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Life Beyond the Motorway
Where the travel stops, life begins; in Britain as
in the wider world
Unpublished, 1998
Norfolk is another country. From the famous belt of
broadlands that smothers the coastal flats between Norwich
and Great Yarmouth, to the patchily-visited red cliffs
of the north coast, where seals laze undisturbed and
seabirds flock in their hundreds, it is a remarkable
county. What is remarkable about it is that, unlike
so many other parts of Britain today, it still has its
own unique character. Everywhere you go in Norfolk,
you see indications of this. It seems, for example,
to have more 'festivals' than almost anywhere else,
and each of them is tied to the character of the place:
the Norfolk beer festival; the Norfolk agricultural
show; the Norfolk boat festival; the Norfolk food festival.
Many of the villages have their own local gatherings
on an apparently regular basis, most of which are genuinely
local, rather than tourist-related.
In Norfolk you can still find pubs which are hubs of
village life, and you regularly see boxes of farm-grown
fruit and veg balancing on walls, with hand-drawn signs
trusting you to drop your money in the box and take
what you want. Many people there feel a genuine attachment
to the places they live in, and life moves more slowly
than it does even a few dozen miles west, in relatively
metropolitan Cambridgeshire, with its easy links to
London. In other words, Norfolk, despite the fact that
it is home to some of the most intensively-farmed flatlands
in the country, and despite the fact that its capital,
Norwich, is crammed with as many chain stores and burger
bars as any of our other cities, remains, somehow, apart.
Move west, now, across England and into Wales. To Aberystwyth,
a small town on the central Welsh coast, accessible
by 'A' Road and railway and not much else. Aberystwyth
is like a town in a time warp, with flourishing local
shops and businesses that are rarely seen in other parts
of the country. It still has ironmongers, bakers, genuinely
local butchers, idiosyncratic clothes shops, odd local
cafes with 1970s décor, pubs that look like pubs
rather than ersatz Irish bars. It has few chain stores
and supermarkets, presumably because a small town this
size can't provide the sort of mega-profits they demand.
If you head in almost any direction from Aberystwyth,
you roll through lonely hills and small farming communities.
Head in the right direction and you could end up amongst
the lakes and hamlets of the Elan Valley, where Shelley
found his inspiration, on the incomparable windswept
Pembrokeshire coast, or in the stark, undiscovered beauty
of the Preseli Mountains, where the Stonehenge bluestones
were quarried, and where wild horses still run.
On the face of it, the west coast of Ceredigion and
the east coast of Norfolk have little in common other
than their proximity to the sea. In fact, though, there
is something else, too. Something that they share with
Cornwall - financially the poorest county in England
but in many other ways one of the richest - and with
the Scottish highlands. Something that, though it doesn't
make their characters, undoubtedly helps to maintain
them in the face of the rolling commercial monoculture
that is sweeping over so much of the rest of the UK.
What they have in common is very simple: they are all
beyond the reach of the motorways.
If you want to bring this point home, to test this
hypothesis, swerve back southeast, and head for Surrey.
Surrey is the richest county in Britain, crammed with
wealthy overspillers from London: top businessmen, consultants,
advertising executives, doctors, lawyers, computer whizzes;
the most 'successful' people in the land. Their vast,
million-pound houses shut away behind high steel fences
with burglar alarms attached, are reminiscent of a white
Johannesburg suburb. Surrey is a seriously rich place;
the epitome of all that our current model of development
demands we should aspire to. It is also a dead county.
For Surrey could be anywhere. True, it still has its
picturesque villages, but these are communities in nothing
but name: few, if any, of their inhabitants work in
them, and most drive to London each day to earn their
living. The farms, what there are of them, are vast
and empty, and even the remaining open spaces, like
the evocative Chobham Common, a last remnant of the
county's ancient heathlands, are bissected by motorways
and encroached on by new estates of homogenous redbrick
homes. The town centres are virtually identical, their
local economies long-since extinguished by vast prefabricated
superstores squatting on the edges of the melding suburbs.
Ring roads, roundabouts, garages and huge glass and
plastic industrial estates continue to fill up what
is left of Surrey's green fields. This most successful,
most desirable, most expensive of counties is being
killed by its own success. This is what the motorways
have done to us, and continue to do.
