Missing England

A couple of days ago, Ayumi asked me if there was anything I missed about England. We're going back for a fortnight at the end of this month, so I suppose it was a timely question. Of course, I miss English friends, and the kindness of strangers, the ease of social relations, the banter, but England itself? I wasn't so sure. We have a 100-year old house that has taken upon itself to fall apart since we left, to our frustration and to the annoyance and increasing disgust of the tenant; it's damp and overcast, and even when it's 10 degrees warmer than Rokko (minus 8 when I started this piece), it feels that much grimmer; food, after Japan, is another source of lamentation, rather than expectation; customer service is at times hand-wringingly awful—let's not even mention call centres; God alone knows how long I'll have to hang on the phone, then wait 8-9 days, for a non-urgent GP appointment, always assuming they haven't delisted me in the meantime. Petrol prices will have reached some new high, the streets will be unkempt, in spite of a ridiculously generous provision of litter bins. No-one will welcome me when I enter the supermarket (the constant irrashaimase! s might lack warmth or sincerity, but at least you know you exist—by contrast, one doesn't so much visit as haunt a late-night Tesco, the shelf-stackers oblivious to everything but their mate's story about the previous night's session down the pub, as you push your trolley down wide aisles through the flourescent glare).  And then there's Galaxy FM... "There's Glory for you!"

No, I thought, I don't miss England. And then I remembered this walk, and realised that, on a sunny day in the countryside, there may no more beautiful place to be.

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In September last year, just before we left for Japan, I put on a hat, grabbed my ipod, a book and a pork pie, and took off for the day—the first unencumbered day to myself in several years. I took the train south to Derby, which not a place to tarry in, but (since the 1960s, I expect) an unavoidable interchange if you want to get to Cromford by rail. And I did want to get to Cromford, not only because it is a charming village that manages to be picturesque without being twee—no cream teas here! but some good real ales, and a decent sandwich and sweet shop where you can get cash back on your debit card, because there's no ATM for 10 miles—but also because it is home to Scarthin Books, one of the best bookshops in England outside of London, and the only decent bookshop within driving distance of Sheffield. (If I were ever to retire in England, I'd rent a small house next door overlooking the millpond, and spend a few weeks at a stretch just browsing the shelves, and eating some of their great homemade soup of the day in the little café upstairs. Justin can come too!).

Cromford is not only unassuming about its current treasures, it also wears its heritage lightly (something that the tourist traps of England could learn from), for this Derbyshire village is one of the cradles of the Industrial Revolution, to borrow a cliche. In 1771,  Richard Arkright engineered and established Cromford Mill, the world's first water-powered cotton mill, in this valley:

[thus] creating one of the first factories that was specifically built to house machinery rather than just bringing workers together. It was one of the first instances of the working day being determined by the clock instead of the daylight hours, of people being employed rather than just contracted. In its final form, combined with his carding machine, it was the first truly continuous process. Its social impact was the sheer quantity of thread produced, supplying the new powered looms (Wikipedia: Cromford).

In other words, the Clockwise existence, which is the only one most people reading this blog will ever know, started here, in Cromford. Ironic then that I came to this place 'to get away from it all', and that the most beautiful walk I could find out of the town was along the tow path of the disused Cromford Canal (pictured right), built by Arkwright to ship materials in and out of one of England's first "dark, Satanic mills" (though perhaps, being water-powered, it was less infernal than some others.)

Upon reflection, the whole experience of a walk in the English countryside is deeply ironic, from the disused canals and railway embankments that are decaying symbols of aggressive industrial capitalism, past the patchwork of green fields, hedgerows and dry stone walls that bear testimony to centuries of gruelling agricultural labour, across the moorland heather that is only easily traversable because of countless years of upland sheep grazing. The romance of the battlefield. I know all of this is true, I know that rural England is only a very well-established theme park built on the ruins of derelict industry and agriculture, but that's not what I feel when I walk there, and that's not what I miss...

From the rolling road to the winding lane,
From the field to factory,
From summer's haze to winter's glaze,
And all the colours in between.
It's a stillness in the evening.
It's the heartbeat that I'm feeling.
From Cornwall to Northumberland,
From the Pennines to the sea.

And the echo from the green hills
Runs through the city streets.
And the wind that blows through England
Well it breathes its life in you and me.

Ralph McTell, England



It will be good to come back.