Setting off just after nine in the morning on the return journey, completing the circle, begun the previous day, dry to start with and only in the closing miles the rain, that driving fine rain of Dartmoor, accompanied us down from the high moor towards Tavistock and then the last couple of miles to our B & B. Memories of walks on the moor, of coming back, chilled to the bone, my clothing not up to demands of that environment especially in winter. But this time we are on bicycles. As we had breakfast in the large bay window looking out over the green intensity of fields and hedgerows, a beautiful morning, gentle and hopeful and not to be trusted. Indeed as we pedalled out of the gravel drive and on to the lane the rain was setting in. And stayed with us as we climbed back up on to the moor though now heading south rather than west. Not only rain but the wind was gusting. Colder than the previous day.
New pathways (or cycleways) in the landscape forging new neural circuits, ways of seeing the world. Lashed by the wind and rain opens a new and exciting chapter in the book even if it feels miserable at first. And it involves a certain fighting spirit, a determination to do it. And suddenly the sky broke, the heavy cloud cover chased away by the gale, we could even feel the warmth of the sun. Dropping down off the moor towards Plymouth, through the trees flashes of river, and then turning off into the suburban maze of Plympton and the fear of never escaping that designed nightmare. But the gale was behind us now and we were bowling along, propelled by the wind.
These last fifty years have seen a world based in the fantasy of everybody owning cars and living in never ending suburbs. And we all sign up to it as an image of the good life. Surely we must be better off in a life full of energy saving products. Are we now seeing it as a cul-de-sac, a no-through road based on the wish to have a life of endless ease and pleasure. There must be a switch in us, perhaps of our creating, a cinema screen of Hollywood stars and luxury, a switch which we have had added, that created the belief that we no longer have to battle with the hills and the rain and live in a cocoon, padded against any disturbing intrusions.
And why are there so many dogs about now? Having distanced ourselves (an illusion of course) from our own animal being we have to have a dog next to us. Again, another memory, not of Dartmoor but of walking in France some years ago, descending a steep wooded hill and somewhere above me I could hear the barking and the thrashing of the undergrowth of what sounded like a monster dog, a Cerberus. No doubt I would have run if it hadn’t been such a steep descent on loose stones.
My thoughts are skirting around what we might mean by nature and what we might mean by civilisation. The beast within, a rage, a protest against constraints which we don’t understand, have no real grasp of – always corralled, even isolated – and constantly aware of our inevitable decline and death. Given a taste of paradise we discover our tendency to choose hell.