Trees in fields, hedgerows, grass, bushes and telephone poles short but straight, and pylons marching (of course), copses, woods. A small road parallaxing past; one end fast, the other hardly moving at all. A darkening green now at this time of year, auburn peeping through in pieces. Bright yellow spots in certain places.
An ideal place to witness the slow disintegration of autumn I was thinking. Only spoilt by the occasional towns, which actually seem to come to life as the flora around them begins its annual retreat. Maybe that's just the sunny day though, it always does good things to concrete, a little stark autumnal light. The low sun and sharp shadows arrowing across the landscape. Stark, razored edges rising up slowly, before being snatched away by relative motion.
The towns are mostly distant things, a result of motorway planning regimes I assume. Although well known names pass by, white sans-serif on blue rectangles, it's hard to spot anything distinct or recognisable amongst the outlying housing. Neat arrows politely inform us of the possibility of a visit, but we hurtle on past regardless. The places you haven't visited before must retain their mystery, composed only of words and pictures, written and taken by other people.
Sometimes the white on blue comes with a memory of your own. Somewhere you've stayed, slept in, looked at, walked through. Then there's no choice but to turn your gaze away from the landscape and look, for a time, into your own history instead. People, events, friends and all that clutter will demand a quick rerun. A slow-mo replay, with director's cut commentary provided by subsequent experience.
When that happens you can miss a few miles.
~
The landscape has a kind of general, over-arching character. Something that transcends the details of field, or suburb, or wood, or glassy industrial parks. It's something you notice only through its slow alteration. Much gentler than the quickfire, close-up, in your face reality, this moves to a calmer rhythm.
You can see it as you leave town for country, or south for north. Places just start to feel different; poor, rich, growing, dying. Sometimes you don't notice at first though, not until an item of significance rears up. A series of rusting gasometers set in industrial wasteland. Beautiful, ancient things. Of another time, but seemingly still doing their anachronistic job. Then pipes of gleaming steel, smoke from towers, red lights blinking to ward of light aircraft. Sights from another world, out of my reach in this cozy interior. A landscape of old power and fading strength.
Later on, houses. Warrens of pale brick and tidy closes. BMWs parked next to old Fiestas, it's always handy to keep the runaround, you see. Now the landscape talks of clean, efficient lives. Two kids, green bins for tins and paper and it's a only a short drive to the local newsagents.
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