So, another day yesterday driving around delivering Yellow Pages. Not so much fun as before, and not just because it was pouring down all the time.
I wrote last time about how so many people in the more rural parts leave their doors wide open; it’s typical of the friendliness of the people living here. Well, not all of them do. Yesterday we found three properties that all had their driveway gates firmly locked (they were all within a mile of each other, funny enough). One of them at least had a gate mailbox and a bell; the other two had neither. One of those had two security cameras beadily watching us; B gave them both his ugliest scowl and made a big point of dumping the directory on the ground, in the rain.
After that, we came to the last two addresses – adjoining houses – on the list. In the nearby village, when we had mentioned that we’d be going to this place, everybody had chuckled meaningfully and said something to the effect that “Well, you’ll find it’s interesting there……”
We already knew from the map that the place was a full four miles off the road, deep in its own valley; it was reputedly in a beautiful situation, so we were looking forward to seeing it. The track to it wasn’t too bad, mostly tarmac and only getting a bit rough towards the end. The rain and low clouds hid a lot of the scenery, but I could imagine that it was a lovely place when the sun was out. Getting closer, we started noticing bits of scrap, gas bottles and so on left apparently abandoned in the fields; then a couple of rusting scrap cars, some depressed-looking ponies, more disembowelled cars, then a collection of caravans that may or may not have been inhabited – it was hard to tell. Nothing looked cared for, the caravans were streaked with dirt, random piles of gravel and hardcore poked from among the weeds, unidentifiable bits of scrap metal were everywhere.
There was plenty of open land around, but no visible attempt at any sort of cultivation. Over the last week, we’d seen lots of gardens, ranging in size from a couple of square yards to a couple of dozen acres; almost without exception, they were tidy and tended at the very least. But here, there was only weeds and unkempt grass. The whole place looked desolate and derelict.
Past the caravans, we finally came to the two houses we were looking for. They too were surrounded by scrap and cars. The nearest was “The Studio”, and the door was wide open. Looking inside, it appeared to be one large room, apparently an artists studio-cum-living space. There were the usual canvases, easels and paints, but these were barely visible under layers of dirty clothing, unwashed dishes, newspapers, food wrappings and so on. The room was dominated by a huge double bed – unmade, filthy, stained and the obvious source of the overwhelming pong that pervaded the place. An extremely charitable person might have concluded that the artist had just put the finishing touches on a Tracy Emin-style room installation and was waiting for the Saatchi brothers to pop in for a viewing.
Hastily chucking the directory on top of the nearest heap, I went to the next house. There, the door was also open; this time it was a kitchen so there was no bed and no artists’ stuff, but otherwise the scene was pretty much the same – dirty clothes, piles of dirty dishes, rubbish, stains. What was visible of the floor suggested that somebody was considering taking up mushroom farming. Again, a directory got tossed onto the nearest pile.
B had climbed out of the car with me and seen it all. We stood and looked around – there was no sign of life anywhere.
“It’s these sort of people that give hippies a bad name.”
“Yes, what a waste – trashing such a beautiful place…”

And so we got back in the car and started back for home. On our way out past the caravans, I had a good look at what had initially appeared to be just more red-rusted scrap metal, in a heap at the trackside. From my new angle, I clearly saw that it was in fact a 3D metal sculpture – some sort of horse or dragon, spouting flames. B saw it too and we stopped a few moments to look.
Apparently, there was – or had been – at least one person there who cared about something.