites. Civil servants are criticised for working from home. Old amphitheatres are muddy. There are many Graham Greene novels in the Oxfam shop.
In the English countryside, planes still go down in Kazakhstan. Greenfinches chew on bird feeders. Memories linger from hitching through the same county aged 16. Tattooed faces in supermarkets talk of 12 year-old nephews brilliant at computer games. Links to older English poets seem feasible.
In the English countryside, it is easy to sidle into 1914-set novels. Teapots are used for tea. Tandems are raised from garage floors. Musicians like Steve Winwood farm sheep. Recycling is more rigorous than in the cities. Silence is loud. Ignorance, not prejudice, is more likely the problem.
In the English countryside, airbases host USAF heavy bombers. A dependence on agriculture exposes people to wavering crop prices and fickle weather. A kestrel or buzzard glides head-down across the sky. Gaza is a song called Under the Rubble by Roger Waters. Candles sell like hot cakes. Teenagers wonder what to do.
In the English countryside, families still love Wallace & Gromit. Local benches commemorate fallen heroes from the war. Russian cruise missiles slamming into Kyiv on Christmas Day are considered inordinately mean. Rural poverty leads to social isolation and a sense of exclusion. Chocolate is eaten at leisure, never at speed.
In the English countryside, over 10,000 people in the armed forces are considered ‘not medically deployable’. Local cheeses are habit-forming. Rural poverty comes from a lack of basics plus limited access to resources. There are hardly any snakes.
In the English countryside, city folk continue to seek refuge. Collected seagull feathers are stuck affectionately into polystyrene mats. The barks of trees on long walks are cool to the touch. Suicide is not, alas, uncommon.
In the English countryside, only a fifth of country voters believe the government cares about them. People eat lots of blueberries. Puddles are not always sidestepped. Rugged dry stone walls are like works of art. Suits are wildly patterned. Sparrows sit alone on the branches of skeletal trees. Moss thrives.
In the English countryside, hangovers from the old Window Tax introduced by King William III still block windows. Tempers are considered anti-social. Plants have modish pots. Promoting handicrafts can power-drive tiny pockets of economic growth. Tribal elders go online.
In the English countryside, long-lost family members unexpectedly bump into one another halfway down avenues of trees hundreds of miles from each other’s homes. (It happened to me.)
In the English countryside, people sleep.
The post Letter Not from London: the English Countryside appeared first on CounterPunch.org.
