I want my country back.....

 An open letter to a sheltered Anderson

Dear Sir or Madman,

I heard you today say these words: "I want my country back....."

Let's start with your ego - my parents used to tell me that "I want, won't get," and they made sense.  Insistence in wanting is not the way to go.

But also, "my country."  Whoever gave you this country?  Yes, we sort of know what you mean, but let's look a little further into this, shall we?

"I vow to thee my country...."  may mislead us, but what on earth gives you any right to claim this country as your own?  Isn't it mine as much as yours?  Or perhaps it is my neighbour's as much as yours or mine?  What does the first person possessive adjective do here?  If it was indeed your country, then how come it is in the state it is in?  I am sure that you, as a member of parliament (Labour/Conservative/Reform party or whatever) would not wish to be responsible for the calamitous state we are in, however anyone defines it.

But.....  You want your country back.

OK.  Let us try and define this.  Let us suppose the country you refer to is England?  (Or do you mean, the United Kingdom? - Somewhat more complex but much the same problem).  

When, exactly, was this country (England) how you imagined it?  I am a little older than you, and have my own dreams, but sometimes idealise a world where Postman Pat worked alongside the Fat Controller, with maybe Noddy and BigEars in the background.  Pooh Bear held the hand of Christopher Robin and the weasels were evicted from Toad Hall, while Moley regained his peace on the riverbank.  In the meantime, Kenneth Moore went down, stiff upper lipped (if nothing else) on the bridge of the Titanic.  

Do you not remember Hancock?  Dad's Army?  Steptoe and Son, Or 'Til Death Us Do Part' where all the gentle weaknesses of our society were gently exposed?  Selfishness, bigotry, laziness, ignorance and self-importance ruled the Sunday afternoons and the drill halls. 

Did you never watch the Black and White Minstrel Show and sing along with Dai Boulter?  

Where, and what, was this mythical land you claim?

Forgive me for reminding you of a few hazily recollected facts:

• Humankind did not originate in this part of the world
• The land we now call England was once attached by land bridge to the mainland of Europe
• There were Ice Ages during which human life was impossible in these latitudes
• In recent history this land has been invaded, overrun and ruled (in no particular order) by Vikings (and isn't Anderson a name that indicates a Scandinavian background?) Germans, Danes, Jutes, Angles and Saxons (According to St Bede, the Anglo-Saxons were the descendants of three different Germanic peoples—the Angles, Saxons and Jutes - so even the Angles were German), Romans and Normans.....
• The history and DNA of 'our' Royal Family includes Normans, Germans, Dutch and Greeks (not to be too fussy about the Russians, Austrians and the Spanish)
• It would be very hard to prove that anyone was 100% English, whatever that meant. Perhaps some people can trace their family back many generations, but to think that anyone is 'purely' anything is delusional. 
• And don't ever forget that we occupied other countries around the world, inseminated their ways of life, their laws and their borders, and then shrank back as we realised that maybe, just maybe, this wasn't quite how it should be......

I was born in Southsea, Portsmouth, Hampshire, England, and have lived in many different places since.  My parents both played their parts in the Second World War.  My grandfathers both served in the First World War.  I grew up in a country that I loved - I saw smogs and the Milky Way, I gathered mushrooms in the field with Richard Mabey, I drank Worthington White Shield and ate fish and chips; I watched Dixon of Dock Green and Listened to The Archers before my bedtime.  

I may not entirely disagree with you, Mr Anderson, that I would love to live for ever in the fantasies of my childhood, but the past is another country....

Do you want the coal mines back?  I guess you miss the camaraderie?  I worked in a steel works in Sheffield, with showers of sparks and the clank and smash of forges and the insane electrical twitching of the cables that led to the Arc Furnaces and I miss that too, though I wouldn't dream of going back (even if the industry still existed.....)

Mr Anderson, I sympathise with your shallow thoughts, but wish you weren't so antagonistic to fellow beings who could perfectly well be at least as useful to the world as you?

You have said that, “generation after generation” of people “cannot budget” or make meals properly and you also said in the Commons that meals could be cooked from scratch "for about 30 pence a day" as you invited "everybody" on the opposition benches to visit a food bank in Ashfield.

That may be the country you want to return to.  Who made that country?   What have you done to make it better?  Were the Thatcherite intentions to reduce the general populace to an inability to budget (sorry - that is an exaggeration - but when you were a Labour politician you might have railed against the conservative policies to ensure that the masses didn't get the education to enable them to understand how they were being diminished) not something you accepted as Deputy Chair of the Conservative Party?

I rant.  I rave.  I am as deranged as you may be.  My hurt is personal but also social.  You now take a seat as a member of the Reform party (without the honour of having been elected as such, of course.....)  So what do you reform?  The ills you have brought during your career?  The wrongs you believe your supporters have suffered?  Or is it simply the passing of twisted time?  

