I’ve never met policemen more relaxed and willing to chat than yesterday. A large area of the wood was cordoned off with blue incident tape, with a uniformed constable every few yards. They had taken off their helmets and ties, for it was evening and they’d been on duty since 4.30 am. Some were reading novels, but all were happy to talk, and in the end I had to confine myself to a simple greeting otherwise I would have been “detained against my will” till night fell—by excessive friendliness rather than force. I agreed not to photograph them in accordance with their preference.
It seems there is a team combing through every inch of the wood, and another team guarding the area still unsearched. It’s boring and longwinded. Weeks have elapsed already. But it makes a nice change for the cops because it’s not stressful and on this public holiday weekend they get double-pay. When it all seems pointless, they remind themselves that their efforts may result in safer skies. There have been significant finds already, I was told, including a suitcase of bomb-making materials.
As I emerged from the wood to Totteridge Common, there was the smell of French fries being cooked, and charcoal, and the hum of generators. Cables snaked through the undergrowth. Marquees, portable toilets, cars parked on the grass, tracker dogs barking, a tall metal perimeter fence, guards on the gate—it was like a mellow pop festival, where only the police had passes to enter.
These idyllic surroundings may be the hatching-ground for terrorism, but I’m glad to report a complete lack of terror. Wye Vale is still a haven of tranquillity.
The other day, I went on a mission to a neighbouring and equally venerable town, the quaintly named Maidenhead. My own town of Wye Vale nestles in the wooded Chiltern Hills and used to be England’s furniture-making centre. Maidenhead lies in the meandering Thames Valley, and along with Reading, Bracknell and Slough is prominent in the new technologies, part of England’s Silicon Valley. Its town centre is a tightly-packed island surrounded by main roads. Pacing its streets in search of a certain office in St Mary’s Walk, which no-one seemed to have heard of, I discovered that the only people informed and friendly enough to direct me were elderly foreigners.
The locals regarded me with suspicion as if I was about to beg them for loose change. I was freshly shaved and respectably dressed but it’s true that in my imagination, I was a yokel visiting from up-country, or had arrived by time-machine from the nineteen-fifties. And this was because I found the city-hustle of Maidenhead an affront to the human spirit. I’d been reading Tim Boucher’s blog, and considering the trance of conformity that’s imposed on us these days in the “lands where freedom reigns”, thanks to those “custodians of the highest international values”, Bush and Blair. I was on red alert to any assaults on dignified humanity. The Maidenhead streets are as I imagine them in New York, a place I never wish to see.
Wye Vale doesn’t hustle you. Its parking regulations and the timing on its traffic lights are both infuriating, but when I go on foot, it’s almost as relaxed as a walk in the woods. I can think of only one reason for the difference. In Maidenhead, there are hardly any Afro-Caribbean or Pakistani immigrants.
a wayfarer’s notes 
Hullo Vincent, I’m eager to read more!
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Hullo Yves, I’m eager to read more!
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hi Vincent,your language is very sweet. enjoyed sailing through the prose.
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hi yves,your language is very sweet. enjoyed sailing through the prose.
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Very good writing Vincent, I enjoyed the reading. Very interesting as well, good views of a strange land.New York would be a place to avoid.
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Very good writing Yves, I enjoyed the reading. Very interesting as well, good views of a strange land.New York would be a place to avoid.
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I love this Yves – can’t believe I’ve just found you
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Well hi, Fugueur & I’m glad to make contact at last with you! I did write to you about eighteen months ago, regarding your own work.
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