Today's Guardian contained a sobering graphic illustrating the spread of the Covid-19 virus across the globe over the past two months.
We arrived back from our trip to Spain on 22nd of February, noting a certain irony in the fact that we had driven home entirely unaffected by the gathering coronavirus epidemic only to discover that one of the first cases in the UK occurred less than half a mile from where we live. This only became apparent the morning after we returned when to our surprise photos of the local primary school were splashed across the tabloids. Of course what seemed remarkable just a month ago has become the new normal.
I have been wondering at what point the epidemic shifted in my mind from being a slightly worrying item of international news into something I sensed as a personal threat. Thinking back, I sense that I felt the threat unconsciously well before I had a clear perception of it. If I had to pinpoint a particular moment when the risk became palpable, I would say it was when I took this photograph in Granada on February 2nd.
The alleys of the Albaicin are narrow and winding, full of beautiful houses from the Moorish period. It's tricky to photograph them, so any small square that affords a slightly wider view becomes a snapshot hot-spot. Unlike the area below the Alhambra, this area of the old city is relatively unfrequented. Even so it does not take more that a handful of wandering tourists before there is a bit of low level competition for the most photogenic view. Gill and I had this pretty Arabic gateway to ourselves for a moment of two before being joined by a gaggle of Chinese tourists vying for the viewpoint we were occupying. They were all wearing face-masks. I suppose my visceral reaction - to make myself scarce - was not entirely irrational given the footage beamed in from Wuhan over previous few weeks, nevertheless, I did feel somewhat sheepish, and concerned that I had fallen prey to an unconsciously racist response. Maybe with hindsight my behaviour seems less shameful now than it did at the time. How could I have predicted the chaos that subsequently swept across the globe?
Unconcerned we pressed on with our plans, the Cabo de Gata - remote, empty, carpeted in spring flowers - beautiful as ever.
The weather was unseasonably mild, the sliver of summery temperatures usually confined to Spain's Mediterranean coast spread inland. We followed the sun, spending a few days on an almost deserted campsite on the border of Castille La Mancha and the Communidad de Valencia. Deep blue sky, almond blossom among the olive groves, I felt happy and at peace with the world.
With a tunnel crossing booked for the end of the month it was time to head home. We followed the upper valley of the Turio northwards as news broke of a handful of coronavirus cases in Valencia, situated at the river's mouth. Though less than 50kms away, it seemed of little immediate concern. How could we be at risk in this empty, depopulated tract of countryside?
Still, the news was alarming enough for us to question the wisdom of heading into the centre of Logrono for a pinchos bar crawl. Stomach over-ruled head, we had a great time.
A week later, as we headed through northern France, we realised we had dodged a bullet. The news coming out of northern Italy was very upsetting, and increasingly it began to look as if Spain was heading in the same direction. The first clusters of coronavirus cases were exactly where we had just been, in the Rioja and Basque country. Nevertheless we felt fine, and when we arrived home reacted to Buxton's isolated case ruefully rather than with alarm.
What a difference a month makes. Our Swedish friends, Sven Erik and Maria, headed home two weeks after us. At first they attempted a scenic route back taking in the Cabo de Gata and the Golf de Mazarron, then, as they crossed France, there was talk of Sweden closing its ferry links to Germany and they had to make a dash for home. We were relieved when they posted a picture of their lovely rust red cottage - they had made it, but only just.. As Spain and France went into lock-down the hundreds of northern European motorhomers over-wintering in Spain and Portugal poured northwards, uncertain where they might find a place to stay overnight, or how easy it would be to find diesel or what problems they might face at international borders. Schengen's freedom of movement evaporated in a trice. The Our Tour bloggers, Jay and Ju, recorded the trials and tribulations of their trip. Most years we would have been in exactly the same situation, it was pure happenstance, not foresight, that brought us home a few weeks earlier than usual.
Finally, we hoped, after eighteen months of delay the small single storey extension at the back of our house might finally happen.. Things fell into place. The builder turned up, we agreed a start date and resolved the technical issues around the kind of foundations we required (more expensive ones of course!). Sarah, Rob and Ralfi who have been staying with us for few months since they returned from Lisbon found a nice apartment in Hackney Wick. Rob's new job made the move seem less risky than when they were both freelancing. Sadly between signing the lease and moving-in Boris announced the 'lockdown'. It made their move a little more problematic than it should have been, but after some debate they decided to go through with it. It's a stylish apartment in a recently built block situated between Victoria Park and the Olympic village, though it's not great to have two of our children in London at the moment, in the end that's where they need to be, since one works in publishing and the other in Whitehall.
Looking back now, it seems ridiculous that this time last week we were hopeful that our long awaited building project would go ahead. I suppose we had got into a mindset of wishful thinking. We cleared the decks, squeezing inessential possessions into the garage and 'warehousing' our dried goods and 'cellar' temporarily in the back of the motorhome. With Sarah and Rob's stuff now down in their new place in London, and for the first time in months just the two of us at home, suddenly the house felt eerily empty.
Then last Monday Boris had his Churchillian moment and life changed. The builder emailed the next day to put the project on hold once more. We headed out to the motorhome to retrieve some essentials - a pack of 24 loo rolls, hand sanitiser, six cases of French and Spanish wine, three boxes of 20 x 25cl bottles of Leffe. It's only a couple of miles from Buxton to the farm where we store the van. However, the owner had been super efficient, the gate to the storage area was festooned in heavy chains and secured with a seriously big padlock. There was no further information provided for customers - of course there wasn't, we are talking about a Pennine hill farmer here, experience has taught us amiability, pragmatism and concern for others are not qualities they are given to espouse.
