What if I don’t want to be a happy wanderer?
Not all of us enjoy a brisk and hearty walk; some prefer a thoughtful stroll, or even a moody slouch. Others choose to wander lonely as a dark cloud and won’t be overjoyed at the news that the South Downs Park Authority has begun a campaign encouraging ramblers to be more friendly and to greet each other cheerily and politely. It’s quite a strain, actually, thinking of seven variations on “hello” when you meet a group of seven breezy and booted hikers coming the other way.
Surely we are still permitted to feel a little down on the South Downs. I believe the park authority should now make provision for people who wish to wend a less merry way. There should be a separate signposted Surly Route with a large notice saying “No Admittance to Happy Wanderers”, so we could be spared all that “Valderi, val-dera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha” nonsense.
I propose a path scattered with pebbles suitable for kicking; on the verges there will be clumps of nettles for slashing and, along the way, to help create the mood, a notice saying “Beware of the Irritable Bull”.
I will also expect a few benches in memory of much-loved grouches who used to walk here. A brass plaque will read “Geoff (1938-2014) Scowled Here”, and another will remember Doris, who “Loved to Sit at This Spot and Complain”. Mournful poets will have bins for torn-up first drafts of odes. Finally, as we reach the end of our rewarding amble, we will come across the sign that says: “Kindly
Remember to Slam the Gate.” Commemorative stamps are fine – and those issued for the Queen’s birthday are charming – but perhaps we are in danger of over-commemorating, stamp-wise. It can slow down business in the Post Office:
“I’d like to send this package first class, please.”
“Does it contain anything disrespectful?”
“It’s just a birthday present for my nephew.”
“That’s all right then. It will cost three Her Majesties and a Prince George. If you want guaranteed delivery before nine o’clock tomorrow, you’ll need a Mo Farah as well.” “Can I have proof of posting?” “That will be three Her Majesties, one Prince George and a William, plus a Queen of Hearts from our Alice in
Wonderland series.” “Would a Queen of Hearts be appropriate?”
“I see what you mean. All right, I can offer you a 2013 Nativity scene or a Humber Bridge. You wouldn’t need the William with that. On the other hand, if you want to use our SuperDuper parcels service, you can do that with a Prince Charles and a bee. I’m sure His Royal Highness would appreciate being alongside a bee.”
“If I sent it by ordinary post, could I do it with a Prince Charles, a bee and a Norman Wisdom from the Great British Comedians series?”
“”You’d need permission from the Lord Chamberlain. There’s a form.”
“The queue is getting restive. I think I’ll skip the package and just send a card. I’d like a small, plain, first class stamp with a picture of the Queen.” “That will be 64p.” “Have you got one in a darker shade of mauve?” The street where I live is experiencing a spasm of renovations. The clang of scaffolding signals yet another loft extension, trucks block the road as they vomit ready-mixed concrete, and skip lorries clank past in the early hours.
I console myself with the thought that it must have been just as bad for ancient Britons more than 1,500 years ago when some wealthy Roman decided to build a villa in the neighbourhood. A magnificent spread of mosaic was recently found near Tisbury, in Wiltshire, indicating the former presence of a sumptuous villa. Imagine what life must have been like for the local tribes in their hovels. Think of the maddening chip-chip-chip all day long for months, as each tessera was shaped for those mosaics.
More than 13 types of stone from various parts of England and Wales were used. My heart goes out to those early Brits looking on as the carts squelched past, muddying the tracks. Early each morning they would be woken by cries of “Beepus, beepus, beepus. Cave, vehiculum reversens.” Their eyes would sting from dust caused by the chipping of the stones.
And what for? A holiday home for some Roman banker, probably called Maximus Bonus. He never became part of the community or joined in the pagan rituals, but just lounged around all day in his newfangled bath.