Life under “Lockdown” – A
London Diary #7
Like a lot of people in the UK over
the last year or so, I’ve spent a lot of time on my own. And even when
out-and-about, either going for a walk or on my weekly trip to the supermarket,
I’ve been alone even when in company. Passing strangers on pavements and paths,
queuing with other customers all standing two metres apart. Hidden behind
facemasks, like highwaymen or bank robbers. Atomised by our anonymity.
Being alone has never been much of
a problem for me. I’m quite a solitary individual anyway. Before I got married
I lived alone for many years, and whilst I travelled frequently in the company
of colleagues for extended periods on work trips overseas, it’s never troubled
me to travel alone for my holidays. In fact, some of my trips alone have been
the most memorable and the most enjoyable. But like a lot of people, the
isolation of the last year has (at times) been trying. On the plus side, it’s
given me plenty of time to focus on my PhD studies, and I’ve managed to do a
lot of writing and a phenomenal amount of reading. But it has also meant I’ve
not been able to access the libraries and archives which I need for my research,
as I had been planning to do. Other, even bigger and more important aspects of
life have similarly been put on hold as I have been cut-off from my closest
family members and friends, who have all been turned into faces seen only on
computer screens.
Life has morphed unrecognisably.
Everything which used to be exterior has become interior. It’s an odd thing to
reflect upon; how a life put into limbo has played havoc with the natural
rhythms of what used to be normal. It is almost as if, for the last year, I
have been living a double life. On the one hand, the time has simply flown by
because each day has basically been filled with the same now near ritualistic
practices. This day last year seems like it was only yesterday, because it was
exactly the same as yesterday. But, very oddly, this day last year also feels
as though it were a lifetime ago, because it was another lifetime,
lived by another me – a pre-lockdown “me” – someone whom I no longer seem to
recall very clearly. What details I can recall about that person seem
bafflingly unfamiliar now.
There are different ways of being
alone. Being alone isn’t necessarily the same as being lonely. Many people find
solace in solitude. Many more people feel lonely in the crowded confines of a
commuter train, or whilst sitting at their desk in a busy office. Often what
determines how we feel is the sense of control we have over what is happening
to us. This is why lockdown has been hard for so many people. It is the fact
that we have no control over what is happening, nor how long we will be subject
to such social restrictions. It has put me in mind of a slim (but not slight) volume
which I first read quite some time ago now – Patrick Leigh Fermor’s A Time
to Keep Silence (1957). As a writer famous for his travel writing, this short
book very eloquently describes a different sort of ‘journeying.’ An inward and
self-reflective journey in which Leigh Fermor describes the times when he
stayed in some of Europe’s oldest and most venerable monasteries. He describes staying
at the Abbey of St. Wandrille at Solesmes, famous for its revival of Gregorian
chant. But here he finds that something deeper seems to be driving his search
for solitude, eventually leading him to the monastery of La Grande Trappe,
where the Trappist monks famously take a vow of silence. And his fascination
for the lives of the earliest Christian anchorites finally leads him to seek
out the remarkable rock-cut monasteries of Cappadocia, hewn from the unusual
rock formations of the region’s lunarlike landscape.
It is the modern world which Leigh
Fermor is seeking to escape by going to such places, but once he is safely ensconced
in these secluded retreats, he realises that this is in fact a more complex
undertaking than simply hiding himself away in the meek austerity of a monk’s
cell: “Mental discipline, prayer and remoteness from the world and its
disturbing visions reduce temptation to a minimum, but they can never entirely
abolish it. In medieval traditions, abbeys and convents were always considered
to be expugnable centres of revolt against infernal dominion on earth. They
became, accordingly, special targets. Satan, issuing orders at nightfall to his
foul precurrers, was rumoured to dispatch to capital cities only one junior
fiend. This solitary demon, the legend continues, sleeps at his post. There is
no work for him; the battle was long ago won. But monasteries, those scattered
danger points, become the chief objectives of nocturnal flight; the sky fills
with the beat of sable wings as phalanx after phalanx streams to the attack,
and the darkness crepitates with the splintering of a myriad lances against the
masonry of asceticism.”
