Having lived and grown up in rural Norfolk all my life I
know both the glories and the adversities of living in the countryside. I'm sure we’re all familiar with the myth of
the urban/rural social divide. City dwellers dream of a pastoral portrait dotted
with darling little rural retreats, whilst miles away farmers contentedly tend their
livestock and their wives prepare home baked apple pies back home.
This generalisation is out-dated though. There may well be
people who cherish the thought that there are pockets of William Blake’s “green
and pleasant land” nestled away like long lost Egyptian treasure, biding its
time until one intrepid adventurer unearths buried riches. But I think it’s pretty well established now
that the countryside is blighted by a range of social issues just like anywhere
else in England. I know, for example, the realities of maintaining a livelihood
in the countryside, having practically grown up helping my Mum in her country
workshop, English Country Garden Dresses. The same jolly farmer that one may imagine ambling
alongside his animals will in fact happily mow you down with his Massey
Ferguson if one toe encroaches off the un-farmed field boundary onto his land. The roguish gamekeeper is scandalously doing the rounds hunting down the vixens
in the village; not the usual foxy rendezvous you expect him to be
undertaking.
It’s not just that I know the real countryside experience; the
landscape, people or culture. I know the ins and outs of what it takes to
successfully live and work in a rural area. But if I can hone in on one real
discrepancy in how the country life is represented, it is within the shady
sphere of commercialisation. It always amuses me to see the how consumers are
sold the rather one dimensional manifestation of the country lifestyle. Just as
in the manner of a beautiful fruitcake, from the heart of London to the depths
of Norfolk, the delicacies and idiosyncrasies of fine country fare are masked
by a thick layer of frosted icing.
In thoughtful, time-honoured, and eternally misjudged fashion, my latest parcel from Mum arrived with two tickets to the annual Spring Country Living Fair (one for my older sister-strike two). What could be more commercially palatable than a slice of this utopian country lifestyle jamboree?
Abandoning my self-imposed exile (and exam revision) and complimentary
ticket in hand, I hopped on the Northern Line from Borough to Angel, where the
Country Living Fair is hosted in Islington every year at The Business Design Centre.
Being of rather mercurial temperament, and more importantly a student, I was
actually really looking forward to a free day out perusing all that’s pink and
pretty, regardless of the fair’s estrangement from my reality of the
countryside.
Greeted by the
striking scalloped glass façade of The Business Design Centre and crowds of
shoppers I had no reason to be suspicious. But as I walked through the entrance
the scene was at first a disorientating, kaleidoscopic mirage of pastels. Pink
and blue bunting fluttered from every junction, chiffon drapes cobwebbed the
majestic glass roof and fringes of frilly xanthous daffodils lined every
staircase. It was exactly what I had
envisioned. Nevertheless, free goody bag in hand I waltzed cheerfully into the
sea of be-jaegered ladies who lunch.
I have to admit I had a good time. It wasn’t the representation
of country life that I knew, but I didn’t expect it to be. It was a carnival of
kitsch and colour; I felt like I had stepped into a feel-good romanticised
episode of ‘Escape to The Country’ where all the model homes sport a colony of
distressed style metal kitchen containers and plush white carpet devoid of children’s
muddy footprints carpets every floor. A considerable amount of the exhibitors’
work was hand produced; but the goods which were imported were so obvious they might
just have well have boasted neon light bulbs, pyrotechnics and backing dancers;
namely rails of Boden-style separates and imitation Cath Kidston patent
handbags.
Nevertheless, two hours, a restored print of ratty and mole
from The Wind in the Willows and a raffia beach bag later, I happily, albeit slightly
intoxicated by the pervasive clouds of lavender, strayed upstairs and miraculously happened upon a tea
stall. The Design Centre is the sort of place where seating for weary shoppers
truly is a figment of the imagination, and if, like me, you decide to perch on
the bottom step of the stairs to regain your strength, a security guard will
close in in no time, who moves you on while smiling apologetically at
passers-by as if he is disciplining a naughty schoolchild. The girl manning the
tea urn bossily charged me four pounds for a cup of tea and a biscuit, which I
decided to write off as totally forgivable in light of my fatigue.
As I sat, rather awkwardly on a mercilessly hard wooden
garden chair, I found myself giggling at a stall in my line of view devoted to bespoke
fabric bra straps; pegged fastidiously along a mini washing line. Next door,
expensive, and presumably, ‘authentic’ looking country tunics hung jauntily on
shiny hangers. It was so not what I,
or my family, or anyone I know back home for that matter would gaily deck
themselves in for cleaning out the chicken pens. But it did crystallise the
essence of the day.
If you are questing for an idealistic souvenir of country
life, look no further than the cornucopia at hand at The Country Living Fair.
You will be reminded afresh of why we are so perennially fascinated with
pursuing a taste of rural life. It is an ingenious sensual seduction, an escape
from the monochromatic palette of modern life; work, bills, chores. Just like
the realm of the written word, it allows you to find solace, if only for a few
hours in a physical manifestation of charm and colour.
There were undeniably one or two stalls which really had
captured what country life means; what true English craftsmanship is all about.Those were the people who you could read in their faces what it was to sustain
a truly faithful vision of English country living. I could recognise what it
meant to them to design, produce, market and sell your own creations, and how
much work had gone into breathing life into their ideas; not only that but
maintaining that pulse. Keeping a rural
business going is tough; part of maintaining its survival is marketing it an
appetizing way to those unfamiliar with the realities of rural life and work.
But I feel saddened that the true representation of the countryside is
compromised for its commercial potential.
The compelling simulation of country living brightened my
day. But the sensation was short-lived. Just as the glow of materialist contentment
fades when exiting the bright lights of the city, as the never-ending Angel
escalators snailed down to the bowels of the underground I was left yearning
for the corporality that exists in my country life; the scent of meadow
grasses, the ravens cawing on the chimney pots, the verdant forest canopy and
the boughs of the oak trees welcoming me back home.
“If I should die, think only this of me…that there’s some
corner of a foreign field that is forever England”- Siegfried Sassoon.