The construction of the motorways of Britain, from
the 1950s onwards, and the car culture they spawned,
changed the landscape of this island as radically as
the Industrial Revolution and the Enclosures did before
them. After World War II, spurred by the rise and rise
of the private motor vehicle, and armed with a vision
of a brave new technological world, generations of planners
and politicians set about deliberately creating a landscape
in which the car, not the person, was in charge: a landscape
made for machines, not for humans. In the cities, whole
districts of dwellings were demolished and urban motorways
built past miles of front doors, while pedestrians were
relegated to subways or tunnels, leaving the cars to
eat up the streets for themselves. In the countryside,
a huge six-lane octopus began spreading its tentacles
across Britain, slicing through hillsides, bissecting
towns, diving through rivers and forests, pushing both
people and nature aside in its quest for
what?
The motorway network in Britain may be a twentieth
century phenomenon, but the mindset that created it
is timeless. Our grid of motorways and trunk roads follows,
with almost eerie precision, the network of roads laid
out by the Romans in the first three centuries of this
millennium. It connects our major urban centres together,
and makes it easy for conquering armies to move, swiftly,
from one to the other. But the Romans - always a people
with a conquering mindset, whether their victims were
the indigenous population or the landscape itself -
would have given anything for the power we have at our
fingertips today. It would have taken a centurion army
over a week to march from Londinium to Yorvik; an army
of refrigerator trucks and supermarket delivery vans
can sweep from London to York today in a few hours,
carrying all before them.
This is not an entirely fatuous comparison, for the
power and speed which almost all of us have access to
today is, ironically, destroying the places that the
motorways have brought within reach of all of us. Developers
and Tory roads ministers like to argue that the car
- and by implication the motorway - is a democratising
force. And certainly people today - or at least the
two thirds of us with access to a car - can go almost
anywhere, anytime, at almost unnoticeable expense; something
our grandparents may well have idly dreamed of. But
boundless travel, like so many other aspects of industrial
civilisation, comes with a heavy price tag attached.
Ironically, the further we travel to look for new places,
the fewer new places there are for us to find. Everywhere
we go, we must be 'catered' for with service stations,
garages, Little Chefs, tourist information centres,
picnic sites and toilet blocks. Every city or town we
visit is keen to provide us with exactly what we could
get at home: theme pubs, drive-in McDonalds, Woolworths,
Pizza Hut, Asda, multi-screen cinemas, and the rest.
As we travel, we take our influences with us. The further
we go, the more we destroy, and - the crowning and painful
irony - even we get there, we don't really like it,
because it's just like home. And so we go further, and
we keep looking, but our search for difference only
ever brings us indifference. We drive and drive, and
we drag a numbing trail of sameness in our wake. Our
motorways, like logging roads through a primary rainforest,
open up new lands at the same time as they begin the
process of destroying those lands forever.
Travel never was all it was cracked up to be, and what
the motorways have done in Britain, the airlines are
doing all over the world. The boundless, shining global
market is bulldozing unique cultures and environments
on all continents at a rate of knots, and replacing
self-sufficient communities with tourist villages, plugged
into the global economy. So Maasai warriors cover their
faces in shoe polish and perform a bastardised version
of their traditional dances for a few US dollars and
a barrage of camera flashes. Acres of rainforest make
way for 'eco-tourism' lodges and golf clubs for rich
businessmen. Burger King and Kentucky Fried Chicken
spring up in the capitals of vegetarian nations. Difference
disappears. The world becomes one, but not because its
people have decided it - because there is money to be
made from this wholesale rape of people and place.
And yet. And yet, beyond the motorway, life goes on.
In Blakeney and Aberystwyth, in Polperro and Poolewe,
people and landscapes remain - not unchanged, and not
unwelcoming, but nevertheless, noticeably, and contentedly,
different. This is how it should be, and perhaps it
will take the scourge of the motorways to teach us not
only what obvious, material, short-term benefits they
can bring, but also what they can destroy: older, slower,
more human ways of life, and the habitats of those millions
of other species without which we would not be here
at all.
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