Countryfiles

I haven't written much recently, I keep wondering if my muse has been broken by all this time in Kingston... It was never meant to be like this! When I boarded that National Express bus at 18, I had some kind of notion I was never coming back. I got as far as Killarney in one direction and Inverness in the other before I realised that, for me at least, life wasn't going to work like that...

Owing to the peculiar circumstances of my existence, my social position at present involves being caught between graduates and soon-to-be-graduates. Unwittingly therefore, I am being drawn into parallel discourses in the realms of escapism and fantasy- those of the optimistic and those who have already had a few months experience getting their dreams trodden on mercilessly by the big, bad world.

The way I see it, there are two sorts of people. They are both drawn from those desperate to get out at any cost, be it away from whichever tinpot academic institution, or out of the menial conditions they've fallen into post-graduating...

The aim of the first group is that they spend any amount of time away and at any price: worthless jobs, loans, passionless volunteering. In a way, the aforementioned appears to me the more sensible course- especially for those who have never fully escaped their parents' sphere of influence (or their bankbook). As I say, I got out early but only for a short time- but I managed to go all the way across America in the process!

On the other side of this discussion however, are the people who are not just bored of suburban polytechnicdom (or, in the case of the graduates, sublondon menial labour) but fundamentally sick of it. These guys are full of fear and loathing, fed up with their present paltry existence- at odds with all their childish expectations. A few of these, I'm reliably informed, have already purchased a pair of wellingtons and are 'going back to the country'; not home I might add, as this might make a little sense, after all, especially during the recession. No, a friend was telling me of a mutual acquaintance who is actually thinking of upping and evacuating to North Yorkshire.

North Yorkshire??

If I have one piece of advice based on my very limited experience of life it is this: however badly you have been infected with the urban disease, it is not sensible to head for somewhere with no roots, no plan of campaign... nothing. These are the British Isles, not the Wild West. Ok, its slightly better when you have a car which is more than I had in Ireland but, let me tell you, when the rain is coming down heavily in some remote, semi-rural location, the wind-buffeting you and with the threads of intellectual companionship (or companionship of any sort, for that matter) wearing thin, the Thoreau / Wordsworth dream starts to pall; shrivelling, along with what little remains of your rational mind. Trust me, Tony Joe White was bang on with his song, 'A Rainy Night in Georgia'... stuck somewhere like that in a storm and you'll have the soul music on, feeling 'like it's raining all over the world'.

Say what you will about the suburbs- and I frequently do- but there's ample opportunity to work here, good transport links into the city etc. Furthermore, if you're yearning for a bit of countryside, you can move out to somewhere like Guildford for a bit, tire yourself out with the train journey and, inevitably, shift your personal items back in somewhere more central...

There is a recession on! Some kind of limited travel is probably ok if you can fund it but romantic dreams just don't cut the mustard anymore. Moving to the country is for grown-ups, not for twenty-somethings. Read some Hardy, Dickens, Bronte... all their characters were doing their damndest to get the heck out of those green and unpleasant pastures!

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Ugh! I'm beginning to advocate the kind of dull conventionalism that I most abhor... perhaps my muse is, indeed, broken. I do know of one person who succeeded, after all. When I was out in Ireland- the cool odd-job man told me of how he had left Luton on a bus in the late 80s and had never looked back. He had an Irish wife, two kids and played acoustic folk-rock down in the town every Friday night...

... So, you see, I can't speak for everyone. If you think you can do it then try it but heed my warnings, for, if you're anything like me and you decide to undertake an ill-advised adventure like this sans planning, you'll end up very wet and very lonely- think of Withnail and I. Plus, you'll just have more ground to make up when you get back!