Conference

Modern trains are too quiet. I don't mourn the clicketty-clack which characterised railways before the era of welded rails, but ecclesiastical silence has the disadvantage of making other passengers' conversation too intrusive.  (When Birmingham's Symphony Hall was inaugurated, the acoustics were widely acclaimed and it was only when audiences arrived that the drawback to perfect musical rendition was revealed: not only could every note played on the platform be distinguished so too could the minutest noise made anywhere else in the hall.)  At Reading, an elderly woman inserted herself into a seat at the next table and the other occupant, bearing a remarkable resemblance to Michael Portillo, immediately engaged her in conversation at a pitch just loud enough to be unignorable.  When a young man boarded the train and sat next to them I hoped that would inhibit the conversation. Unfortunately he joined in, regaling them with his excitement over starting a university course in Plymouth.  Indicating his luggage, to the consternation of his companions, he explained that he'd brought a sleeping bag as he anticipated being too drunk to find his room that evening.

At Newton Abbott station the local community transport had been detailed to meet delegates arriving from London. There was a short wait so I took a turn around a formal park enclosed by ample Victorian villas in seaside pastels.  Well-kept uniformly green grass spoke of generous feeding and military weed control; clearly the concept of managed meadows had not reached Newton Abbott despite its proximity to Totnes. The only other arrival to take advantage of the minibus was a friendly chap called Rob to whom I chatted and gave the benefit of my views on transition matters.

Seale-Haynes had been an agricultural college and the heritage was evident: bountiful kitchen gardens promised an excellent dinner. The main building, shrouded in crimson Virginia creeper and flying a tattered Union flag looked rather more patrician than its hundred years and reminded me of my school. The fabric of the building was genteelly dilapidated but inside it had the non-nonsense efficiency which must have characterised country houses requisitioned during the war.  The tall corridors made me shiver and I imagined severe schoolmasters, gowns billowing, bearing down on me.

The grounds were on a steep hillside and the worthy flavour imbuing the different activities was reminiscent of the Centre for Alternative Technology, now sadly in creditors' administration.  Near the raised beds, a woman informed me brightly that she'd found a fire pit and old oven; I thought of my days at Forest School Camp.  Perched on a grass margin, there was a colony of tents, next to a sign saying assembly point B which presumably related to one of the nearby buildings. Recent technology advances mean that tents are virtually self-erecting but these plainly belonged to a simpler era.  A couple was gallantly struggling with an enormous frame tent which I suspected hadn't left the loft in decades but now served to unequivocally establish their eco-credibility.

The reception procedure was a trifle ramshackle.
'Registration is at 6,' I was told, 'but you can use your room in the meantime.' They had decided to adopt a "no keys" policy for this event, she explained. How nice, I thought, obviously transitioners can be trusted not to abuse the sharing economy.  Then she added, 'So you should keep your valuables with you at all times.'  She waved in the general direction of a large two storey building and suggested I select a room, which seemed a startlingly relaxed approach to hotel management.  Upstairs there were several sparsely furnished, unnumbered bedrooms but judging by the scattering of clothes over beds and floors some were already taken.  I selected the larger of the two double rooms. The walls were painted a lurid orange: no money had been wasted on interior designers. There were no curtains at the windows but the views across a tufty lawn and the Devon countryside with the sea visible between two hills more than compensated.  There were two wardrobes; neither had coat hangers but after a moment's indignation I was comforted by the thought that this was presumably not the kind of event where sartorial elegance was at a premium.  No ironing required!  The shared bathroom, I noticed with relief, bucked the "no locks" rule but lacked either soap or shampoo.

I'd arrived early and since there was nothing to do but make a badge - which I did with bad grace, simply writing my name on a card and eschewing the ribbons which others were gaily attaching - I decided to take a stroll around the campus. I'd printed the colourful map which accompanied the registration email and as I tried to orient myself, I thought of the bumptious lad in the train and how he might be having much the same experience finding his way around unfamiliar surroundings with a mixture of excitement and anxiety.  More likely, he'd already fulfilled his primary ambition of getting ratted.

© David Thompson 2016