Rural Retreat

There is a perfect campervan site in Shropshire (actually, there are quite a few, since Shropshire is pretty much a perfect county for campervanning) just below Stiperstones Ridge where, from its elevated position, the view is westwards over an almost uninhabited expanse of fields and small woods that stretch to the mountains of Wales on the horizon. The first time we stayed there, we had the place to ourselves. This time, however, there was another couple, Bernie and his wife – or “Bernie the bore” and “her indoors,” as we nicknamed them. They lurk in a permanently pitched caravan in a fenced-off corner of the site. It is next to the gate and all the facilities, so there is no chance of avoiding them. His first approach seemed innocuous. “I’m just going for a newspaper. Can I get one for you?” he said, as I was recycling our bottles. It was twenty minutes before I could get away and, during that time, he recounted his life story. He asked me just one question – the standard travellers’ “Where are you from?” – and when I answered “Manchester” his eyes glazed over as he struggled to think of a response. Campsites abound with people like Bernie who are unfamiliar with the concept and practice of ‘interactive conversation’. The trick is to identify them early and avoid meeting them at the water-point or the bins. If you do get caught and they ask about your itinerary, be warned that it is merely a prelude to a detailed account of their own, often going back as far as the 1960s.

Actually, the aura of the 1960s seems to linger still in parts of Shropshire. Below Stiperstones, where a former village school has been adapted as a Visitor Centre, nice old ladies offer milky tea, Nescafé and home-made scones – just as they always have. A few miles away, in the market town of Bishops Castle, the picturesque high street is unspoilt by intrusively modern buildings. However, the economy is very much of the 2000s. Very few traditional retailers remain: in their place are charity shops, cafes, tourist traps and unoccupied premises. The neighbouring small towns of Kington and Knighton are in a similar bind, rich in the attractive infrastructure of rural English towns that prospered until fifty years ago but lacking the economic activity to sustain it. Is it possible that Brexit will restore the full-English vigour and vim of the agricultural economy they used to enjoy?

I left this question hanging as we drove on to Pembrokeshire, another pretty part of Britain where tourism supplements the incomes of the local farmers. We are currently in the fourth year of a project to complete the Wales Coast Path, not in a strictly linear progress, but by a series of sorties targeting stretches according to whim, weather and the availability of local transport to or from the end-points. During the summer, the Edwards brothers run a bus service for this purpose, though its frequency is sparse and it is essential to plan carefully. The little buses labour tirelessly up and down the sides of coves, mostly along single-track roads. Progress is slow, especially at stops where foreigners (English included) have difficulty understanding the Welsh drivers’ pronunciation of place names, but the summer days are long enough for even the most arduous stretches of the Path to be completed before dark.

We pitched up on a site and, just as we lifted our aperitifs to clink glasses, the farmer roared into the field on a tractor the size of a house. He had come to collect his fee. “I would offer you a glass,” I said, “but you’re obviously driving and, possibly, still working.” Alas, this was all the invitation he needed to launch into his life story which, given his 84 years of age, took quite some time.