BEYOND THEIR WEN
Annabel Barber goes on a rural ride
through Somerset and finds ruined farmers and fine lamb
CAME into this country from the Wen, in a rather drizzling rain, with the express intention of finding out something about the state of the fields and farms and those people who labour on them. My point of departure was the village of Withypool, a place made notorious at the beginning of the year for the gallon pumps at its petrol station, so displeasing to the tax-eating zealots of the Brussels system, that they were of a mind to fine the poor garage man f2,000 if he did not replace them. I think it was Napoleon who invented metric mea- sures, and as I believe we were never con- quered by him (though HESELTINE and CLARKE would surrender voluntarily to his ghost), I cannot see any reason why we should do away with our own system in favour of his, if our own pleases us better, and if we are polite enough not to insist on it in a wider company. Let no man misun- derstand me: I am not opposed to the met- ric system; but why are we not permitted to be bilingual? Though the French have not liked it, they have learnt our language, see- ing that none of our politicians appear to have the wit to learn theirs, and seeing that ours is the international standard. But among themselves the French speak French, and it would occur to no one to forbid them.
Withypool is situated on the Barle, the most pleasing river in all the West Coun- try, and excellent for trout. My route was along its eastern bank, towards DULVER- TON, a neat, well-made little town, with a large church in its upper part, from which the flag of St George would fly proudly were the weather not so damp and drag- gling to it. Its central part consists in a rectangular market place, with shops on three sides and, estate agents being the new 'gamekeepers' of our time, there are two establishments dealing with the sport of property trading. The windows of both were mostly filled with trash for sums that must make all but the rosiest bond-jobbers blanch. From Dulverton I continued south to a place called BRUSHFORD. As I came along, I passed a number of walkers, and found many of the farm gates left lolling open behind them; and I reflected on the magnificent effect that the bleaters of Grub Street have had, attacking what they term the 'landowning elite' and calling for estates to be thrown open to ramblers. They no doubt consider themselves very liberal, since sneering against the rural classes, and all those who keep the fabric of our society whole, is always the stamp of the liberal lobby. And yet all the open gates that I had come through on my way down to this place assured me that most people have no right whatever to be roam- ing (as they call it) across another man's land. But a great part of the blackguardly knaves that conduct our newspapers would have us believe that land has no other func- tion than to be rambled over; that owning land and preserving it free of human beings is selfish privilege, though owning shares in enterprise and speculating the world into a spin for pure personal gain is the mark of a jolly fine fellow.
They are now satisfied, I presume, since Mr MEACHER has heeded the bleating and passed a Bill allowing 'access to the coun- tryside' — as if it were merely an ornamen- tal park — with a pretty little clause in it that makes a landowner responsible if one of the Wen walkers should happen to injure himself on farm machinery or any `man-made feature', so that if a 'rambler' should break his leg falling from a stile, it will not be his own fault but the farmer's. The 'rambler' will be permitted to sue the farmer, and the farmer, we must presume, will he permitted to sue the Almighty for creating a world where stiles are necessary.
At Brushford I met a man who farms 300 acres on the Brendon Hills, a region which I have been eager to be acquainted with, hearing that hill farmers are now about the most wretched class of creatures on earth. They are saying that as many as 8,000 dairy farmers will give up this year and next. And who can wonder at it, when he consider the facts? This man told me that he had recent- ly taken six calves to Taunton market, and come home with £23 as a total for the sale. The cost of transport to Taunton had amounted to about £20, which left a TOTAL PROFIT OF £3, without accounting for ear- tags, so that in reality the farmer had lost on the transaction. If he had the heart to do it, he said, he would kill the animals as soon as they are born, but he has not the heart. Another man I spoke to has put his farmhouse on the market, but not one farmer has come to view it, and the most likely outcome will be that a London man will buy it, for considerably more than it is worth, and certainly for more than a local man could ever pay, for there is no short- age in the Wen of men who dream of being a squire, but a great shortage of property of the loftiness and proportions to satisfy them. There are too many wealthy stock- jobbers and not enough manor houses, so they must get the farmhouses instead.
My Brushford acquaintance was in a high rage over the conversation of some young philosophical scoundrel, a man who could not recognise the value of a farmer in shap- ing and maintaining the landscape he so admires and enjoys, appearing to believe that the harmonious disposition of fields and hedgerows and coppices fell from God's pocket in its present perfect array, and that food and drink appear by magic art in Tesco superstores, clean and pre- pared for consumption. This type of urban thinker, not a villain from natural propensi- ty, but a very menace from the extent of his ignorance and influence, will maintain that the decline in farming is inevitable, for what England does best is create wealth. Create wealth? What? Are we simply to augment the CAPITAL, of the country by creating vir- tual, fictitious money, pumping more air into the accursed THING? If a man cannot create his own wealth on 300 acres of good green turf then there is something mightily awry, but it is got to such a pass that 300 acres will not create wealth, no, nor barely even turn an honest penny.
I should note, however, that there is some good in this gambling, Internet econ- omy if it mean that by setting up an office in an old cowshed a man will reside in the country. To be sure, he will run up some gingerbread sort of a conservatory and sub- urbanise the whole affair, but perhaps this is many steps better than it being used only at the weekends. I do not look forward to western Somerset's being given all the flash of the Home Counties, but I should as little like to see it largely deserted. And yet, if we can import milk and meat from coun- tries where the populations have not got too grand for hard work nor too greedy for salary, where is the sense in producing our own? Are not the palates of the Wen- dwellers got so fond of a sauce or a coulis or a jus that meat need have no inherent flavour, indeed is better without, that the chef may get the credit, not the farmer and his good pasture? The lamb that I ate last night, from the butcher's shop in Dulver- ton, was the best that I ever ate in the whole course of my life, but if the mass of the public does not perceive the difference, and if a farmer can sell a lamb for £25, where not long ago it would have fetched him £40 (and where a French farmer can get £50), is it any wonder that the thing they call the GRAIN DRAIN is going on at full spate? Countries like New Zealand and Canada are actively looking for skilled farm labourers, advertising assiduously to recruit them, and I should like to know what Mr BROWN will do to stop it. Not that I do not believe that farming men — or any men for that matter — have not the right to live wherever they please. If they like to emigrate to Canada, I shall not lift a hand to stop them. But must it be a departure induced by indigence?
With these bitter reflections at my back, I returned to my hosts near Dulverton. Tomorrow I head northwards to Dunster, and I expect to meet the Staghounds along my way. The temporising Mr BLAIR is got into such a dither now that the hunting- horns are blaring from his back benches, baying for huntsmen's blood, that I look forward to the meeting — and to forming my own opinions of the matter — most extremely.
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