Sea mist and a continual downpour: even the week-old lambs in the fields looked fed up. We were scheduled to meet outside the church at two o’clock. At two minutes to, I was the only person there waiting and I wondered whether the guided tour of the village, led by a local archaeologist, had been cancelled.
I tried the handle of the church door, hoping it would be unlocked and I could wait out of the rain. It was. I went in and stood on the flagstones in the porch and stared balefully out through the open door at the dripping tombs.
To a passer-by, I must have looked like a new gargoyle that had just been delivered. I was in a bad mood and knew it. My eyeballs felt hard, which is a sure sign. I knew why I was in a bad mood, too. Post-Cheltenham Festival blues — that was the matter with me. The day before, and the day before that, I’d been at the festival as a guest, once again, of the racing tipster Colonel Pinstripe. Which means I’d been on it, solidly, for two days and three nights. Every morning at 10.30 we had them lined up in rows in the Guinness bar. And every night, some 16 or 17 hours later, I was among the last of the burblers to rise unsteadily from an armchair and head up to bed.
I was jaded. But over and above the run-of-the-mill hangover, there was bitterness and shame. Bitterness towards the gods for upsetting the favourites and thereby casting me into penury. Shame at my emotional and intellectual disarray towards the end of the last day. And shame at being ill, just before I left, behind a hedge — far and away the nicest bit of topiary I’ve ever been sick behind — in the grounds of the beautiful house at which we stayed.
I was just beginning to enjoy myself, in a miserable sort of way, watching the raindrops trickling down the gravestones, when a woman exuding cheerfulness from beneath the hood of an anorak entered the porch. She was a member of the village historical society, she said, and a few other walkers, plus the archaeologist, were on their way.
Presently, they arrived in a bunch and crowded into the church porch. In spite of living in the village on and off for 22 years, I recognised no one, nor was I recognised by anyone. We arranged ourselves, backs to the wall, in an intimate, inward-facing, dripping circle, and the historical-society woman formally introduced a youngish man as the archaeologist and our guide for the rest of the afternoon. Everyone murmured, smiled, or nodded their hellos in a respectful, churchy kind of way. I rudely scrutinised every aspect of his face from 12 inches.
Then another youngish man appeared in the doorway. This, said the historical woman, was the local representative of an organisation called Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty (South Devon), who was sponsoring both the guided walk and an exhibition of old maps and photographs in the village hall. This man greeted us with a proprietary air then made a little speech. We were all extremely fortunate, he informed us, to live in an area of outstanding natural beauty. Therefore each and every one of us — here he went around the circle, marking each face with a solemn glance — had a duty as individuals to cherish and safeguard our small part of it and pass it on, unblemished, to future generations.
It was a long while, it seemed to me, since I’d last heard such patronising cant. Did he mean us? Or was he addressing some infants I hadn’t yet noticed? And was he talking about this geriatric ghetto with BP petrol stations set amid oil-seed rape fields and conifer plantations? And was he implying that we inhabitants of this Area of Outstanding Forces of Conservatism are no longer disenfranchised? Is Mr Balls unwell?
I was in no mood to be told by a public servant that I was living in a Rupert book. Our so-called Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty is a cultural wasteland. The post-office closures were the final nail in the coffin. Apart from people like him coming round and telling us how lucky we are, the government’s work here is done. And if and when the next government decides to concrete it over and sling up a new town or two, there won’t be anything anyone can do about it, except hope and pray that the smallest houses are affordable.
When I interrupted his condescending words of welcome and told him he was talking nonsense, Mr Outstanding Natural Beauty looked first taken aback, then hurt and a little angry — which, to my mind, was the most incredible thing of all. The poor man must have sincerely believed what he was saying.
Comments