United? Kingdom?

          Our solitary campervan lords it over a remote field overlooking the sea on Dorset’s Jurassic Coast. It is dusk, suppertime and daddy-long-legs (if there is a ‘grown-up’ name for these elegant, fragile creatures, I don’t know it) come to visit, attracted by our lamp. For a brief period, we have turned off the background noise of furious political debate raging through the media – the angst of Brexit, the rise of populism and its threat to democracy, in short, the division of our society under a curiously self-supposed “one nation” Conservative government. But we are only semi-detached from events: the field is a respite, a change of scenery. When we turn on the radio, the turmoil burbles forth again.

          We had been poking around Dorset for a couple of days and poking around Dorset, or any other part of Britain, is, for me, essentially about rummaging through the remains of social history for clues as to who we are and why we are the way we are. History provides a context to our lives, without which we flounder in the sea of here-and-now, without landmarks to lend perspective or guidance. Who, for instance, can pass a road sign for Tolpuddle and not consider the importance of the Trade Union movement? Each region of Britain, small though it is, possesses its distinctive characteristics – topographical, geographical and geological – which have determined the ways in which its population developed; and these are the starting points – and sometimes the ending points – by which they are defined. Regional histories somehow add up to more than the sum of their parts when they come to define national history and, even in that process, never quite lose the traces of their individuality. Blandford Forum, a Georgian market town with a Roman-influenced double-barrelled name typical of the region, is an example.

          I first went there in 1968 and, though I was then ignorant of its provenance, I could feel history seeping from its stones. Progress, as manifest in high street uniformity and the decline of traditional markets, has diminished its uniqueness since then but the buildings in the centre have survived to provide a framework for whatever comes next: tourism, most likely. There is certainly a thriving local history museum, which occupies a stable building in a courtyard off the main square, though it is staffed by volunteers so ancient that I fear for its future. Outside the door were wooden boxes of apples, “windfalls, help yourself”, and so I did – to a delicious James Grieve, a variety not available in shops, alas. Inside, I became acquainted with not just the Great Fire of 1731 but also the intertwined histories of the nearby army training camps.

          Twelve miles away, at Shaftesbury, I admired the quintessentially English view from the top of Gold Hill (made famous by the Hovis TV ad which pretended it was in the north of England) then enjoyed the modern luxury of a decent cappuccino on High Street. But the old ways linger in the lifestyles of the locals. In the market hall, gardeners and smallholders offered their fruit and veg for sale, ladies stood behind tables full of home-baked cakes and a communal pay-by-chitty system was in operation. On the street, among the professional market stalls, a ruddy-faced, posh-spoken gentleman farmer sold meat exclusively from his herd of Red Poll cattle and a cheerful-chappie baker offered wholemeal and sourdough to the discerning. Is this the tail-end or the vanguard of the fight against globalism?

          Being back in Manchester a day later was like waking from a dream infused with genteel county-town vibes. The Conservative Party conference was in full swing behind high security fencing, guarded by more police resources than we even knew existed. But, if they had come to convince this staunchly Labour-voting populace of their “one nation” bona fides, they had a lot of reputational damage to repair. Labour and Conservative, like Remain Manchester and Brexit Dorset, though they are both British, remain worlds apart.