Let you and I go back and wander the lanes of Postman Pat's little England.  Let us defend this country from the horrendous fate that loomed behind Dad's Army.  But don't forget the help we had from others.  Don't forget how we got here in the first place.  And don't forget how rich life can be when you appreciate the value of your neighbour - whoever he or she may be.

If I were to say, "I want my country back," I wouldn't mean what I think you mean.  I think that what I would mean is that I would like to live in a world where there aren't prejudices and barriers but people can live in harmony and peace, with those little things they value, like an efficient health service, libraries, youth clubs, transport systems that function as advertised, theatres and sports facilities that are available to all.  And, Hey! what about two houses of parliament that work for the people and not for themselves?

Yes, I fantasise.  But I don't blame others for my failings.

With love

Richard

 

And the coming home

 Part three: The long road 'home'

When I was a boy I used to really enjoy weekend walks, often exploring abandoned farm buildings or distant woods with a pal, or sometimes inviting myself to lunch at unsuspecting households of friends.  The wrench, however, was the retreat, the having to go home, the retracing my steps.  A sense of dull depression would creep over me, not because I didn't like home, but because it included the responsibilities of chores and homework and school the next day.....

A similar feeling descends on me as I think about the long road 'home.' 

However, before I leave, we take a trek up Monte Labbro, a 1,200 metre hill not far from Arcidosso, once the home of the charismatic 'Prophet of Monte Amiata' David Lazzaretti (1834 - 1878).  Four kestrels sprint and flutter in the strong mountain breezes - possibly two young ones being schooled by their parents?  The views from here are wonderful, across the Tuscan countryside and up to the heights of Monte Amiata (1,738 metres) with the plumes of steam from the geothermal power station near Santa Fiora in the foreground:

And then, all too soon, it is time to bid my friends farewell, including ninety-something year old Corrado (pictured at the head of this piece), who was born in the house where I have been staying (but who moved down to be beside the road around fifty years ago).  We have shared many a glass of his rustic wine in the past, but today he spills me a coffee.  His wife, Concetta, died exactly one year ago, and he is managing pretty well, despite failing eyesight, though complains about the difficulty of getting domestic helpers who don't put things away in the wrong places.....  Considering that he was born in the time of Mussolini, was a boy when German troops stomped and shot their way through in the 1940s, and then lived his adult life under 66 different governments, considering all that, he is in pretty good shape, and I hope I will see him again on my next visit.

I drive across country, crossing the River Orcia and past some spectacular examples of biancane - eroded rocks typical of the Crete Senesi  - then wind up past La Foce (famous home of Iris Origo) to Montepulciano and then down to the Val di Chiana and on to Arezzo.  

It's all happening here.  A sunny Saturday and everyone is in their finery.....

In the Piazza Grande a massed gathering of paramedics and mountain rescuers sing the National Anthem for me and we all are then treated to an aria from La Traviata.  

There's a wedding in the Cathedral, which swallows the beautiful bride into its dark entrails:

And another in the Pieve di Santa Maria, where the priests are taking no chances:

It's a day for parading (don't they look fabulous?):

And then an evening for the Passeggiata (soooo relaxed!):

I feel rather alone in this city this time (Amanda and I were last here a few years back) without my little companion - I guess weddings remind me - and yet there is life all around, children dashing about playing chase in the Piazza, and hundreds of really healthy looking young people engaging with their friends in a ritual of Saturday Night excitement, the girls all dressed in black skirts or trousers, bare midriffs and fine tops, the young men studiously less careful, except in their hair cuts.

I take comfort in the bottle-lined interior of La Torre di Gnicche (Piaggia S. Martino 8), where la signora Lucia makes me welcome and I sample some local affettati and vino for my supper.  It is quiet, even though it is barely fifty metres from the Piazza Grande.

I retire to my hotel room, high above the central streets, but can hear, through my slumbers, voices well into the night, with the final farewell calls around three.  But all in good humour - no sound of breaking glass, or voices raised in drunken violence.  It is calm, and friendly, and harmless....

In the morning, with clouds beginning to gather, I have to return the car to Florence, and then I stroll about the crowded, smiling streets.  

It is beautiful, and it is busy.  2020 was a disaster year, of course, but this year things have picked up.  One million two hundred and fifty-five thousand tourists have been registered in Florence in the summer of 2021, a rise of 185.7% over last year (although this is still 60% down on 2019).  

