“’Ark ee all a-I. Train now standen a’ Pla’vorm 3 be th’ 08:49 Wyvern
Ways service gwain vrammards Bris’ol Temple
Meads t’wards Bournemouth
Central. Thic train d’call at Nailsea
an’ Backwell, Yatt’n, Winscombe, Cheddar, Wells, Shep’n Mallet, Evercreech
Junction, Wincant’n, Templecombe, Stalbridge, Sturm’ster Newton, Blan’vord,
Broads’one Junction, Poole an’ Bournemouth Central. Jange at Yatt’n vor inbetwix stations to
Templecombe. Jange at Wells vor Glas’nb’ry
an’ Street. Jange at Evercreech Junction
vor Yeovil an’ stations to Bath
Green Park. Jange at Templecombe vor inbetwix stations to
Poole. Jange
at Broads’one Junction vor Swanage an’ Wimborne. Jange at Poole
vor Drakkar Verries sailens to Britt’ny an’ Norm’dy.”
Great to hear at least some of the old accent making a
comeback, thought Edwin as he ran up the steps to the platform. It’s not quite what it was, but so much of an
improvement on that ghastly Estuarine whining that filled the airwaves when I were
a dapper. He paused to run an engineer’s
perceptive eye over the elegant lines of the freshly delivered locomotive,
resplendent in red with its name in gold lettering on the side. Eric
Pickles. One of the new Alexander Thynn class, 30 electric
locomotives named after individuals who played a pivotal role in the renewal of
Wessex. Eric Pickles – nicknamed The Fat Controller –
finally had an engine to call his own. Of
course, it was his actions in support of the Wessex flag that had earned him a
place in history and not his I-know-best attitude towards local autonomy.
Edwin settled down in his seat and opened his briefcase to
take out his complimentary copy of The
Times. He could see by the headline
why it was given away free these days: ‘Wessex show trials: confessions
mount’. It was such a shame the Marnen Post had sold out today; he
always relied on that for accurate coverage of happenings outside what was left
of London. Show trials indeed. Nobody was on trial. These were simply the hearings of the Truth
& Restitution Commission and all those who appeared before it did so
voluntarily.
Ably chaired by the Vice-Chancellor of Oxford University,
the Commission was at last uncovering what really went on in the last days of
the London
regime. Former politicians from the London parties were
queueing up to spill the beans. A
recurrent theme had been their sense of helplessness as they tried to run a
‘democratic’ form of politics in which property developers and financiers were
the ones who really called the shots.
They seemed genuinely relieved now that all that was over and done
with. As for the restitution part, they were
putting their names down for community and environmental work not just in their
home areas but right across Wessex. There was a waiting list for those wanting to
go to Twyford Down to dig up the remains of the M3 motorway and help with the
re-landscaping work.
Most of The Times
was advertising, for things that didn’t interest Edwin. The sports pages included some reasonable
coverage from the English inter-regional competitions, in which Wessex was currently in second place, behind Northumbria but ahead of East Anglia. Edwin folded the paper and reached for his
briefcase again. He checked his phone
for messages. Two.
Tilly Hibbs, Development Manager at Wyvern Ways in Exeter, wanted to discuss the energy
implications of some ongoing schemes.
Phase II of the repair workshops at Yeovil. Was Edwin being unreasonable to demand a
bigger contribution from on-site renewables?
He didn’t think so, if the alternative was a major upgrade to the local
distribution network. Electrification
west of Okehampton. Could he support the
use of surplus power from Cornwall? On a small scale perhaps, if a continuing
supply could be guaranteed and if the imports could be offset against exports
to Mercia. He’d phone her once he reached Poole and wasn’t constrained by the ‘noise-free’ rule on
trains.
The other message was from LAMMAS, the Land & Marine
Management Advisory Service in Southampton,
confirming the date and time of a video conference call early next month. It would be a link-up with all the Wessex county
councils to discuss the balance between food crops and fuel crops in their
areas. Afforestation was moving up the
political agenda again, after the recent heavy flooding. Edwin would
insist that everyone think long-term, planning for needs 100 or 200 years
ahead.
