I confess I have transgressed. Whilst attempting to maintain my social distancing I may have been anti-social. The problem is that I have always adhered to the belief that Rules are made for the obedience of fools and the guidance of wise men. Perhaps somewhat arrogantly I prefer to consider myself in the latter group, hence my reluctance to follow the herd. I was permanently ‘gated’ (confined to the Boarding House with many mundane duties to perform) at school because the rules dictated no hands in your pockets as a fifth former. Why? One hand in a pocket for sixth formers, with only prefects allowed to have two hands in their pockets. Needless to say I wore holes in both my pockets. Anyway, I digress. Boris the Bountiful has declared that we should all become housebound for the foreseeable future, with very limited excursions to the few open shops and one outing a day for exercise. That all makes perfect sense and, as someone who will probably suffer quite badly if I get the dreaded Covid, I have been fastidious in complying with his edicts. Well almost.
We listened to a government spokesman on BBC TV yesterday conceding that there is a big difference between living in the city and the countryside. He accepted that if you can walk on hillsides uncluttered by two-legged creatures, or ramble through wooded thickets with squirrels and deer for companions, the strict rules applicable to city-dwellers aren’t really appropriate. However, in a magnificent feat of “me-tooism”, The Forestry Commission has unilaterally decided to close all its beautiful forests. Places that, in many cases, are some of the most remote in Britain.
Almost everyday we walk Callie (the whippet) at Butchershole in nearby Friston Forest, owned and managed , needless to say, by Forestry England, part of The Commission. But today we were confronted by barriers and locked gates, barring entry to the car park. With hands in both pockets, I was not to be deterred by such insane political correctness. We, along with a few others, parked on the roadside and did our normal five mile stroll through blossoming beech woods and rolling pastures, with barely a sight of human life and certainly nothing within a hundred yards. In what threatens to be a very testing few weeks or even months to come, such exercise is vital for the health of mind and body, not to mention our four legged friend.
Without question it is far more dangerous to go to the launderette, hardware store, supermarket or chemist; all legitimate activities. However, it was almost inevitable that this should happen. Having parked the car on the roadside, less safe than in the designated car park, a great big flashy gas-guzzling Range Rover pulled up alongside, driven by a tweed encased ‘county’ lady, who politely informed us that the Forest is closed. Was she from the Commission, I inquired, a police officer perhaps? No, no, “I’m a local resident, just trying to help”. I was in the process of rolling up my sleeves and preparing for a right royal set to when she was forced to move on by approaching traffic Shame. I, possibly more than most, will go out of my way to avoid catching this wretched disease, let alone be responsible for passing it on. But I will also use my brain to survive this incarceration as best I can. The stupid thing about this ridiculous closure is that it forces more people onto the already busy seafront promenade or the equally cluttered Downs. Unfortunately, there have been so many fools all around the Country for whom rules and their strict observance, really are necessary.
I have emailed Forestry England and my local MP in a probably vain attempt to seek a re-think and change of heart. For the time being we will continue to flout the rules and hope that officialdom has more important things to worry about. As for Mrs Tweedy, what I really wanted to do was ask her about the damage her (supposedly cross country) diesel limo is doing to the environment; but she had gone.
So you see once again I have been a bad boy. Feels just like old times, spending most of the day ‘gated’.
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