A VISIT TO THE SOUL OF ENGLAND

Recently, I spent a few days in Devon. The woods were just beginning to change their colour, but the weather was good and in pubs and restaurants it was possible to view clusters of late-flowering tourists. Everywhere clotted cream walls and immaculate thatch hinted at the presence of a cosy prosperity, and the natural world was doing even better. Noticing a meadow aglow with points of light, I found that a neighbouring farmer had signed up to the Countryside Stewardship Scheme, and as a result wild flowers were sprouting like images from a dream.
Yet in this 21st century Eden, something was not right. Behind the gentle, reassuring faade there was, or appeared to be, unnerving emptiness. Though the farms were cared for, stress was carved into the faces of those who did the caring, while in small market towns many shops were shabby and tended to be poorly stocked. Economically such areas are going through a rough patch, there isn’t much doubt about that, but there was something else here, something deeper and more chilling. No-one seemed to laugh much. Or smile, for that matter, if you discount those mechanical jaw movements employed to ease the awkwardness of everyday contact. And there was, of course, no music. No-one sings or whistles these days, and despite an abundance of sound-relaying technology you’re likely to go a long way before you hear any kind of melody echoing down a street.
Life is comfortable. Most people have cars, TVs and washing-machines, vast numbers also possess mobile phones, microwaves and ipods. Yet just about everyone - from the old and remarkably healthy to the young and uneasy - seems gripped by something like clinical depression. So why, suddenly, are we such a dejected people?
As far as rural areas are concerned, there are various possible answers. The betrayal of British agriculture, the breaking down and demonising of rural pursuits, the slow, relentless seeping away of people and resources. But things like these have happened throughout the ages, and humanity has coped. Merrie England has kept itself going through wars and epidemics, floods, bad harvests, financial disasters and worse. Not any more, though. The liberal intellectual lobby, working hand in hand with government and sections of the media, has worked to break our spirit, and its efforts are beginning to be crowned by success. Because simple decency is one of this nation’s most enduring and endearing attributes, no-one will ever find it hard to convince us that we are doing harm to somebody, or something, and therefore ought to stop. Our straightforward love of country, of our own national family, has turned into racism’, and consequently is taboo. Harmless jokes about gender, physical appearance, etc, are frowned upon. Our sense of humour our very thought processes are being put into irons. Which brings me to a phenomenon known as prison mentality. Men and women whose freedom has been withheld can exhibit lassitude, vocal tonelessness and a lacklustre look about the eyes. Generally speaking they don’t smile or laugh, or at any rate not for sane, comprehensible reasons. Something inside them has flipped, switching off a part of their humanity, and they are running on half power. So are we, the people of England, now suffering from a condition associated with old lags? It’s worth a thought.
When people are imprisoned the ordinary family and social structure is temporarily lost to them, and so it is with modern Britain. Innumerable families may still hold together, but forces are working to erase such inappropriate behaviour. Told that their traditional rle is humiliating and anachronistic, many young mothers opt for the work-place’ instead, even where there is little financial need and their personal inclinations point elsewhere. As a result play groups and nurseries absorb the very young, retirement homes swallow up the old. Teenagers and older children spend their evenings clamped to computer and TV screens, often moving only to head for the mind-blowing hell of some local disco, and even when families do eat together they don’t very often talk. Who needs conversation when you can gape at Posh and Becks or find out who has just murdered who in your favourite soap?
There is something else that happens to people in prison. When life becomes unendurable there is a craving to shut it out, and so the vulnerable frequently turn to drugs or alcohol. For those whose lives hold a spiritual dimension the picture can look different, but in today’s Britain faith - Christian faith, at any rate - can be hard to acquire. In most schools evangelism is banned, and though adult religious freedom has not yet been demolished, that development is getting closer. Belief in Eternal Truth may be an acknowledged life saver but it can also be seen as divisive’, so - like the singing of Land of Hope and Glory - it is heading rapidly for the restricted list.
In cities and larger towns these influences have already produced dark, dramatic effects. Youthful drunks of both sexes pile up in Accident and Emergency, schools incubate a culture of addiction to sex and drugs, those attempting to lead decent lives are tortured by murderous gangs. But then cities, to some extent, have always been dangerous places. The countryside is different. It’s supposed to be cleaner and purer, a place where people go on pilgrimage, looking for renewal, where if they listen carefully enough they know they will hear the nation’s heartbeat. If the canker that grips our cities really has begun breaking through to that rural heart, then England’s ancient civilisation probably is on the road to extinction.
In the meantime people continue to go about their business, whatever they may perceive that business to be. Not with joy or with a spring in their step, more as if they are activating a treadmill, but if they’re comfortable enough they may just stay on that treadmill. If not, it’s possible they will step off and sit in some shop doorway, waiting for the charity workers to come round with tea and blankets.
There are scattered signs that suggest springs of rebellion. The Union Flag and the Cross of St George turn up all over the place, on church towers and in cottage gardens, suspended over shop doorways. In one place I noticed a very small Union Jack fluttering alone, halfway along a shadowy alley-way. No doubt these tokens appear for a variety of reasons, but the fact is, they are proliferating. In Ottery St Mary one young hotel worker told me how everyone still likes to get involved in the yearly ritual that involves carrying barrels of blazing tar around the town (this commemorates a 17th century victory over plague). Some get burned, he said, on their heads and shoulders, but that doesn’t matter because the custom goes way back’, and is important. And his face came alive.
This country has - had - a formidable spirit, but imprisonment is rapidly stifling all that, and if we are to be rescued a mammoth effort will be needed. Our political leaders must consider urgently whether they mean to supply some of that effort. Or whether they plan to put extra locks on the prison gate.