23 June 2016

Following The Map

Satnav would not have taken us to Naseby.

By Chin Chin

Harbingers of doom come in a number of forms and, generally speaking, depend on which god you happen to have offended. Upset the gods of ancient Rome and you can expect elderly soothsayers at every turn, droning on about the Ides of March.  You ignore them at your peril. Upset the ancient Saxon gods and a black cat could cross your path. My warning was the disappearance of a road, the A6003 which should have run up past Corby, and which, though clearly marked on the map, had, surprisingly, vanished from the countryside.

Offending the gods is normally unintentional. Obviously you would rather not take on the full wrath of Mount Olympus but, well, you get a bit pleased with yourself for one reason or another and then quite suddenly you’ve gone too far, given the apple to the wrong lady, struck the rock rather than speaking to it, or whatever it happens to be. I went past this point when I refused to use satnav, remarking contemptuously that any fool could find the way with a map. It was then that the gods of the electronic age decided to be avenged; it was then that they started to move the roads about; and it was shortly afterwards that, having promised the driver a pleasant coast through some country lanes up to Rockingham Castle, we found ourselves belting down the A14 at 70 miles an hour in completely the wrong direction.

It is a fix which we all get into from time to time. The driver becomes restive, impatient even, asking when you will get them off this dual carriageway; you are wondering whether you have just started that long stretch of about 15 miles without junctions.  The great thing is not to show uncertainty.

“Oh, there’s a turnoff quite soon,” you reply to the inevitable question.  Actually you have no idea whether there is or not because you don’t know where you are.  However, you can appease your conscience by reflecting that, even if your reply isn’t true now, it will become true at some stage, so that at the worst you are guilty of a little intelligent anticipation.

“No, of course we’re not lost,” you say a few minutes later, perhaps a little snappily at the suggestion that you turn the satnav on.  It is important to hold the line here at all cost. If you turn the wretched machine on, it is going to suggest that you do a U-turn followed by 30 miles in the direction you have just come from. That will put an end to your breezy replies. Anyway it is mere common sense that if you have got into trouble by offending a god, you would be unwise to rely on it getting you out of the mess.

There are other rules you need to follow. One is, if possible, don’t retrace your steps. If the driver is your wife she will inevitably spot it.

“Haven’t we seen that church before?  The crooked tower is distinctive.”

“No, no. All the churches round here have similar towers.  The same architect, you know.  He had a blind spot about subsidence.”

“They all seem to have identical ivy climbing the tower as well.”

The alternative policy, when threatened by the reappearance of a landmark, is to point out something of great interest on the other side of the road. Ideally it should be something which was not there when you passed that way before.

“My goodness, look at that dog. Is it a Corgi?  You don’t see many of those nowadays, except for those owned by the Queen. Sandringham can only be fifty miles or so. I wonder if they are related. The dogs, I mean.”

“I’ll just slow up to let it cross the road. I think it’s heading for that church.  Just a moment, haven’t I seen that tower before?”

Better by far to use animals which are safely penned in a field, although “good gracious, I think those may be cows” may sound a little odd in dairy country.

Occasionally, however, the fates relent and send an angel of rescue. In my case it took the slightly improbable form of Sir Thomas Fairfax, the commander of the Roundhead armies in the civil war, because there was a sign saying “Naseby”.

“I’ve always wanted to see the battlefield of Naseby,” I said with the tone of one who had cleverly manipulated our tour to this point. Luckily my wife had always wanted to see it too, so we spent the next hour or so viewing the countryside from the respective headquarters of Fairfax, Cromwell and Prince Rupert. At each point, and one or two other significant places as well, there was a viewing platform with a little map and explanation.  The focus was on troop movements rather than tactics, so Rupert, whose failure to control his cavalry contributed heavily to the royalist defeat, got off very lightly. Still, walking across the fields to the monuments in the sunshine, I could only conclude that the gods had forgiven me.

It was later, talking to one of my children, that I reflected on how quickly history fades.  There are exceptions, of course – for example the Tudors, a dynasty which seems to have died out exhausted by its overemployment in the GCSE syllabus, and Agincourt, immortalised by Shakespeare – but, those aside, it is only recent events which are well remembered.  We all know about the two world wars and the struggle against Napoleon but moving from the younger Pitt to the elder is like driving into a fog on the motorway.  You are conscious that there is something there but the detail has become less defined.  The civil war is further away still.  Yet it was the struggle which formed England and made us who we are.  How odd that we all know more about the revolution which took place in France.

Shakespeare is dead so we cannot ask him to write about the civil war, and since it was fought after his death there is no point in searching the car parks for a misplaced play.  Still, we have plenty of good writers of historical fiction still about.  Come you Mantels and you Cornwells, pick up your pens.  Another subject awaits you, and if it results in the youth of England traipsing around the countryside looking for battlefields, well, you will have contributed to the state of the nation’s health as well.

 

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