Although many of the visitors here are Italians who have chosen not to travel abroad (or who could not) most of the tourists here are Europeans (German, French, Dutch, Belgian, Swiss and Austrian) but not American or Japanese.  Apparently this is especially thanks to the introduction of the European Green Pass in August - and  I can vouch for the efficacy of this.  My NHS Covid Pass App (which I printed out and carry in my pocket) has been accepted in every bar and restaurant on this trip - I have just had to show the QR code and every little zapper from Paris to Tuscany has recognised me and given me a big green tick - how simple is that?  And it means that not only do the baristas and restauranteurs know that I am doubly vaccinated, but all the other diners or drinkers can rest assured that I am too.  No pass = no entry.  OK, so there may be some disappointed people, and people who have reason not to be vaccinated, but for the vast majority of people this brings peace of mind, and means that places can now function almost normally.  I have to have a driving licence to drive, and my wife is no longer allowed to, which, practically speaking, means that the roads are safer than if everyone could drive whether licensed or not.

Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream......

Anyway, the skies darken and thunder rumbles.  As predicted, the heavens open and a heavy storm sweeps the streets clear of mankind and unkind.....  For a moment I think my roof is leaking, but then I realise the paint has run....  It isn't like this in never land.  You simply don't know up from down.

And then it is over.  The cobbles gleam and there isn't a crowd in the sky. Pretty soon it will be tomorrow and the world will forget what has been and what.  But for now, I have the extraordinary privilege of staring at Brunelleschi's dome as if it were about to be completed:

And a strange light illuminates the facade of the cathedral, bathing it in a pinkish glow:

Night falls.  A pizza and a glass of vino, a wander past the hotel I used to prefer,

and bed.  In the morning I board the Freccia Rossa to Milan, where, in a complex of modernity and imagination, including a thoughtful garden of delights and some ancient empty streets, I have a few hours to wait, 

Which wait I partially fill by indulging in a last meal before my execution.... A truly beautiful risotto alla Milanese followed by Abbacchio a scottadito (with a side dish of porcini trifolati) with some Roero Arneis (2019) and then some Nebbiolo d'Alba.  Thank you Alla Cucina della Langhe (Corso Como, 6) - If you are in the neighbourhood, please give them my regards.

And then it is all aboard the TGV for Paris, eight hours (it is delayed) of scenery and sneezing (not me, but the woman next to me), hauling sometimes at 300kph.  I cannot help but feel the gravitation pull of Italy behind me, as I nervously approach my homeland.

I won't go on.....  I know some of my readers will have different ideas, but the absolutely worst part of this trip was my return to the UK.  I was prepared for this - I had had a Lateral Flow Test in Florence (supervised online); I have been twice vaccinated against Covid 19; I am healthy and have no obvious symptoms; I have a new blue British passport; I have the NHS Covid pass; I spent around £200 on tests including the Day 2 PCR test for my return; I was born in the UK; I pay taxes; I have a permanent address in the UK....  But despite all this I was reduced to a trembling wreck at the Gare du Nord by the overriding feeling of unwelcome and inefficiency (the Gov.uk website was down exactly when I needed to show my Passenger Locator Form).  After ten days of friendly (sympathetic) travel through three different countries I really felt it might have been preferable to have gone to Calais to hitch a ride on a leaky dinghy to Dover.  

Indeed, if it weren't for the fact that I had to get back to look after Amanda, and that I have some rights, I would have happily turned round and gone straight back to Italy.  No wonder that hardly any European HGV drivers (et al) want to go through this humiliation on a regular basis.

Just one little example: with my new blue Great Britain (sic) passport I had to go one way through the channels towards the security check.  Guess what?  Our channel wound its way in convoluted rounds to eventually be reintegrated with the simple straight channel for anyone else.....

Some apologies to those who disagree with my take on this, but Brexit has been a predictable disaster.  I am ashamed to be a British citizen.  I have been back ten days and Johnson makes a speech without mentioning supply difficulties (I couldn't get any fuel near here yesterday) and Theresa Coffey sings I've had the time of my life at the Conservative Party Conference closing disco.....  Universal Credit drops by £20 a week; fuel prices are at an all time high (with all the knock on effects that will have on food prices); heating one's home will be hundreds of pounds more this year; and Pandora has opened a box that spotlights the fact that the poor person who may falsify their benefit claim is such a minnow in the huge lake of tax evasion and surreptitious corruption that is this Tory world.

Fuck!  Nowhere and no one is perfect, and Italy's plethora of difficulties, governments, parties and disasters doesn't make for a good comparison, but all in all I would rather take my little one back there and see the sun go down with a glass of good red wine, than fret myself to death here in this so-called Bullingdon sovereignty where thousands of pigs can be eliminated because of 'supply problems' and food banks and supermarket shelves are running on empty.

Che bella cosa na jurnata ’e sole,
n’aria serena doppo na tempesta!
Pe’ ll’aria fresca pare già na festa...
Che bella cosa na jurnata ’e sole.

O, sole mio!

The end of the road.  Back home, on the beach with my little one....