LONG LIVE THE GYPSIES

In the deeply rural triangle of England which I call home, there are many unchanging elements. The landscape has been carved by generations of farmers, and mechanization has doubtless had a part in changing the land and its character. But looking at the deeds to my house, and its ancient attendant maps, there is not too much to indicate that so much has changed. The field patterns are the same - excepting one or two swathes which have been cleared of hedges by the so called "barley barons". Hedgerows remain, in summer full of yellowhammers, which, along with owls, seem to be a logo of the place. The ownership of land has changed greatly, though. My house in 1830 had with it 1760 acres. Now, 5. Across the timespan described by its deeds, one can see the gradual parcelling and sale of land. There are other changes too. As far as I can tell, it is only the last two generations of owners who have actually owned and lived in the house. Neither were farmers. Prior to that, the dwellers were tenants, working the land whose title was with gentrified owners, living in London and having little connection with it, other than the financial.

There are, of course, changes. The older residents speak of the increase in traffic along the lane. In the mornings and evenings, some drivers use one of the lanes as a shortcut on their way to and from work in York. Rush hour sees - ooh - six cars! We have 30 mph signs in the village now. With a growing population of young kids this is a good thing. Some time ago, the village was polled by the local council to establish whether the fourteen households here wanted street lighting. The answer was a resounding no. Too much enjoyment in an unpolluted night sky. And a sense of pride in the rural character of where we live.

One unchanging biannual feature of our life here is the visits of the gypsies, attracted to this small part of England in part by its own unchanged nature. It is the same family each time - a man, small, lean, weathered and Balkan looking, his woman, fat and inert, two silent daughters and twenty or so horses. Their possessions are few. They have one "modern" caravan, two bowtops, and a flat wagon. They own two or three bicycles, a couple of small dogs, one or two hens. They come once in winter, once in summer. They tether their horses at the side of the road and move them on to new grass periodically. They hang their clothes out to dry on the hedges. They make their camp at the junction of an old green lane, and one of the four tarmac lanes which connect the village to the "main" (B class) roads a couple of miles away in each of four directions. When they leave, there is little or no mess.

I am on good terms with Mr. Gypsy. He smiles, nods and waves at me as we pass. Occasionally I have brought his family small presents. I went through a pineapple phase. I figured that pineapple would not be a regular feature at the gypsy dinner table, and so, when I was at the shops, I would buy them one. They accepted these odd gifts with a quiet dignity. I don't really know if they were grateful. Bemused, perhaps. I worried that this gesture might be patronising. Perhaps I shall buy them mangos, guava, passion fruit. But then again, perhaps not. Who knows?


What I do know is that I feel positively disposed towards them. Here are the reasons. They represent to me a way of life which butts up against the fundamental assumptions which our society makes about how we should live. They own virtually nothing. They are not static. They fall outside our laws, and the assumptions our laws make. I doubt they have a bank account. I doubt they have much at all to do with money. The digital world is, I imagine, a closed book to them. Their kids seem not to go to school. And if they continue in this style of life, why would they need to? They have a deep connection with the land and the seasons which most of us lack. Theirs is a life of simplicity, and the deep boredom - or is it acceptance, which goes along with it. They have no TV or other media. Their world is theirs, enclosed in their own experience, untroubled by foreign irrelevancies. I doubt they vote or have any interest in politics. They consume little if anything of state services. I imagine they don't pay tax. There is a sameness, a regularity to their trudging life which is somehow to me deeply inspiring, conjuring as it does, notions of the basics of human survival, and questions of our purpose, so often forgotten, mislaid. It is as though they live in fog, engrossed in their own experience, everything else invisible. It is as though they have stepped out of the pages of my deeds, part of a time described by different assumptions about the land and the human role with and within it.

I don't envy them. A number of local people have sharp views on them. One told me to lock my doors. I haven't done so. I see no reason to fear them. If Mr. Gypsy needed something I hope he would ask me. They are, I imagine, frequently hassled by a society which does not seek to understand them, and which finds their assumptions about life difficult to accept.

One morning soon, I shall pass their camp and they will be gone. Gone as quietly as they came, disappearing in the same mist which brought them. I hope I shall see them again in the summer, when pineapple may once again grace their table.