Who Does She Think She Is?

         As I write, millions of the Queen’s subjects are preparing eagerly to celebrate her 70^th year on the throne. Some of them will regard as traitors those of us who decline to participate, dismissing our objection to the notion that a divinely-appointed aristocracy has the right to rule as ‘nit-picking’. Yet we know that the term “aristocracy” is a euphemism for warlords of yore who took our land by force and rented it back to us. So, what’s to celebrate?

          Still, in the early summer sunshine, parts of our stolen land look lovely and it’s easy to be lulled into thinking that all is well in this “sceptred isle”. I refer to the last few days, which we have spent campervanning in Cornwall, where nature’s work was resplendent in sunlight. Walking and cycling along quiet lanes we became intoxicated by the colours, scents and unstoppable fecundity of the hedgerows. “Look! A butterfly!” one of us would exclaim, as if observing for the first time some rare, exotic creature (which is what they are fast becoming). But, at times, it’s easy to be lulled into ignoring the fact that the Anthropocene era, unabated, will deliver ecocide and monocultural desertification. The reality is that the delightful, wooded glen we walked through later is, in fact, a scrap of woodland that survives only because it occupies the steep banks of a small valley and is thereby saved from commercial exploitation.

          Apart from these misgivings, my enjoyment was marred only by the sorry state of my bike, which I inherited two years ago and have neglected to maintain since. Only three of its dozen-or-so gears engage reliably, the saddle is fearsomely intrusive and the handlebar is back-achingly low, which also means that my sights are set by default on the front wheel, which wobbles because of a missing spoke. The brakes work, but I suspect that is a temporary state of affairs. I determined to get it fixed before our next outing.

          But quiet lanes and isolated, sandy coves do not comprise all of Cornwall’s attractions. Some of the towns and villages are an integral part of the tourist draw and of our itinerary, Mevagissey being a classic example. A picturesque village with a harbour from which fishing boats still operate, despite – or is it because of? – Airbnb, it boasts a wet-fish stall on the quay, good pasties in the bakeries and thriving pubs. And although devotion to the monarchy was evident in the red-white-and-blue bunting around the harbour railings, the multi-coloured crocheted replicas of the crown that topped the posts added a touch of reassuringly irreverent humour.

          This illustrates a dilemma for one who disapproves of the monarchic system yet is steeped in the nation’s history and culture. How to react, for example, to a place such as Cothele, a Cornish Tudor house and estate that was ‘given back’ to the nation (via the National Trust) when its noble owners no longer wished to pay for its upkeep? The good thing about it having been held for so long in private ownership is that the place is a time-capsule, a repository of actual history. It’s an important resource and, for those who are interested in or nostalgic for the past, an immersive experience. I love the place but despise the principles it was built on. It’s like being fascinated by a horror story.

          Back at home, in my peasant hovel, I sought out a local bike repair workshop and was delighted to find one that is a CIC (Community Interest Company), staffed by people who really care, not just about bikes per se, but cycling as a green, healthy and socially interactive mode of transport. I was even more pleased when they told me that the council shares their principles and provides subsidies for repair work. It’s not the discount that excites me so much as the egalitarian ethos behind it.