I find echoes of ‘lockdown’ in such
reflections. But during lockdown temptation comes in the form of the rabbit-holes
of bickering which swiftly seem to be dug on social media, into which people readily
seem to fall each time the Government has made its many U-turns in attempting
to navigate us through this pandemic. Having listened to what often feels like
the ever-decreasing circles of a deracinating form of logic during the daily
briefings from Number 10 Downing Street at certain points during this strange
collective social 'rite of passage' for our nation and the wider world at large,
I have often despaired. In truth, I have had to tune out for most of it,
especially during this second period of national lockdown. My head can no
longer seem to fully comprehend what any of this means any more. All I know for
sure is that I will continue to follow the rules, wear my facemask, and make the best of things,
even though I have been segregated like a lone monkish inhabitant on a suburban
Skellig Michael.
Like many people, I have found myself focussing on the solace offered by the natural world. In the brief thawing of the restrictions between ‘Lockdown 1’ and ‘Lockdown 2’, I managed to escape to Cornwall for a week. I wandered the cliffs, filling my lungs with the much-needed scent of gorse, sun-kissed granite, and the salty tang of the sea air. After months of being confined to quarters, seeing little beyond the four-square walls of my own world, to sit there, looking out across the limitless horizon of the sea was a liberation of both heart and soul. I sat watching a pair of grey seals, a male and a female, delighting in dancing together in the foaming breakwaters, and for a moment it seemed as though the world was being washed clean. But it was a bittersweet liberation, because winter was not so very far away and the impending inevitable second chapter of the pandemic meant the sky and sea were still limitless boundaries which I was not yet allowed to cross. It was a brief moment of respite from the on-going reality of a disjointed double-life caught in limbo. During the short days of winter which followed, when the lockdown was reimposed and I was once more cut-off and isolated on my own, I have often found the lines of a particular poem by John Keats arising quietly in my rather despondent mind. It is a verse which has buoyed me with its eye to the promise of future joys, waiting to be cherished in the personal reunions which are yet to come:
Bright star, would I were
steadfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the
night
And watching, with eternal
lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless
Eremite,
…
During that brief break in the
lockdown, I also managed to ‘up sticks’ and move home. A process which had
first been delayed interminably by the economic uncertainties of Brexit, only
then to be subsequently stalled by the sudden onset of the pandemic. This had
long been planned as the first step in a much longer journey of relocation from
London to Tokyo. Moving briefly back to my ‘hometown’ was the first stage; moving
back to the place where I had grown up on the outer edge of London, from the
place where I’d lived for many years in the inner city. It felt like I was
touching base once more with another life long since lived and left behind; touching
base before launching off on a great leap around the globe. Walking around my
old hometown, I found the place curiously changed but also still the same.
Discernible perhaps only in hints and echoes, shadows and memories. A lot of
people have commented on the resurgence of birdsong into the fore of our
consciousness as traffic on the roads has been reduced during the lockdowns. In
my most recent home, living on the banks of the tidal Thames for many years, I’d
grown accustomed to the calls of seagulls, pigeons and corvids, as these seemed
to predominate there. But here in the leafy suburbs I rediscovered the avian
soundscape of my younger days. Here there is a backdrop which is filled with
woodland voices: robins, wrens, blackbirds, thrushes, many different types of tits
and a fusillade of finches, plus wood pigeons, collared doves, jays, and at
night there are owls too. This is the soundscape I grew up surrounded by, and I
realised it was still an elemental part of me.
The part of suburbia where I spent
the first two decades of my life is in fact an old rural Saxon village. A
village which over time was surrounded and eventually swallowed into the cancerous
concrete urban sprawl of greater London. These northwest hinterlands of the
capital were dubbed as ‘Metro-Land’ in 1915 by the publicity department of the
Metropolitan Railway. ‘Metro-Land’ was later turned into an eponymous
‘round-trip’ of rhyme in a famous film of that title by John Betjeman in 1973. Curiously
a train trip along the Met’ Line reminded him of the sea in Cornwall:
Like the sound of little
breakers
Spreading out along the
surf-line
When the estuary's filling
With the sea.
