The South Downs way is beyond miserable

I see that a small furore has been occasioned by the South Downs National Park. It has urged walkers to stop and talk to one another in a civilised and friendly manner. I do not know what business it is of a national park to enjoin us to act like human beings – these bodies get a little above themselves and part of me would like to tell them to get stuffed. That has been the general response from southerners, such as Clive Aslet, the former editor of Country Life, that magazine which still puts some skanky deb wannabe on page three every week.

But still. There is not another national park in the country where such an injunction would be needed. Everywhere else, people talk to one another when an encounter takes place because they are pleasant human beings, rather than insular, self-absorbed, miserable bastards. I have just returned from a week on the North York Moors – friendliness at every turn, nobody too wrapped up in their lives for a chat or a helping hand. Kindliness, good nature and decency – it couldn’t be more different from the south-east of England. Incidentally, I’m far from convinced that the South Downs should be a National Park. It is basically a couple of hills surrounded by hordes of stockbrokers and transgender activists. Its only notable feature is a convenient site to kill oneself. Quite how Charles Moore stands it escapes me.