Chapter 22

"Characteristically fresh and invigorating!" exclaimed Hubert drawing in a deep breath of Country air, as we stood on a hill overlooking fields and moorland. "It's only when I am in the Country I feel truly myself. I am sure that it was in contemplation of wide open countryside as this, with nothing but an expanse of blue sky above him, that the Great Poet drew his greatest inspiration."

Beta nodded in agreement. "It's so beautiful here. Away from the City, its crowds and its pollution. Look at those daffodils over there. Simply hundreds of them! And those puppies playing around in them. Such innocence. Such joy. Don't you think it's wonderful?"

She squeezed my hand, and I could only agree that the fields and meadows stretching out ahead of us presented a truly inspirational view. I breathed deep, taking in the scent of pollen blown from the wild grass, and carried in vaporous clouds over the larger tussocks, past a grazing antelope and onwards over the rolling hillocks as far as we could see.

"The Great Poet wrote a great deal about the Country," Hubert mused. "Again and again he returned to it, especially in his romantic period. For him the Country was always a thing of beauty, to be admired like a painting. He believed that art should aspire to capture that great beauty: something he tried and succeeded, in his odes, sonnets and vignettes. Ode To A Caterpillar. Reflections on the First Frog Spawn of Spring. The Scorpion on the Rose Petal. Fertility Carried in the Air. The Shepherd and his Sheep Dog. Works of Art which will be remembered long after the last turf of soil is embalmed in concrete and the last green field becomes a supermarket car park. But for now, let us just enjoy the beauty that is left. And curse the onward march of progress which threatens to eliminate such innocent beauty and to turn the air into an ozone-free, carbon dioxide rich and sulphurous poison."

The giant teddy bear bound surprisingly swiftly down the hillside, with Beta and me chasing after him, our hands clasped together. When we caught up with him, under the shade of an enormous tree, clasping his tri-cornered hat in one paw while patting his forehead with a silk handkerchief, I confessed that I had no great appreciation for the Great Poet while I was at school.

"In fact, I'm afraid it all seemed rather irrelevant and somewhat boring."

"That is the great tragedy of our time," mused Hubert reflectively. "There is no longer the inclination to reflect on the great insights of poetry. There are too many distractions from day-to-day things which appear more pressing and relevant, although there can be nothing in the world more deserving of our attention than a well-crafted phrase or a skilfully expressed trope."

"I really enjoyed poetry at school," countered Beta, "and although the Great Poet wasn't really my favourite, I could see that his poems were really very good." It's the fault of state education!" grunted Hubert. "What else could it be? After so many years, the Great Poet's oeuvre has lost its freshness for the children of the Suburbs, tempted away by motor cars, videos and fast food take-aways from the most profound insights ever yet attained by any one person. Perhaps, too, a familiarity of landscapes as beautiful as this engenders the reflection and contemplation required to enjoy the delicate and exquisite flower of great poetry."

"I'm sure that is so," affirmed Beta. "I am much more inspired by poetry here in all this fresh air than I could ever be in the City."

We strolled through green open fields, past herds of deer and sheep to a long level hedge separating us from fields in which mammoths and glyptodonts were grazing. The hedge led to a wooden gate and stile, on which sat a collie chatting to a scorpion. They paused when they saw us, and greeted us politely.

"Good morrow, my friends," greeted Hubert amiably. "It's a fine day, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is, sire," agreed the collie unenthusiastically. "It is a day which best pleases my herd. The wind is light and the sun shines. No rain to chill their bones. But too much of this weather and my crops will surely suffer, and then I shall be cursing such days as this."

"Surely, it is best to simply enjoy good weather when one can," Hubert remarked.

"Aye, such advice is fine when weather is well tempered. My stock enjoys it and my vineyards too, even if my potatoes would like more rain. But such is my living, sire. The weather can never be wholly perfect."

"And now you are no doubt ruminating on the results of the General Election. How does the victory of the Red Party bode for you? Ill, I suspect, for a taxpayer such as you who has all the responsibility of man management."

The collie barked slightly. "On the contrary, sire. The Red Party victory was much welcomed by farmers throughout the Country. They had my vote and that of all my neighbours. It is only the very wealthiest farmers who had much to benefit from the Blue Party gaining power. For far too long the Country has been neglected, and only the Red Party, and perhaps the Green Party, has ever explicitly endorsed a policy to redress the balance between the City and the Country. The Blue Party talk about encouraging wealth creation, but it is for the benefit of yon City folk, not for them as have to till the land and furrow the soil. The Red Party has promised to direct government subsidies to farmers and manipulate the markets in the Country's favour."

"I thought the Red Party represented the interests of only the poor and down-trodden," Hubert argued. "How can that be true of you Country people, living here in the midst of such plenty, generated from the wealth of the soil?"

"Beauty is all very well, sire. You gentlemen have such fanciful ideas of how good life is for us in the Country. And your fancies have brought us folk few favours, if you don't mind me saying so. We might enjoy living in the Country, and this is where we have chosen to live, but we want practical help. Our produce is made and sold at Country prices, not City prices. Not the prices you City folk are used to. Us folk, we talk in farthings, pennies and shillings. City folk talk in hundreds and thousands of guineas, but pay us for our produce only as little as they can. The Red Party promise to reward us better for our labours and to even the score more in Country folk's favour."

"What the Red Party promises and what the Red Government delivers are two different things. Surely, you will be just as neglected by the Red Government as you have been by the Coition Government before it."

