IT is not every day that you see Caroline Lucas dressed in a bin liner. The Speaker would deem it even more out of order than the T-shirt which she recently sported. Both were perhaps a little more discreet than the carrier bag I had draped upon my head.
This was not an ecological fancy-dress party but some swift lateral thinking at sleepy Balcombe railway station in the Sussex countryside. We were on our way – with Councillors Buckley, Phillips, Powell and two willing infants – to the nearby encampment either side of the road outside the land upon which the first stage of fracking has begun.
No sooner had we got off the train than rain fell. Such rapidly switching weather is quite probably a feature of climate change. Some improvisation was certainly needed before we set off, along a road where a truck came round a bend at a speed which was almost a harbinger of that dual ritual of a minute’s silence in the Council Chamber and fervent calls of “by-election!”
Alive, we reached the encampment, and within a few minutes, amidst close discussion with some of the village residents, the rain eased. Glorious sun returned above a parade of canvas redolent of the human spirit. (Not that this should appear too lyrical: there are also portaloos generously supplied by Greenpeace.) In one tent there was a sofa; another had an array of bongo drums, a child’s delight; another was serving food, much of it brought by those visiting; music played, reggae of a piece with the summer; and, above all, there was talk, people breaking into conversation, exchanging news, opinion: of course, nobody wanted to have to be there, but this had the spirit of enjoyment which is a mark of successful protest.
Protest and jive, one might say.
It was soon apparent that the villagers had, without their knowing it, attracted support from all over. Some were there for a few hours, others for a day or two, whatever they could spare. It all added to a pastoral, cosmopolitan buzz: energy.
Shared by automobiles which, perforce, found that the stretch of road was now a 10-mph zone. Many were the parps of support from those that drove by, through.
Policemen regularly stepped into the road to ensure that people kept safely out of it, and one sensed that they appreciated what had brought us to this spot. A treasured moment was when, behind a line of policemen, Councillor Buckley’s two infants climbed the rungs of the metal gate to the land. “You’re failing in your duty, officer,” I said to one burly policeman, “arrest these protestors!” He had the grace to laugh: “I don’t think they’re protestors, sir.”
And all of them listened while Caroline Lucas gave an impromptu speech which emphasised the fact that we should not be extracting fossil fuels – least of all in this chemical-driven fashion – , adding to the CO2 in the atmosphere and all our woes.
“We’re all water,” once sang another fracking objector, Yoko Ono. If it goes ahead, the water for the area – including Hove and Brighton – is in peril.
In my time as a Councillor, I have not had so many messages about a subject as I have had about fracking. Residents grasp that this is the hottest political, social, geological issue of recent times – a precious landscape sundered for a modicum of energy. Spurious government claims of a fall in gas bills are belied by the tax breaks offered to conglomerates who are set upon – to use the words of one Hove trader – “going against Nature”.
I cannot put it better than his casual phrase the other day. He got it exactly right. He talks with people, and understanding is growing.
It was a terrific afternoon in Balcombe – talk with people from Southease and Burgess Hill – and the amazing paradox is that this uproar is happening in what many take to be Tory heartland – or, should one say, heartlessland. This government, more than any other, has lost all grasp of England’s diverse spirit. Something emphasised by the huge trucks which, at one point, left the land to resounding boos.
And so it was that we then strolled back to quiet Balcombe station, where I alluded to Adelstrop and whichever one it was upon which Paul Simon wrote “Homeward Bound” (either Widnes or Ditton). A journey back south, much enthused talk along the way, a spirit sustained through the maelstrom of Brighton station. And now, here in Hove, I think of those camped out beside the road. They are doing terrific work.
This will continue. It is, palpably, a campaign with staying power.
Nicholas Soames MP could find his seat go up in the flames of a drilling tower.
I remarked to Caroline Lucas on the train that I had thought of the phrase “our land is not for shale”. On getting back, I checked. Such are these google-driven times, you can find that inspiration has been pre-empted. The latter bit turns out to be a website but – I would say that – I think my first, Seeger-inspired bit makes it resonate: our land is not for shale.
This blog post is crossposted from http://www.christopherhawtree.com/?p=439