Then Harrow-on-the-Hill’s a
rocky island
And Harrow churchyard full
of sailors’ graves
And the constant click and
kissing of the trolley buses hissing
Is the level to the
Wealdstone turned to waves
And the rumble of the
railway
Is the thunder of the
rollers
As they gather up for
plunging
Into caves.
But my native part of London never
lost that sense of itself as a rural village. Pinner is filled with old
buildings, many dating back to Georgian or Tudor times. And it still has a
working farm, meaning that there are still fields which can be wandered through
as well as ancient weald land, with woods and copses surviving in pockets neatly
bordered by cul-de-sacs, closes, avenues, and old country lanes which have long
since been macadamised into London’s quintessential leafy garden suburbs.
When I was at junior school my class went on a long ramble on a sunshine-filled summer’s day through ‘the village’, with our teacher telling us the history of the old buildings, showing us how we could identify their respective ages by comparing certain characteristic architectural features. It was one of the first things to ignite in me a passion for history and a fascination for archaeology. During the summer holiday, wading along the local brook which flowed through a wooded oasis behind our house in my welly boots, I stumbled upon a small ceramic jar which bore the berried monogram of ‘J. Sainsbury.’ It dated back to somewhere between the 1920s-1940s.
When I was a few years older, I trained as a bell ringer at the parish church at the top of the high street, and I relished the fact that this gave me access to one of the most fascinating and hidden parts of the church building. I loved looking closely at the stone sets of the stained-glass windows into which church-goers, decades and centuries alike before my time, had carved their initials and floral doodles into the soft stone. It felt like history was something which could be found all around wherever one went, if you only knew how to look for it. But some elements of history as it had been lived locally could only be etched into memory, unless it was fleetingly caught in the old flickering images saved on celluloid; like the memory my grandmother re-told, of her standing on the steps of the village bakery where she worked, waving goodbye to my grandfather as he walked off down the high street on his way to fight in Italy during World War 2; or the old cine film of my great grandfather, who was the blacksmith in Wealdstone, showing him shoeing a horse.
 |
| Illustration by J.W. Ferry in 'The Villager' (1943) |
My grandfather may have set out from here and travelled overseas to fight in the War, but the War itself came to Pinner and has left its traces here too. Only the other week, while on my regular amble through Pinner Park Farm, I stopped and scanned the corner of one of the fields which I’d seen on a WW2 bombsite map, which had shown that two "H.E." bombs dropped from a German bomber had exploded there in 1943. And sure enough, I could just make out the slight indentations of the impact craters still faintly discernible in the grass. My aunt had been friends with the daughter of the family who lived and worked at the farm, and they had ridden on the farm’s cart horses in this very field in the late 1940s/early 1950s.
The farmland at Pinner Park was one
of the places where I used to seek solace and solitude when I was growing up.
In the summertime, I’d frequently install myself at the top of the hill in one
of the fields which still command a wonderful semi-rural view even today.
Fringed by tall oak trees, many with trunks thick enough to be several
centuries old. I’d sit there in the warm sunshine, reading a book, or meditating.
Casting an inward eye to the future, thinking of ways and means to escape one
day, setting out in search of far-away places. A hole in the fence in one of my
school’s playing fields meant I could sneak off and elude the tumultuous rabble
of the school yard, disappearing up here at lunchtimes, seeking a moment of
stillness during the school day. There is something about the solace of nature,
even (or perhaps more especially) in the midst of an otherwise built-up
environment which is a true tonic. A balm to soothe the senses, reset the mind,
and help us to breathe freely once again.
Now that I am back here, but stuck yet
again in another lockdown, waiting for my exit visa back into the ‘real’ world
which we have all been banished from for a second time since the pandemic
began, I have reverted into my sixteen-year-old self. Making my weekly trudge
through those old familiar fields of the farm, as well as ambling around the
streets and back lanes of my old hometown; revisiting and pondering once more upon
the respective ages of old buildings and thinking about the layers of time
which this place has accumulated through the centuries, ending in the here-and-now
with me and my personal memories of growing up here as did the generations of a
part of my family before me. Now augmented by another fresh and unexpected set
of memories which are currently being formed and laid down in my psyche having
found myself becalmed here once again, waiting for lockdown to lift so that I
can get myself a genuine exit visa to leave these Betjeman-like native shores
once more, but this time cutting those natal ties and sailing away for good, emigrating
to a new life, to permanently sink my anchor in a bay located somewhere along
the sheltering coast of Japan.