A steward entered the carriage, pushing a refreshment
trolley. Edwin asked if there was any
coffee today. No such luck. Tea and coffee, once everyday items, had
reverted to the luxuries they’d been a couple of centuries ago. Africans didn’t grow crops for the European
market now. They had their own millions
to feed. As well as those of their
Chinese masters. Yet the English still
had ‘tea-time’, even without their tea.
One of the functions of language is to reassure us that things haven’t
changed all that much, even as meaning imperceptibly shifts.
Edwin settled for an apple juice and a sandwich. Cheddar cheese and Wiltshire ham. At least there were some things you could
always rely on in Wessex,
always provided that London
wasn’t allowed to mess it up again.
Spetisbury. The
station nameboard flashed past as the train raced for the Dorset
coast. The Bristol
to Bournemouth service – often jokingly referred to as the Spine Express –
linked two of the main urban areas in Wessex
without having to rely on routes directed towards London.
Its very existence would have been laughed at in the days when London ruled Wessex. Back then, regionalists had been used to
hearing themselves described as dangerous men and women, plotting
constitutional experiments unprecedented in modern times, dabbling in ideas
that could undermine the priceless nonsense of national cohesion. ‘Unity’ is such a pleasant-sounding word, when
you live in London
and expect your lead to be followed without argument.
Edwin was reading through his speech, making final
adjustments. At Poole he would catch the
ferry to Cherbourg,
where his Norman hosts would collect him.
He hoped they’d forgive his French; Norman
was now the official language of Normandy. French was despised there, as in most of France, as the favoured
tongue of the Jacobin oppressor. Norman was now an option in Wessex schools, along with Welsh,
Cornish and Breton, but those of an older generation were disadvantaged by
speaking only the languages of the former imperial capitals. Edwin consoled himself with the thought that
at least everyone at his level would understand Latin, even if their accents
differed wildly.
Tonight there would be a buffet reception at the hotel and
then the conference tomorrow. Having
decided to decommission the nuclear power plants they’d inherited from the
defunct French State,
the Normans were keen to compare the approaches
to renewable energy embraced by different regions across Europe. Edwin was the star attraction.
‘Tidal power and the Severn Estuary: challenges and
solutions’. That would define the
subject nicely. By Edwin Brimble,
Director of Strategy, Wessex Energy. Edwin thought about Trydan Cymru and the work
they were doing on their side of the estuary.
He ought to acknowledge them.
Perhaps a brief mention, after the discussion of why a Severn
barrage was a bad idea, compared to alternative technologies with less impact
on wildlife, navigation and national/regional identity. He could refer to the joint meeting in Gloucester of the Welsh
Senedd and the Mercian and Wessex Witans that had agreed the way forward. Should he mention Project Olympus as
well? His audience would be familiar
with the plan to strengthen the Europe-wide interconnector network and develop
pumped storage, to even out the peaks and troughs that inevitably came with
reliance on intermittent sources of supply.
Then finally a word or two about some of the major users of the power
generated. The railways and tramways in Wessex and Mercia, without which he would have
had great difficulty in being where he now was.
The Wessex canal system,
even after the recent re-openings, was much smaller than Mercia’s and,
like the cycleway network, it wasn’t the way to travel any great distance in a
hurry.
The speech read fine but there was something missing. Perhaps he’d said too much about the technical
issues and failed to mention the frame of mind that was crucial to addressing
them.
First of all, the holistic management of resources and
infrastructure in Wessex,
wary of what’s lost by compartmentalising specialisms. Transport depended on electricity, which came
from renewable sources, with water a crucial contributor to generation and
storage. Joined-up thinking was what Wessex did
best. Partly this was because so many
environmental organisations and their associated research teams had based themselves
in Wessex,
ensuring that connectedness had become a way of life. Networks, not hierarchies. Thinking globally, planning regionally,
acting locally.
Then there was the commitment to maximise self-sufficiency
in energy, nutrition and all essential manufactured goods. From the beginning, there had been a
consensus in the Witan that this was the way to go, the only alternative to
having terms dictated by despots and markets.
