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It comes as something of a surprise to me to realise I have now been living in the British countryside for almost five decades. Before those conclusion-jumping folks amongst you read that statement and think “Oh, this guy is clearly a Grade-A bumpkin with no idea of how the cut-throat real world works” I should also point out that I tried living in cities a couple of times, too, so yes I do know what Borders bookstore is and even journeyed many miles by train to spectate at a speed dating event once. But life as an urban dweller has never suited me and I’ve soon hotfooted it back to some moorland ravine or godforsaken icy hill, realising those places are and will always be my comfort zones. Because I’ve spent so many years in the British countryside I sometimes undervalue the niche wisdom I have gradually accrued about the place, not realising this counts as “being rurally wise” at all and thinking it merely counts as “being a wholly unremarkable individual who just happens to have seen a lot of Morris Dancing and grain silos”. But then in a perspective-shifting moment I’ll spend time with an urban acquaintance who appears utterly amazed at my ability to, say, navigate my way to the nearest tavern by evaluating the health of nettles or sing an anxious horse to sleep, and I’ll think, “Hey, you know what, maybe I am sort of The Fonz at this whole rural life thing, after all!” Nowadays, of course, I have thousands of Substack subscribers from overseas who have never visited Britain’s less densely populated areas and ask me lots of questions about what those areas are really like. I can’t logically answer all of these individually but I believe knowledge is there to be passed on, not jealously hoarded, so, using some photographs I’ve taken, I thought it might be useful to offer people a portrait of what I know.
I don’t profess to call what follows a comprehensive guide, merely a flavour that might offer a rounded and realistic portrait of a place, gained over time, by someone deep in its mix who is not looking at what is directly in front of his eyes through rose-tinted spectacles.
EXCITING VILLAGE EVENTS
My friend Rick was over here from Manchester, staying in my spare room, last week. Rick didn’t leave his home city for the first time until 2022 and didn’t even know what a donkey was until 2019, when he was 58, but now that he’s been to Devon, where I live, a few times, the pollution-coated twat thinks he’s William W***ing Wordsworth. “Slow and dreamy, the cow is the tortoise of the field,” he announced to me pompously on Friday. I didn’t reply, as I dislike confrontation, but the dude was talking utter shit. When properly motivated, British cattle can move at speeds of up to 65mph, as can be witnessed in our annual village Milk Race. Here a herd of Jerseys are challenged, over 18 miles of varied terrain, to beat a quad bike, normally driven by Sue who runs the post office, and Bill, a former Olympic runner who lives in the old mill. As usual, this year the Jerseys came out on top, leaving Bill (far right, in his customary Parisian designer denim) pathetically wheezing and crooked, although as you can see some of the herd’s progress has been impeded by their investigation of the cottage to the right, having heard the distracting opening bars of Paula Abdul’s 1988 hit ‘Straight Up’ coming from an open window.
SHEEP
I retain and archive photographs depicting traumatic experiences in my rural life because I think it’s important to remember the bad times, as well as the good. This one, which still hurts more than most, is from the occasion when some sheep I’d put my trust in threw me off a cliff for kicks then cut the rope as I tearfully begged for their assistance, possibly in the form of calling emergency services on my behalf, all the while pitifully attempting to pull myself back up to safety using my one unbroken arm.
HIKING THE PATHS
I am vehemently against the disturbingly prevalent idea amongst some walkers that going for a walk is only legitimate if you have a dog to walk with you. Some people walk with dogs. Some people don’t. There are no rules and it’s all fine. These days I walk alone, but that’s mostly because of how agonisingly I miss my dogs Jess and Stefan (above), especially my long hikes accompanied faithfully by them along the riverbanks of Dorset, Devon and Cornwall. They loved the water and never seemed quite as happy when they were out of it. As soon as I took them home to the seventh floor flat we used to rent on an unusually tall farm, it was obvious how much they missed their swims, and the expensively fragranced baths I used to give them were patently no substitute.
THE MILITARY AND ITS STEALTHY PRESENCE IN THE COUNTRYSIDE
We haven’t had a war in the British countryside for over a year now but our military still like to greedily reserve parts of the landscape so they can shoot at stuff for fun. The rules surrounding these areas can be highly confusing. A case in point being the area above, which I visited this April: walking across it is very much permitted, but should you want to practice your 1970s disco strut in the process? Forfuckingget it, mister. Strictly prohibited.
