Connoisseurs of paradox like to remind us that the world is divided into two sorts of people: those who believe the world is divided into two sorts of people and those who don't. Rereading some earlier posts I notice my inclination to categorize. Walkers versus non-walkers and city dwellers versus country folk, for example. Neat pigeon holing is a valid way of makingq sense of the world provided it doesn't degenerate into generalisation or, worse, lead to prejudice. Binary allocation can operate across different sets of characteristics and produce a personal Venn diagram mapping our preferences and idiosyncrasies. You can be a smoker and a believer or a non-smoking atheist or any other such combination. Of course, the boundaries are not always so well-defined. I occasionally drink tea but would not call myself a tea drinker. Classifications of this type are the province of diverse professions; the actuary employs them to predict our lifespan and the dating agency to locate our ideal partner. I cannot comment on the effectiveness of this approach for life expectancy calculation but it is patently inappropriate for matchmaking. The old adage claims that opposites attract, another generalisation certainly but one which if only partially correct undermines a methodology rooted in identifying similarities. And while on that subject, have you noticed how earnestly introduction agencies trumpet their successes without revealing what proportion of total participants they comprise?
If you think about it, staying in B&Bs is a curious concept. They are not purely commercial enterprises, like hotels, nor are they the homes of friends. Surrendering oneself to the mercies of a stranger, in a stranger's lair, militates against all we have been told about prudent behaviour. Of course, when set against the hazards of hitchhiking, the students' preferred mode of transport until the 1970s, or that progeny of the internet, couchsurfing (a term which conjures an image of someone who can't choose among psychiatrists) the B&B dangers seem tame. Nevertheless for anyone prepared to experiment with this form of accommodation, a myriad of different encounters awaits. My B&Bs were prebooked by MACS Adventures and while they have, to date, all been entirely satisfactory they have varied in flavour. I have sampled B&Bs along a number of walking trails and there is remarkable diversity, largely arising from the motivation of the owners. For some, running a B&B is the culmination of a long-held ambition or a retirement indulgence. The coordinated colours, matching soft furnishings and artfully arranged knick-knacks suggest a childhood deprived of dolls' houses. As a grubby walker, one is careful to levitate two inches above the floor to avoid soiling the pale carpets. Such chi-chi establishments rejoice in carefully chosen names and normally style themselves as guest houses. But they invariably offer the softest beds and the fluffiest towels, so I'm not complaining. Not surprisingly, the proprietors of these candyfloss manifestations are attentive and solicitous towards their guests. Depressingly the bleakest contrast comes from farmers who have fallen on hard times. Agribusiness has forced hitherto independent farmers and proud smallholders to diversify. Increasingly that means becoming an unsung, and poorly rewarded, adjunct to the tourist industry. Understandably they resent the necessity of pandering to the vagaries of urban guests. Hard pressed and hard bitten, they can be indifferent or surly towards walkers who view the working countryside as no more than a recreation ground. A sheep farmer turned B&B proprietor ruefully informed me that it was no longer economical to pay for his sheep to be professionally sheared, so low was the price of wool. Spending a night under these roofs is to be reminded of the remorseless decline of rural life. In the early twentieth century, 40% of labour was employed on the land, now it is less than 1%. It is too facile to propose a wholesale return to rural life as a solution to all societies woes, but tempting at least to divide B&Bs into two sorts: those that exist because of the owner's lifestyle choice and those that are manifested through harsh necessity.
© David Thompson 2012
If you think about it, staying in B&Bs is a curious concept. They are not purely commercial enterprises, like hotels, nor are they the homes of friends. Surrendering oneself to the mercies of a stranger, in a stranger's lair, militates against all we have been told about prudent behaviour. Of course, when set against the hazards of hitchhiking, the students' preferred mode of transport until the 1970s, or that progeny of the internet, couchsurfing (a term which conjures an image of someone who can't choose among psychiatrists) the B&B dangers seem tame. Nevertheless for anyone prepared to experiment with this form of accommodation, a myriad of different encounters awaits. My B&Bs were prebooked by MACS Adventures and while they have, to date, all been entirely satisfactory they have varied in flavour. I have sampled B&Bs along a number of walking trails and there is remarkable diversity, largely arising from the motivation of the owners. For some, running a B&B is the culmination of a long-held ambition or a retirement indulgence. The coordinated colours, matching soft furnishings and artfully arranged knick-knacks suggest a childhood deprived of dolls' houses. As a grubby walker, one is careful to levitate two inches above the floor to avoid soiling the pale carpets. Such chi-chi establishments rejoice in carefully chosen names and normally style themselves as guest houses. But they invariably offer the softest beds and the fluffiest towels, so I'm not complaining. Not surprisingly, the proprietors of these candyfloss manifestations are attentive and solicitous towards their guests. Depressingly the bleakest contrast comes from farmers who have fallen on hard times. Agribusiness has forced hitherto independent farmers and proud smallholders to diversify. Increasingly that means becoming an unsung, and poorly rewarded, adjunct to the tourist industry. Understandably they resent the necessity of pandering to the vagaries of urban guests. Hard pressed and hard bitten, they can be indifferent or surly towards walkers who view the working countryside as no more than a recreation ground. A sheep farmer turned B&B proprietor ruefully informed me that it was no longer economical to pay for his sheep to be professionally sheared, so low was the price of wool. Spending a night under these roofs is to be reminded of the remorseless decline of rural life. In the early twentieth century, 40% of labour was employed on the land, now it is less than 1%. It is too facile to propose a wholesale return to rural life as a solution to all societies woes, but tempting at least to divide B&Bs into two sorts: those that exist because of the owner's lifestyle choice and those that are manifested through harsh necessity.
© David Thompson 2012
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