The corollary was that ‘living within environmental limits’
really had to mean what it said. It was
why no new houses had been built on farmland in Wessex for over a decade and why it
was unthinkable that they would be ever again.
The London
regime had ordered that they be built in their millions, mindless of the
consequences. Now new houses were built
at the rate of a few hundred a year and then mainly to replace old ones
conclusively shown to be structurally unsound.
In some of the most heavily overdeveloped areas the housing stock was at
last going down, allowing the environment to recover, and there was talk of
rewilding, even of eagles returning to Wessex skies.
One question that used to be heard quite often was ‘where
will my children live if we won’t trash fields to build more homes?’ It was a question that it would now be
embarrassingly stupid to ask, given that births and deaths were roughly in
balance and net migration was zero. The
Witan had issued a stark warning that if everyone attracted by history, beauty
and tranquillity were to move to Wessex then these were the very
things that collectively they would surely destroy. Consequently, the housing market was tightly
regulated to prioritise local needs.
No-one from outside could buy that old widow’s cottage as their weekend getaway
while village newly-weds were confined to mum and dad’s spare room. The parish council wouldn’t register the sale,
and the parish council was the ultimate law.
Its power to commandeer empty property was one it didn’t shrink from
exercising.
So lastly, there was the core belief that the territory and
resources of Wessex belonged
to the community of Wessex
and were not for sale to outlanders (or anyone else) who wished to exploit them
for private gain to the disbenefit of the community. Except for the shire-based savings and loans co-operatives,
which only dealt with individuals, the ‘financial services’ sector had been largely
abolished. Any need for it had been
eliminated by the introduction of a guaranteed basic income for all. If any good had come from the British armed
forces presence now receding into history it was the view that control over the
use of real stuff is what makes the difference and that money is just a means
to one of many possible ends, not a few of them contradictory.
It hadn’t been easy.
Democracy’s struggle against continuous global robbery had been
worldwide and prolonged. It had been a
rough ride for everyone but the world was a more settled place at the end of
it, finally convinced, in John Ruskin’s words, that there is no wealth but
life. Today a ‘moneyic’ – a combination
of ‘money, ‘maniac’ and ‘alcoholic’ – could be diagnosed early and treatment
for their addiction was available. Free
of charge, obviously.
There was now an acute sense among Wessex folk
that all the good things arising from self-government could easily be lost
again by taking a wrong turn politically, from which it would be difficult to
recover. Ideas like centralised rule
from London or by ‘free’ market corporations
were treated as toxic by all those elected to protect the community-benefit State. Only obvious charlatans on the political
extremes still advocated them and those who bothered to listen were generally regarded
as a bit odd.
Edwin struck through the earlier passages. He’d use the material in answering questions
if they arose and put it on online later.
The philosophy was the thing to impart.
He was looking forward to hearing the other speakers
too. Hints had been given that Catalonia and Lombardy
had interesting things to say about energy-from-waste and the Silesians would
be sure to have something new to report on district heating. Conferences like this – real face-to-face
meetings – were so rare now that energy was scarce yet so useful when they did
happen. And then it was back to Wessex, where he’d promised his daughter that
for St Ealdhelm’s Day this year he’d take her to Windsor Castle:
“a well-arranged store of antiquities of
various kinds that have seemed worth keeping.” Maybe they could fit in a day trip across the
border to explore some of the fields and forests that were slowly taking the
place of London
as its villages re-emerged.
He made a mental note to get her something by William Barnes for her
birthday, now that she was interested in his poetry. Views
of Labour and Gold, perhaps. It
was never too early to think politically.
Without politics, Edwin thought with a shudder, without the Revolt of
the Regions, Wessex and its
heritage would long ago have been washed over by the suburbs of disdainful, global-hub
London. Even in deepest Devon
you wouldn’t have found a native, not with the second home problem being as it
had been. If the Wessex Regionalist
Party had given up the fight, that’s exactly what would have come to pass. It was everyone’s good fortune that it
hadn’t.
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