Thinking About What's Important

If it hadn't been booked and paid for in advance, I probably wouldn't have gone!  After my holiday began with three days of wall-to-wall sunshine in which my arms enjoyed unaccustomed naked freedom, Wednesday dawned decidedly damp.  Once I'd admitted some fresh air to my room, the throb of rain on the roofs below my second-floor window competed with the constant rumble of traffic on the trunk road only a mile or so away.

Instead of what might have been preferred: a morning in my room reading or writing while waiting to see if the weather would clear, I was quickly on the road.  An 84-mile journey in the rain, on roads I didn't know, took me to Aberystwyth and Rheilffordd cwm Rheidol, the Vale of Rheidol railway. With the delightful scenery obscured by mist, and the discouraging dampness all around, my camera stayed firmly in its case, giving me a great opportunity for ... I was going to say 'nothing' but, in truth, it was a wonderful chance to think.

We had scarcely left the station when we encountered the first crossing, where the gates had to be operated from afar by the fireman.  Once the barrier had been lowered, the train crossed in front of the stationary traffic, but not without a great deal of whistling.  The same was even more the case at the next crossing, where there were no gates at all.  With amazing frequency, as the journey progressed, there were further whistles as we passed one after another of the tiniest tracks that appeared to go nowhere ... and often appeared from nowhere, too!

At one point we passed a small tent in a clearing; I thought of how its inhabitant might be living and recalled reading, perhaps thirty years ago, a book by Milan Kundera, in which he asked what was important to man.  To the best of my recollection, Kundera posited three essentials: shelter, food and sanitation; provided these three needs were met, he said, a man could find happiness.  Although I can see his point, I readily admit that I've grown up in a world where I cannot imagine life peeled back to just these basics. Our western civilisation leads us to require much more, by way of warmth, a selection of clothes and a choice of food.  The food has to be cooked, of course, and so there's a need for heat and suitable receptacles.  And in recent years, an internet connection has also become almost indispensable.

In the light of this, I compared my holiday facilities with those of whoever was using that tent. My experience this week has been in a hotel that seems scarcely to operate as one.  There are no meals; 'reception' is an untidy and unmanned desk, and the only staff presence seemed to be behind the bar.  It was almost like being in a self-catering bed-sit.  As I reflected on how much I was doing for myself, I thought again of the hardships of daily life experienced by communities in the villages and hamlets I was passing in the train.  Many of the houses within sight of the railway had cars parked nearby, so they must have access other than by the railway, although how this was effected wasn't obvious.

I wondered why the railway had been built in the first place.  In most cases the mid-19th century brought the trains to replace stagecoaches, providing a faster and (eventually) more comfortable alternative means of getting from one centre of population to another.  This railway didn't start until 1897, though, and as to replacing a stagecoach ... on this mountainside?  Shanks's Pony, more like! Those tracks where we whistled so carefully as we passed must have come from some small settlement, and they must lead somewhere.  But they're still there, and still used too; so to what extent has the railway eased the lives of the people here?  Or is the purpose solely to develop the world of the recreational walker, and advance the tourism industry?

My thoughts kept going back to those isolated farms and cottages.  Perhaps my mind is drawn by the Welsh book I'm reading (paragraph by painful paragraph as I learn yr iaith Gymraeg), about a community that was completely wiped out by the winter of 1947.  In past ages, at least, and still today in many ways I expect, they had to be virtually self-sufficient.  If we were living there instead of in our modern towns and cities, would we find ourselves re-inventing the things we presently depend upon?  Or would we grow accustomed over a period of time to a simpler way of life?

And, while for the present, this question is purely hypothetical, is this something that may come to many of us post-Brexit, as some features disappear from our daily lives, or at least become so terribly expensive as to become luxuries instead of essentials?