RURAL BINGE DRINKING CULTURE
People oversimplify the “city to country” path as one that leads from hard-living and a variety of substance abuse to some magic purification of the system amidst clean air. I have witnessed more unhinged alcohol-fuelled mayhem in forests, orchards and hay barns than I have around any seedy urban park, nightclub or marketplace. What I find most upsetting of all, however, is that mayhem’s aftermath, as the terrible regret kicks in about all the tactless things that have been said. When you are seeing a loved one experiencing this, it’s all the more painful to witness. (Since the above photo was taken, we have moved to a village without a pub.)
THE ANCIENT WISDOM OF ANIMALS
My forebears in the countryside knew the staggering intuitive skills that animals often possess, beyond the physically obvious, but sadly since the Industrial Revolution many of these skills have been gradually forgotten. “Oh, isn’t it cuuuuute," many people will say, for example, upon seeing a pony. “Shame it’s just a pony and isn’t any good at anything else apart from doing basic boring pony stuff.” These out-of-touch onlookers remain entirely unaware of the unique combination of unusually high olfactory sensibility and brutal honesty that makes ponies the world’s best consultants when it comes to perfume or aftershave. If I am experimenting with a new scent, do I go to my partner, or a good friend, for a first opinion? No. I go to a pony, because that way I know I’ll get the most honest feedback, backed up by the maximum amount of information.
THE ART SCENE
I am so sick and tired of people telling me that the city is where all the artists live and the countryside is full of nothing but retired accountants and bloodthirsty farmers. LOADS of artists live near me and when they do art, they do it in a big way. The annual Extreme Linoprint on Druid’s Hill is one of the local calendar’s most well-attended events, although I do wish competitors would clean up more diligently after themselves.
ADDITIONAL USEFUL INFORMATION ABOUT LIVESTOCK
Because cattle move so so speedily over such long distances, they are prone to get extremely tired. Fortunately the British countryside contains many large rocks for them to rest their head in the middle of a long run and regain their strength. If you find a cow, bull or bullock napping on a rock, do not on any account touch it, as it is likely to become bitter and sarcastic.
THE ONGOING DRUG PROBLEM IN SMALL TOWNS AND VILLAGES
I think this photo speaks for itself: a mission of pure desperation, driven by chronic addiction, and doomed to failure (if we did have any spare money, we certainly wouldn’t keep it in the sideboard). Are we the problem, we sometimes wonder, for living in a place where there is not more for the young to do to fill their time? All we can do is pray that it is just a phase.
TECHNOLOGY’S ARRIVAL IN THE STICKS
Finally, a word on phones and their apps, which, like all country folk, I remain leery of. Nonetheless I have to confess that yesterday my friends and I enjoyed using our bird and plant identification apps on a long walk by the coast. Even better was the ‘Fellow Hiker Profile’ app I had downloaded earlier that day. After we passed a stranger on the coast path, my friends Ben and Helen would instruct me, “Quick! Look up that guy - we need to know his story!” and I’d inconspicuously point my phone at the stranger and to my astonishment my phone would instantly bring up such details as “NAME: IAN. DATE OF BIRTH: 7TH JULY 1980. RELATIONSHIP STATUS: RECENTLY DIVORCED. FAVOURITE FOOD: CHEESE AND ONION HULA HOOPS. KINK: PARROT-BASED INSULTS. SHOE SIZE: 9. ALBUM THAT CHANGED HIS LIFE: ‘CUTS BOTH WAYS’ BY GLORIA ESTEFAN.” The day left me with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it felt like I was supporting an invasion of privacy. On the other, I have rarely experienced anything so addictive and it provided an insight into what drives the digital dependencies so many people are struggling with, out there far away, in the busy places where life is less beautiful and true.
My new book, 1983, will be published in the UK on August 8th and in the US and Canada on October 1st. My next book Everything Will Swallow You is currently funding, in case you’d like to help it out into the world.
I fear you may be wrong about the ‘resting cow’. That is in fact an ancient breed, renowned for its ability to ‘listen to the earth goddess’, via certain types of rock. Thought you’d know about that. More info available if anyone interested.
This made me laugh out loud! I’m not sure what’s funnier, the 1970s disco strut or your cats’ dealing with addiction. You are an excellent advocate for the British countryside, you should be in charge of all official guides.