Surely any moderate-minded person with an ounce of common sense and a pinch of healthy skepticism will assure themselves the stories we read about the abomination that is Heathrow Airport are at least slightly exaggerated. This is my feeling as the British Airways 747 Megatube descends gracefully past the green and pleasant sewage treatment plants of London's western suburbs and approaches runway 27L. Washington DC's Dulles Airport has improved its procedures noticeably since my last visit, with immigration and (virtually non-existent) customs lines and procedures taking barely 10 minutes. The UK capital's main airport, while on an admittedly bigger scale, must have continued adapting more or less as well to the needs of the post-2001, War on Terror, no-shampoo-allowed era of international travel.
The latter group get the privilege of joining an extremely long line of humanity, snaking its way into the distance. At the end of it, the victims parade one by one into a bare, concrete chamber where a burly man in a leather apron puts a stun gun to their forehead and hoists them up by their legs onto a suspended hook on a cable that transports them into a rendering facility where they are processed for pet food. The rest of us, after standing in line for ages reading posters saying our patience is appreciated, are eventually allowed to pass the immigration desks. I am asked where I have flown in from and take a full 20 seconds to remember. After picking my way along yet another strip of furry artificial flooring and through a cavern full of conveyor belts where fools who check baggage in lie in starving piles waiting to be bulldozed into mass graves, I get to Her Majesty's Customs. Overweight, uniformed women let black sniffer dogs rub their disgusting wet noses against people's luggage. Interestingly, the canines choose to check only travellers that are their own colour. I stroll through and out into a welcoming area full of loud announcements, even louder signage and grim-looking people waiting to greet their loved ones or pre-booked taxi customers. This is where Heathrow proper starts. It is so vile, I can't bring myself to describe it.
After wending his way through the unspeakable loathsomeness of Heathrow, into what sort of country does the weary traveller emerge? When I left Hong Kong, it was a humid 90 degrees, and only a fleeting evening breeze wafting between the skyscrapers relieved the slightly clammy feel of T-shirt, shorts and sandals against my skin. In the idyllic exurbia around Washington DC, where the development is so sparse it seems the urban area is being consumed by forestation rather than the other way round, it is 80 and drier than usual, and the only people wearing jackets and long pants are the military staff commuting to the Pentagon in their pressed green uniforms. In the still, magnolia-scented air, I was gently fanning myself with a Defense News.
Britain is a nation plunging into anarchy terrorized by marauding gangs of psychopathic teenagers that ride around on bicycles shooting each other and stabbing or stomping to death any adult that dares indicate the slightest disapproval. In London and Manchester, at least. A trip to the wild west's very own little Big City reveals streets stalked not so much by physical violence as aesthetic outrage. Gruesome individuals with visibly cold and possibly mildly diseased skin plod morosely around in never-washed nylon jackets and grimy, colourless woolen hats, any alertness and joy they ever had apparently sucked out of them by the semi-wintry weather and their diet of frozen fish fingers and cheap faux-chocolate. Intruding rudely into this Eastern European 1970s ambiance are garish reminders that this country is the world's fourth or fifth richest a veritable cornucopia of consumer delights, including a dazzling range of musical and other cultural events, bold Italian and Indian fusion pizzas from internationally famed culinary giants, an irresistible opportunity (though no promises) to catch sight of the planet's second-most unhappy, dull-witted and slow-moving life forms in the depths of China, and unique bitter ales. Meanwhile, back at Stonegallows Hall, the leaves are turning. This is between 50 and 51 degrees north of the equator at an elevation of a couple of hundred feet above sea level. In August. I spot several examples of such prematurely autumnal vegetation in the background behind another immense boon to the nation's economic well-being Olga the Lithuanian housepainter. On my last visit, Stonegallows was the last village in England whose population was less than 5 percent Polish/Estonian/etc. This sorry state has since ended with the arrival of the Tolvaldis family, who moved into a grasping resident's garden shed earlier in the year and now supply the community with high-quality and affordable services ranging from strawberry-picking, to elderly care, to home maintenance, to helping with German homework, to mathematics tutoring and much else. What hope would there be for Hong Kong's immensely industrious Filipino elves if these huddled, homeless, tempest-tost masses yearning to breathe free ever made it to the Big Lychee?
Back at Stonegallows, Olga the Lithuanian housepainter is merrily sanding down window sills for a handful of oats a day. A long weekend with family in Nether Drooling awaits a place that consistently beats Huish Episcopi and Westonzoyland Thrubwell to the much-coveted title of Most Primitive Settlement in the county, eschewing roads, electricity and Internet, while clinging obstinately to a life of illegal stills, witch-burning and morris dancing.
And more.