"That I can't say, sire. The Red Party has been in power not yet two days. But already they have sent representatives to our homes to explain how the new system of government subsidies and investment will work, and how it will be paid for by the higher prices charged for our labours. I fancy, sire, the Blue Party or the White Party would not be so forthcoming on our behalf. The Country has been exploited for many years by the City, the Suburbs and the financial institutions: taking from us, loading us with debts we can never repay, offering us advice which ruin our crops and squander our resources for short-term gain, and telling us that we should learn from them and disregard hundreds of years of practical experience. The Red Party, however, have sensible and practical ideas which they seem committed to put into practise."

"I must say," Hubert remarked, apparently dumbfounded, "I had never thought to see the day when the anarchists, communists and socialists would rule the Country with the apparent consent of the farmers."

"Anarchists? Communists? I don't hold to them at all, sire. But that isn't what us Country folk find attractive about the Red Party. It really matters not what turn of cloth these Red Party folk affect to wear. What matters is that they provide us with stable markets for our produce, an incentive to farm and sell, and don't treat us like Country bumpkins with no nonce nor sensitivity. Political ideology is not what concerns us Country folk. Ultimately what we want is results, and if the Red Government provide these, then we shall be satisfied."

As we resumed our way across the fields, Hubert mused on the collie's remarks. "Such lamentable disregard for ideology and policy! Do these Country people not see that the interests of the traditional proletariat constituency of the Red Party and those of the peasant will inevitably clash?"

"But aren't the people who work in the Country much the same as those in the City," argued Beta. "They all want a good living for the work they do. Aren't you just confusing workers with the work they do?"

"One is defined by one's employ," remarked Hubert. "But here we are in the midst of beauty. Look at all these green fields. That one being ploughed by that robotic tractor over there, for instance. And, goodness me, what does that large Formica sign say?"

He pointed over a meadow where deer were frolicking with rabbits and skunks to an imposing sign reading: Sold To The Lambdeth & Houndswich Mutual Assurance Society. Behind it was a field that had been left to neglect: wild grasses and thistles crowded inside, more than waist high and blowing about in the faint breeze. A rusting hulk of a tractor and savage guard dogs were surrounded by many acres jealously guarded by barbed wire and thorn bushes.

Hubert waved his massive arm. "That collie was wrong to say that the City and its financial institutions take no interest in the Country. Here, if proof were needed, is evidence of the investment and resources ploughed back into the Country. It is not all one-way traffic."

The meadow extended until it reached a line of deciduous trees, weeping willows and bull-rushes on the banks of a gently running river where water rats, otters and frogs played in the water and a family of swans glid by in stately procession. The bank was too steep for us to approach the water closely, although Beta wanted to wash the mud off her feet. A sign warned us that fishing was strictly prohibited, but this didn't trouble some beavers sitting on the bank who were dangling their fishing rods in the flowing current.

"Ah, we're approaching the lake where my journey ends," Hubert remarked. "The latter years of the Great Poet's life were spent there in a very pleasant cottage, now a museum managed by the Great Poet Trust of which I am proud to claim membership. He spent many pleasant hours by the shores of the lake, and of this river too, I am sure, inspired by the patience and skill of the kingfisher, the elegance of the striding heron and the occasional sight of the plesiosaur that lives there. It was there he consolidated his numerological theories of nature, humour and history. A theory famously illustrated in his series of Lake Sonnets, twenty-two in all, which encapsulate the delicate balance of nature, art and culture. I'm not so sure he would be so enthusiastic about many of the wares now sold in his last refuge which purport to his legacy."

"What are they?" I wondered.

"Pottery mugs embellished with his face. Tee-shirts enriched by his poetry. Fluffy toys. Rich chocolates. Soft drinks. Sticks of rock. There is no limit to the merchandise sold supposedly celebrating his poetic greatness. There are even plans afoot to construct a Great Poet theme park, and I have read bowdlerised 'popular' editions of his more accessible works. There may even be a television cartoon series based on his epic poem Spectacles Lost. There can be no limit as to how his legacy can be debased in the pursuit of an ill-gained farthing."

The river meandered about, occasionally bowing around and almost cutting itself off, and gradually getting wider. And then, around one of its many bends, the river rapidly emptied into a lake many leagues across and ringed by small hills. There was a village at one end of the lake, by which bobbed several small boats. The buildings were all very modest, bar a large white hotel decorated by prominent letters raised above its roof which even from this distance quite distinctly read The Great Poet Hotel. A boat sailed across the still waters embellished by the words: The Great Poet Tours Ltd. The sun's reflection shimmered in the middle of the lake occasionally shattered by the leaping of trout and the splash of low gliding pterosaurs. A well-worn path led towards the small town prominently signposted The Great Poet's Cottage, while another path in the other direction led to The Suburbs, amongst other places.

"So, this is where we part," commented Hubert. "I wish you well on your quest, but I hope that this Rupert does not mislead you when he says that the Suburbs is where you will find the Truth. I really do not trust this Rupert or any of his followers. They do not seem a gentlemanly breed to me. But here at least there is little evidence of his unmannerly supporters."

The giant teddy bear lumbered off towards the small town, while Beta and I followed the lake in the other direction. It was a warm afternoon, the air brushed pleasantly against our faces and water lapped lazily against the shore just by the path. Dragon-flies buzzed about in the rushes. Trout and pike swam lissomely by, close to the surface and unworried by the swooping pterosaurs. Deer, dogs, badgers and even a diplodocus stood on the shore and sipped the cool clean water. The path was dusty and dry, and we were wary of treading on the scorpions and thistles that flourished in the aridity.

"It's so hot!" exclaimed Beta, and then without pausing, as she had no clothes to remove, she strode into the lake until it was up to her waist and propelled herself into the water with some forceful breast-strokes. She swam nearly a furlong out, turned round and shouted. "Come on in! It's lovely in here. It's really not that cold."