A Spectator's Notebook
THE ferry aeroplane, flying low, had to make a wide sweep over the coast of the Island. The moment, often repeated, of emotion at the mere fact of the Island's existence, gives way to equally often-felt dismay. The coastline. Has anybody noticed what is happening to the coast- line? Does anybody care? It is sentimental, perhaps, to care about a thousand years of history and more; people must live somewhere, and why not in identical square bungalows in rows along the coast? The planning boards, it seems, are almost entirely negative—that is, they stop anything constructive happening because Giles does not want the pylon in his field. The speculative builder, knowing fellow, just buys freehold plots and builds bungalows, and the planners are so busy filing complaints about a road that will cross a right-of-way on the other side of the county that the houses are up and occupied before anyone notices. In each of them an elderly couple, retired, concerned only with their own domestic loneliness. Then there is also the deliciousness of the countryside, and, later, the gentleness of people, and their kind, quiet voices; primroses growing wild. Yet the voices seem always to be saying, 'I'm awfully sorry, but we don't . . 'You see, we have only twenty tables and they are always reserved . . .', and after Sevenoaks the Great Wen begins.
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