I soon discovered that the hill farmers of Derbyshire were not the only group to have a natural propensity for being arsy. I politely inquired on a motorhome owners Facebook group what the situation was for others who had their vans in storage. What came back was a diatribe, a tide of venom that: a. I had used my car for an inessential purpose; b. that collecting things I had already bought could not be counted as shopping; c. did I not realise that all inessential businesses were to close immediately? d. that clearly I was 'the sort of dick that had clogged-up the lanes of Snowdonia the previous weekend'.
I was taken aback, upset even. I vowed in the middle of the Brexit mayhem that I would stay clear of Facebook motorhome groups because every single one seems to include a lunatic fringe of people with anger management problems. I was right, they have not changed, the same ire was there but simply transferred to another issue. Just for the record, storage is part of the warehouse and distribution sector and as such exempted from the mandatory closure. However, this is a situation where being right does not really help. No amount of persuasion is going to get the owners of the storage place to change their mind. It's nearby, handy and cheap. I don't want to fall out with them, I'll just have to put-up and shut-up I guess.
On a happier note, for the past three days the weather has been fabulous. In Buxton it is a very rare occurrence to get three cloudless days in a row.. We've done lots of tidying up in the garden. Secluded in our own space it is almost possible to pretend things are normal.
That feeling evaporates as soon as we step outside for our daily constitutional. Buxton looked fabulous, but deserted, exuding the technicolor perfection of an unused film set.
Rather than tramp the empty streets perhaps it is preferable to take a walk up Gadley Lane or through Grin Low Woods. Usually, out of season these footpaths are unfrequented and solitude would feel more normal.
The conservatory emptied of Sarah and Rob's boxed-up possessions and cleared of our stuff ready for demolition now felt abandoned and forlorn. We decided to re-occupy it temporarily so moved a couple of Ikea chairs from the living room into it.
Now It looks so nice you might wonder why we are getting rid of it simply to replace it with a similar sized room with solid walls and a proper roof. The reason is straightforward. Right now, with the temperature outside around 12 - 14 degrees in full sun, the conservatory is very pleasant indeed, but in winter it is uncomfortably cold and in summer unbearably hot. In fact, it's an impractical space altogether, and for most of the 20+ years since it was built we have used it mainly as a storage space. Replacing it with a dining room featuring a glass gable with bifold doors will mean us it can be used all year round, yet keep the garden view. This is something we can look forward to when we emerge from the present crisis. Let's hope we can have Christmas dinner in the new space. That would mean it would need to built over the summer months, surely some semblance of normality will return by July?
We will need access to the motorhome by then too. Once we reach the stage that involves demolishing internal walls to merge the kitchen with our current dining room the house will become uninhabitable for two or three weeks. Our plan is to live in the van. I have been thinking once again about my reaction to it suddenly becoming impounded in the storage place without warning or explanation. I think I was upset because for us the motorhome is not simply a 'recreational vehicle', it is our other home; it represents freedom and adventure. The fact that we have been wanderers for five months of each year since 2014 is going to make being forcibly housebound especially tricky. In one way however, it has prepared us to live happily together in a small space. Couples who advocate the importance of having separate friendship groups and pursuing different interests but now find themselves suddenly thrown together 24/7 must be finding it even more challenging.
Right now I am sitting staring at the dining room wall. Maybe it could become a form of meditation. In fact, the Hopper print and two cad cam projections of the new kitchen blu-tacked beside it encapsulates our current situation perfectly.
....staring anxiously out of the window thinking, 'Will this new kitchen ever happen?'
At the moment I am reading 'Journey Round My Room' by Xavier de Maistre. Written in 1794, it is partly a fictional travelogue and partly a droll pastiche of a philosophical treatise. The basic premise is that the author sets out on a journey around his bedroom. It takes him 42 days to complete it. The absurdity of the piece seems particularly apt right now. In the spirit of the book I have now stopped staring at the wall, and moved about 5 metres to the left, sitting in the living room looking out of the window into the sunny garden.
It is such a lovely day... 'Sunlight on The Garden', Louis Macneice's celebrated poem tumbles through my mind. I remember it off pat up to the line, 'We are dying Egypt, dying.' Then I have to Google the final stanza; two years ago I would have recalled the lot - ah well.
The sunlight on the garden
Hardens and grows cold,
We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold;
When all is told
We cannot beg for pardon.
Our freedom as free lances
Advances towards its end;
The earth compels, upon it
Sonnets and birds descend;
And soon, my friend,
We shall have no time for dances.
The sky was good for flying
Defying the church bells
And every evil iron
Siren and what it tells:
The earth compels,
We are dying, Egypt, dying
And not expecting pardon,
Hardened in heart anew,
But glad to have sat under
Thunder and rain with you,
And grateful too
For sunlight on the garden.
It has been a strange month, the photographs we took in Spain just a few weeks ago look like images from a different time. As L P Hartley observed, 'The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there.' The future too is unknown territory. Meanwhile the present feels like a kind of Kafkaesque house arrest, arraigned for simply existing with no immediate prospect of parole. Getting through all of this is not going to be easy.