someone to point out that change is central to TS Eliot's vision in the poem he named after the village. He didn't live there, but his ancestors had done, which made the village the perfect setting for a meditation on time and timelessness. An Anglo-Catholic who would have made a marvellous Zen Buddhist, Eliot was much preoccupied with the subject of time, which he talked about in terms of motion and stillness, squeezing whole histories into a few lines. This is how East Coker begins:
In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
And a little further on:
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field-mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.
Eliot was less interested in the place itself than in the changes wrought by the passage of time on that place. The village itself he knew towards the end of its 'wind breaking the loosened pane' period. After a century of more or less continuous agricultural depression and urban growth had left villages empty and decaying, the motor car brought new people - artists, writers, commuters, Imperial retirees - to renovate houses, campaign for bypasses and object to new development.
This process continues today, with a flow of people to the semi-rural south and a consequent demand for good quality housing. You're not likely to come across many rustics dancing around midnight bonfires... I can't say whether people should be allowed to fulfill their dream of a life in bucolic Somerset or not, but I don't see that TS Eliot has much to do with the argument.
A more genuinely poetic piece of country, and one that doesn't seem to be threatened by anybody, lies around the Gloucestershire village of Dymock. I first explored the area while researching orchards and cidermaking, discovering in the process that Edward Thomas and Robert Frost had lived and worked there shortly - by which I mean weeks - before the outbreak of World War One. Frost was already gaining a reputation by this point, in good measure thanks to Thomas's reviews of his work, while his friend was still writing and researching the generally tedious but occasionally brilliant books of prose that he finally stopped writing when he joined the army.
Frost inspired Thomas, but the war allowed him to stop writing prose, freeing his mind for his brief, prolific career as a poet. In August 1914, the future was not looking especially rosy for Thomas - it rarely did - but he enjoyed his time with Frost, which the pair spent endlessly roaming around the valleys and wooded hills. Thomas's tendency to agonise over the smallest decision led Frost to write his most famous poem, 'The Road Not Taken', which began life as a personal joke but then took off on its own:
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveller, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth
Anyway, you can still wander miles around Dymock, visiting the straggling villages where the poets lived. There is a Poets Walk, which I took last year, although I'm not sure the local farmers had been told of its significance. From what I remember the first part involved navigating through a field of sweetcorn that grew more than head high. Then there were barbed wire fences to negotiate and finally a bull. I think I turned round at that point.
Wonderful to see the new biography of Thomas getting a lot of attention, as he has been badly neglected. At his best, he can give you the shivers...
As the team's head-brass flashed out on the turn
The lovers disappeared into the wood.
I sat among the boughs of the fallen elm
That strewed the angle of the fallow, and
Watched the plough narrowing a yellow square
Of charlock. Every time the horses turned
Instead of treading me down, the ploughman leaned
Upon the handles to say or ask a word,
About the weather, next about the war.
Scraping the share he faced towards the wood,
And screwed along the furrow till the brass flashed
The blizzard felled the elm whose crest
I sat in, by a woodpecker's round hole,
The ploughman said. 'When will they take it away? '
'When the war's over.' So the talk began –
One minute and an interval of ten,
A minute more and the same interval.
'Have you been out? ' 'No.' 'And don't want to, perhaps? '
'If I could only come back again, I should.
I could spare an arm, I shouldn't want to lose
A leg. If I should lose my head, why, so,
I should want nothing more...Have many gone
From here? ' 'Yes.' 'Many lost? ' 'Yes, a good few.
Only two teams work on the farm this year.
One of my mates is dead. The second day
In France they killed him. It was back in March,
The very night of the blizzard, too. Now if
He had stayed here we should have moved the tree.'
'And I should not have sat here. Everything
Would have been different. For it would have been
Another world.' 'Ay, and a better, though
If we could see all all might seem good.' Then
The lovers came out of the wood again:
The horses started and for the last time
I watched the clods crumble and topple over
After the ploughshare and the stumbling team.
'As the Team's Head Brass', 1916