At the back end of August I visited the village’s railway station. Well Brixworth in more enlightened days boasted its own station, which sat squarely on the Northampton to Market Harborough line. Already ailing by the time the awful Dr Beeching began swinging his axe in the 1960’s, it ceased carrying passenger traffic some time before the inevitable closure. Today the 18 mile stretch functions as a picturesque walkway under the title of ‘The Brampton Valley Way.’ A kind of green artery which extends from the towns into an increasingly intensively farmed countryside.
I used the word picturesque, and superficially it may appear to be so, but scratch the surface and it becomes apparent that all is far from well. Because modern agribusiness makes such all-embracing demands on the land, there is little in the way of wildlife to enliven the landscape. Government-backed schemes to create flower-rich field headlands, paying farmers to farm less intensively, manage their hedgerows with wildlife in mind, and the like, do little more than add the odd cosmetic tweak to hide a countryside that is rapidly being strangled.
Public access to the outdoors is quietly becoming more and more restricted, and the network of Country Parks, and the long-distance footpaths like the Brampton Valley Way, for example, mask the background moves to further close off access to what remains. And it looks as if the new government is shaping up to sell off huge chunks of its holdings in the countryside to the private sector, as part of its cost-cutting measures.
So how did I get from there to here? I started with my visit to a local walkway, so perhaps I should return thence. Even here I spy intrusions on my right to roam. For the tiny fragment of land where the little tank engines puffed gently to and fro shunting a small assortment of wagons in the sidings is fenced off from public access. A tattered notice informs us that this is CONTAMINATED LAND – KEEP OFF!
I know that Brixworth is a large village – verging on a small town, in fact - but such a warning seems to be a bit over the top. I hardly think that the Pytchley Hunt kennels or the local trades people of the day, would be importing chemicals or anything else that would justify such a notice. But then I remember that ironstone quarrying may have justified the use of some dubious materials, while nasty poisons like DDT and the early organo-chlorides were being sprayed on the land even then.
Yet what I see before me, in the late summer sunshine, is a scrap of land that has been left to nature. In all its unkempt glory it still glows with colour: the yellows of ragwort, of bird’s foot trefoil, of toadflax, with the pink of campion, and the red of ripening haws on the bushes. Tucked away from sight the purple wild plums belie any past influence of man the despoiler. The great glories of this secret place are the insects, countless numbers of them. Grasshoppers in such chirping abundance that I have not seen for many a year. Clouds of grass veneer moths that flit before me as I disturb them, to ‘disappear’ a few yards ahead as they tightly fold their straw coloured wings around a grass stem.
Best of all, to my eyes are the butterflies. Even at this late date the short sward is alive with common blues, the males with bright blue upper wings, the females, care-worn with the stresses of egg-laying, chocolate brown with orange spots around the margins, and just a powdering of blue towards the body. A freshly minted peacock, gorged on the juice of over-ripe blackberries, was so tipsy that it landed on me, just sitting there until it managed to steer itself back to the feast. None of them seem to have read the notice that was meant to deter me!
With the elation that comes to me on visiting such a place there also comes a deep sadness. A realisation that such a spot, and others like it, only exist so long as we humans have forgotten them. A sad condemnation of the callous selfishness of a majority of the human species.
Don't forget that, if you seek an hour or two away from the rat race LAMB'S TAILS FOR BREAKFAST, George Wood's memories of growing up in a small community in the 1920's and 30's provides an ideal read. This book is only available from us and can be purchased from our e-bay shop, just follow the link on our home page. Price is £5.99 and includes packing and postage