House-building is like road-building. Demand is never
satisfied and at some point one just has to call it a day. Sadly, that day has
not yet arrived in Devon.
A few miles away
from us in the middle of the countryside a whole new town has recently
appeared. Where the inhabitants come from, what their skills are and where they
work I don't know. A farming couple however, displaced from their farm by
the development, has recently set up shop on land two fields away from us.
They started with
one barn, then built another, then installed a caravan so that someone could
look after the animals in the barns, and now have a house. Before the house was
built, I protested strongly about it to the planning department. My protests
didn’t have any effect of course and luckily Sue and Jon are charming and have
not held them against me.
This morning, as
Ellie and I struggled up the lane through the mud and the puddles, Jon came
hurtling down the hill in a vast tractor with lethal prongs sticking out of the
front and a vast muddy trailer behind. He slewed to a halt in true Devon
fashion next to Ellie and me so that we could have a chat.
Jon is a sensitive
man, deeply upset by his exile and committed to both his animals and the
organic way of farming. As he talked I realised that artists (of all kinds,
including me) and farmers have a lot in common.
We both spend most of the time on our own
We both wear terrible clothes (Why make an effort if no one
is going to appreciate it? Why not just be comfortable?)
We both work for love, not money
We’re both independent to the point of pain
We both feel misunderstood by the world at large.
When Frog and I first moved to rural Devon in the 1970s, the
population consisted largely of artists and farmers, with a smattering of
complementary therapists and not much else. It was good to be reminded of that
time.
As I have no photos of my own of 1970s' Devon, here are three by the wonderful James Ravilious. (Follow the link for more and better quality.)
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