bitter and twisted
And pressed with cautious tread the meadow swath
And always turned to look with wary eye
And always feared the owner coming by;
Yet everything about where I had gone
Appeared so beautiful I ventured on ...”
Trespass, John Clare (1793-1864)
Someone suggested taking a banjo if going to a remote corner of Shropshire. They visualised places populated by those grotesques from the film Deliverance, or from Royston Vasey. The acquaintance suggested the same about deepest Sussex too. But my vision had been more akin to the bittersweet rural idylls of A Shopshire Lad (1896). A.E.Housman’s collection of poems was written in London about his imagined Shropshire, based on a contemporary guidebook. I thought of parallels to R.S.Thomas’ and Jan Morris’ evocations of a 9th Century poem yearning for the unreachable Abercuawg. It wasn’t long before A Shropshire Lad was set to music. George Butterworth’s eponymous song cycle and orchestral rhapsody were also composed at a distance (London and the Home Counties). His Two English Idylls, trying to portray an “old Albion”, were derived from Sussex folk songs. In nearly opposite corners of England, I fleetingly wondered if there was some deeper connection between the two counties, other than both abutting borders, one on land and one by sea. And banjos. Meanwhile, my ramblings here are based on just a fleeting visit.
I found a largely unmodernised small town, declining in significance since the Middle Ages, when it held agricultural markets and cross-border battles. Time marches slowly in the Marches. Today, apart from a noted brewery, two upmarket tandoori restaurants and some friendly unspoilt pubs, it is indeed as if time has stood still. Thankfully the timbered buildings still stand, giving the place that Autumnal look favoured by travel columns. A flyer on the notice board informed me that the Parish Church, with its twisted spire, runs regular Beer Festivals. A pity I'm not a regular churchgoer. The hospitality is among the warmest I’ve known. I hesitate to name the town for fear of encouraging others to come along to gentrify it in their own Entitled image.
A different kind of “rustic reception” was to be found outside the town, but nothing like the “welcome” you might have expected. A local leaflet on “riverside rambles” led up to a broad ridge where an initially incongruous security camera was trained on the path. Returning the same way an hour later, the route was now impassable due to the sudden appearance of a large herd of bulls in solid congregation. On closer inspection, there were remotely controlled motorised cameras all around the perimeter of this large historic estate. Automatic cattle gates too maybe.
The contrast with the nearby town was unbearable; a rude awakening. I hadn’t paid much attention previously when the ancient timbers of the narrow High Street were shaken daily by the constant rumble of large lorries. But now I made conversation with some of the many contractors and security personnel marshalling deliveries of the huge blocks of newly quarried stone. I learned that the 3750 acres had been bought by a young old Etonian hedge fund manager who was rebuilding the stately mansion and its extensive walled garden. Together with his other similar properties here and overseas. At least he has plenty of hedges to manage.
They say he is rarely seen in town. I wonder why.
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I look forward to your comments. Also it would be nice to know where you are in the world. Thanks for reading.