We’ve all been stuck in limbo
during the lockdowns. Counting the days and months. Waiting for the future to
arrive. Waiting for the past to return. All the while, both consciously and
unconsciously, recalibrating our experience of each. And yet, once this strange time of
stasis is gone, many of us may well come to feel like nothing has happened because it was all so unreal, the days all blurring into a single undifferentiated mass, but I think
we will all come to realise eventually that in actual fact a lot that is unseen
has shifted during these long days in a time of dark shadows. It might not be so readily visible on the surface, but surely
something will have changed within all of us once this pandemic eventually ends
and we regain our freedoms. Our right to roam further afield will certainly
feel very different. In the same way that I felt different sitting in the
autumnal sunshine on those Cornish cliffs watching a pair of seals in close
company bathing in the bubbling foam of the breakers upon the beach. It felt as
if I was watching “The moving waters at their priestlike task / Of pure
ablution round earth’s human shores.”
I hope the things I’ve learnt and the
insights I’ve gained from being enforced to remain alone at home will help me
to appreciate, and so never lose, the relevance of my reflections upon the
importance of place to who we are and how it shapes our individual worlds.
Because home is not just where we are, it’s also who we are, because we take that
essential element of ourselves with us wherever we go – whether we wander near
or far, but most especially when reunited we make our homecoming returns.
Pinner Fair in 1918 (Pathé News)
As you walk the way through Pinner Park Farm,
Along green hedgerows where the sparrows cheep
And black marauding crows squawk their alarm
At the fork-tailed kite wheeling high above.
Climbing the cinder track up Wakehams Hill,
To see the view which all the locals love;
Then onwards to Tooke’s Green, wand’ring at will,
First down then up the dip along Church Lane,
To the place where Saxon Pinnora’s band
Settled long ago. Where each yeoman thane
Built here a homestead on Pinnora’s land
In the shelt’ring lee of Pinner’s proud church,
Where old Skenelsby and the Loudons lie;
Its flint-walled tower looks down from its perch
Atop the High Street, vaunting the blue sky
With its tall cross, sheathed in godly green bronze;
Shading the green weedy brook which winds by
The foot of ancient Pinner’s sacred mons;
Flowing on, along leafy Cannon Lane,
Through Cheney Fields towards Haydon Hall Park,
Where blackbirds chorus at the evening’s wane;
Over Eastcote Village the sky burns stark
With the sunset’s red-golden flames alight,
As another warm summer’s day becalms
Itself asunder, passing into night.
Yet the birds keep singing; their vocal charms
Lulling the Ancients in their easeful sleep,
Lying content in comfort, as long time
Slowly accrues the centuries they keep;
Their lives and memories enshrined in rhyme
Scripted while walking these old lanes and ways,
Through the farm fields and over the green hills,
Along the winding brook’s soft purling maze,
Listening to the bird’s sweet chirps and trills,
Just as joyful birds have always sung here.
Our forebears from Saxon Pinnora’s day
Live on in local sounds which echo clear
In old paths and place names, which oft’ we say;
Our history hands down through the ages,
But the birds, trees and streams recall them too,
Like strolling players telling the stages
Of a play ever enacted anew –
And so, I dwell with full warm-hearted care
Upon my early kin’s generations
Who lived here long before me, unaware
Of their future’s far accumulations;
And I think of them in their easeful sleep
As I walk the way through Pinner Park Farm
Along green hedgerows where the sparrows cheep,
And black marauding crows squawk their alarm
At the fork-tailed kite wheeling high above;
Climbing the cinder track up Wakehams Hill
To see the view which all our kinsfolk love;
Then on towards Tooke’s Green, wand’ring at will
First down and then up the dip along Church Lane,
To the place where Saxon Pinnora’s band
Settled long ago; where a kindred thane
First made our home, here on Pinnora’s land.
 |
| The Old Village Bakery, Pinner, c.1930s |
