Of the perils of country walkers being unprepared for city rambling

I was talking to a cove the other day, looked at the edge of exhaustion poor creature and I wondered aloud if he spent the weekend in some sporting endeavour; apparently not.  He was a little reticent to fess up as I probed the defences of his reluctance.  Did he spend Saturdays bringing back canals to economic usefulness?   Possibly he was charitably inclined towards nature and built small homes for voles in the lesser known tributaries of the Trent or was he was the kind of fellow who spent the long hours in the endeavour of staking a claim that he had had a beef tea on every railway network, be it heritage, privately owned or in the public gift.  Well meaning, if irritating persistence can often overcome even the stoutest of defences and eventually he laid bare for all to hear that he belonged to a society which put amusing village names along the side of the ‘A’ Roads used by tourists on their way to their hols.  He’d spent the weekend along the A30 erecting such signage as ‘Greater Slippage’ and ‘Slovenly Bottom’ by turn offs because he, and his fellows felt, it was bad enough having to trail, hour after hour, following some cove on a tractor down single carriage expressway, without the amusement of feeling some, somewhere, had to append their address with the hamlet name ‘Forlorn Hope.’

 

You know, I found my thoughts wandering off into the by-ways of remembrance of such cross-regional endeavours..  Was a time when much energy was expended taking the denizens of our urban sprawl into the country.  We have all chuckled at the deep economic understanding of those little town-dwelling rascals who, when asked, ‘where does milk come from?’ replied ‘a supermarket – are you a bit thick mister?’  Coach loads of the tykes have been taken out to develop a deeper understanding of rural matters and scotch once and for all the idea that the place is full of rosy cheeked farmers wives who, on the eternal sunny morning of life out beyond the suburbs, are prepared to hand over basket loads of apples and a fizzy beverage of choice to any children who turned up in search of pirate gold or a threat to national security.  No, the whole point of living in the countryside is that you really couldn’t be doing with other people, so once that was established the city-types could return home to a place where shops remained open and it was possible to get a decent signal for your telecommunication device.  On the plus side they may pick up a smattering of Portuguese or Rumanian if they had been lodged in one of the vegetable growing provinces.

 

While it is natural that all the attention to be concentrated on the horror of townsfolk discovering exactly where eggs came from little has been made of the splendid service done by the YHA – Young Harington’s Association – in helping country kids survive in that most hostile and unforgiving of environments – the city. 

 

Any young thing, hoping to visit ‘the smoke’ for the first time should visit a YHA shop, which can be found in many of the larger villages.  Here a range of items of great utility can be found.  Racks of specialist clothing will allow them to blend in.  Raincoats, made of lighter less stuffy material, are essential, as, in fact are all items clothing designed for the modern, and centrally heated office.  I believe some chaps, strong as oxen, were taken quiet faint when they had to remove their flat caps.  Lighter shoes are offered to avoid the embarrassment of clomping through the porticos of our bigger department stores and above all hangs the dooming words ‘No Brown In Town.’

 

Following several happy hours browsing the ‘new to town’ fellow can set off, clutching a range of A-Zs, a set of natty earphones and a bar of fruit & nut – in case the bus is five minutes late.  They are ready now to assail the city. 

 

Mr Austin Cartmaker, president of the YHA and famed for his Chalfont St Giles to Swanley walk across the whole width of the City, has produced a series of planned expeditions of differing levels of difficulty. The Green range will allow the inexperienced urban rambler to hazard the Underground on a Sunday, taking the train from High Barnet and alighting in the heart of the City’s financial quarter.  This will allow the rural lad or lass to encounter fewer people and relatively less things that will disturb them as they slowly learn how to interact, to learn the ways of the city

 

The relative friendliness of the city does come as a shock to those, who have been brought up on rural tales of country people attacked by angry torch wielding mobs when they tried to say ‘Good Morning’ to their neighbour.  The important thing is to judge with whom to communicate.  A jovial hallo is all well and good when crowded onto the available tables in a perky little cafe in Green Park.  Trying to strike up conversation with a young rip lost to the muse of his own personal musical abomination is less likely to end well.

 

The more experienced may try Bloomsbury on a Saturday morning, with its colourful folk ways and array of chaps who are not  related to each other and don’t know the personal history of you, your family and possibly that of your domestic pets.  Building up confidence slowly is essential.  How often have novices had to be rescued when they have attempted a route for experts, such as getting on the Northern Line at King’s Cross, heading south at rush hour.

 

Not matter the advice, not matter the number of warning information leaflets and Public Information Boards proclaiming sage advice every year we see tales of school parties, stuck on the Bakerloo line with nothing but a single oystercard or some young things found near the Elephant and Castle utterly overdressed for the season.  The YHA maintains a volunteer net work of rescuers to come to the aid of these unfortunates.

 

The first aim of the Urban Rescue Volunteers is to provide havens in the busy urban sprawl.  Faced with the overwhelming nature the cityscape a place where a chap can find a comfy arm chair, simulated roaring fire place and copies of ‘Shire’s Life; as well as Farming Today’ piped out of Bakelite speakers on a continual loop is a comfort and a steadier.  Rescue sheds have been covertly placed in many of the most congested places in the land.  I am particular taken at the one placed at rafter level in one of South Welsh indoor market; each with a rescue coordinator ready to spring into action.

 

Of course, not everyone can be near once of these places of sanctuary when the avalanche of citiness hits.  To this end the country cove is recommended to find the nearest public house.  Whispering the code word ‘In June, the Brigadier will hold his garden party,’ will be passed down the line until specialist aid can come to them.

 

Some people, of course, mocked the pretensions of these volunteers but their worth was proven during the December of 1972.  An entire coach from a well known Midlands association of country women thought to assay Oxford Street in early weeks of the month without adequate preparation, lulled into a force sense of security by reports that shoppers had already stocked up by mail order.  The sudden arrival of surges of suburban Christmas shoppers scattered them, leaving the foolhardy adventuresses bewildered and huddled around the haberdashery counter of a certain department store, desperate for succour in the madness.  Like so many for such an eventuality many teams needed to be summoned and with alacrity brought them down in small groups to a small tea room in a quiet location, where they were plied with strong tea and uncomplicated buns.