There was only one way in and out of our place. A single-track driveway over a third of a mile long – or 565 of my long paces – with metal fencing along each side painted dark green and an impressive row of ancient oaks flanking that. A true avenue. Leaving the house it'd feel like a lifetime of walking to get away from the place, and arriving seemed to be constantly prolonged as you could see the house but didn't get any closer any faster. On occasion you'd get caught in a side-wind and find yourself huddled over, walking sideways, shielding yourself from the beating. Other times the rain would just lash horizontally straight at you. Either way you were totally exposed to the elements on the driveway, with the trees offering no shelter but rather larger and larger drops of rain. The decision always had to be made; go across the grass and get wet feet, or stay on the driveway and get a wet head?
I stayed on the driveway always. I'd rather have a wet head than wet feet. That back-and-forth I must have made once or twice a day everyday I was living there, amounting to a thousand times. Often it was late and dark and on some nights the blue moon light would push through the trees and project patterns onto the dark tarmac. They looked incredible, of course, being totally unique, but riding the bike and looking down at them could create a very disorientating effect. The flicker and flash of dark shapes amongst dark shapes was just as powerful as any light-show. It wouldn't help that I would be busting up the driveway on the bike, feeling paranoid and wanting to get safely inside. These patterns only confused you more, making you think someone hiding behind the trees could jump out and send you flying at any moment. Truth be told, anyone else would probably have been even more paranoid than me. This was my territory, after all. I was used to the driveway.
On occasion I'd pass people on the driveway in the pitch black. Passing like ships in the night, literally; in complete silence. Only a dark figure and the quiet sound of boots in the darkness. You wouldn't even be able to see them until they were three feet from you. Then darkness again and silence except for your own boots or bike tyres. Understandably it would shock me to pass anyone. A light or two would be on at the far end, making the house a shimmering beacon in an otherwise scary landscape. By the time I approached the house, and hit the gravelled patch in front, my heart would be racing. The noise of the gravel in the dark was hardly comforting either, only serving to make me really paranoid at my own front door. But, the mornings could be really beautiful; standing with the first coffee and first cigarette of the day, looking out at the green fields and down the long driveway towards the rest of the world; a world I tried desperately to block out, but couldn't help but be part of.
It was one morning that I had to get to Brussells. As soon as I set off I noticed something blocking the driveway. I drove down towards it and pulled up. One of the trees had come down during the windy night. On any other day I could have walked around, but today I was driving. One or two dog walkers stood around looking a little bemused, talking but formulating no plans. I dragged the branches and broken bits from the tarmac and threw them aside in vain. More people started arriving, including a group of joggers, half of whom pulled out their phones and rang friends to bring chainsaws as the other half discussed what to do. I joined in. “The council will have enough fallen trees to deal with this morning,” said one guy in lycra. “They won't come out here for hours,” someone else said. And so it was agreed we'd tackle the problem ourselves. Lucky we all had our gloves on. Roger, a character around and about, showed up in his battered wax jacket mumbling, walked off calmly and soon returned with a huge crosscut saw. “Never got the chance to use it 'til now,” he told us, as he took first turn. We all took a turn, choosing carefully which branch to cut and clear so we could methodically work through the gigantic trunk. It felt like a daunting task, seeing the size of this fallen tree, but many hands make light work, as they say.
More and more people arrived, and all got involved pulling things out of the way and kicking aside the little bits. There was a great spirit of people taking things into their own hands and dealing with the problem as a group. When this big guy turned up with a chainsaw in both hands you could feel the excitement. He handed the smaller of the two (of course!) to another guy and everyone spoke up as to where exactly they both should start cutting and why. They fired up the two chainsaws and went at it, cutting V-shapes into the trunk. Others arrived to carry off the firewood. Between us all we could literally make the tree disappear! It'd be like it never fell, except for a gap in the row of trees, forth from the front on the south side of the driveway. In fifteen minutes it was totally cleared. Off I went to Brussels.
The drive was endless and for a lot of the journey I thought about the fallen tree. It was a mini-miracle, in that the locals here will generally keep themselves to themselves, often neglecting even the pleasantries. For the town that was packaged and sold as London overspill and the place “where everyone says hello” there are very few of them. Even I, stepping out early, may only be able to musty a smoky, hushed “hey.” But it's no reflection really, as the group effort to clear the fallen tree proved. I'd only met Roger before and that was a quick introduction with no handshake. The fallen tree proved that yes other people do use the driveway too. I dare not even think how many people use it on a daily basis, and for how many hundreds of years the track has been used. Part of the Battle of the Roses was literally played out with the Yorkists coming along the driveway before attacking the Lancastrians who were camped out below my window. That was 1460!
And that's exactly what I need to remember; it's not private property – my private property - it's a public park. 500 acres of public park at that! Something for all to share and enjoy. The rest of the world may have been a way away – the driveway and beyond – but that didn't mean they wouldn't come past. I saw the same regulars and that alone eased my day and made me happy. Old couple, the guy chain-smoking, walking old dog in a pram. Lady with two boxer dogs who makes the same double lap of the woods at 4.30 everyday. Or petrol remote control car guy on Sunday afternoons. They were as regular as regular could be. Cigarette and jeans mug-carrying guy, they probably called me. “He's forever traipsing up and down that driveway. One wonders whether he ever arrives anywhere!”
