52° 15’ 12.09” N
2° 09’ 18.51” W
elev. 49m
Field Report
No matter how clever, sophisticated and personable satnavs, smartphone or GPS devices become, in one important respect they will never replace a printed map. Our electronic helpers may assist us from getting from A to B by the most direct, or un-congested route, but unlike a map they are unable to lay out before us the alluring prospect of deviating from the chosen path or tempt us to risk a detour down an empty byway, menacing backstreet or lonely, untrodden right of way.
So, imagine my delight when skimming across Google maps to find somewhere to park near Westwood House, I noticed a road in Droitwich Spa called 'Primsland Way'. I had to go. Primsland Way! Surely, like Camelot, I had stumbled across epicentre of a mythical country, beloved by marketing guru and psephologist alike - the lost land of 'Middle England'. Judging from the names of the roads off, what first presented itself as a utopia for Thatcher's children - acquisitive, tasteless and bungaloid - in fact had aspirations towards cultural elitism; 'Charles Dickens Way' led to 'Charlotte Bronte Place'; 'Elgar Crescent' branched off 'William Shakespeare Way. In the heartland of this land-locked islet of Avalon lay 'Enid Blighton Corner'. Magic!
The place did not disappoint, it was just as I had imagined it, a perfected enclave designed entirely on behalf of the readership of the Daily Mail. I had a problem. In all the months I had ventured out to sundry places connected by the A38 I had recorded my visits, taking copious photographs and hours of shaky camcorder footage. I had never felt constrained, or concerned at secretly pointing a lens at unwary passersby, buildings, houses, street furniture, posters - anything that seemed interesting or quirky. When I wandered onto privately owned industrial estates I roundly ignored the scowls of uniformed security men and dire warnings of remote surveillance and just snapped away. But here felt different. The avenues were so neat, the quiet so pervasive, the specimen conifers so neatly trimmed and the pavements so utterly empty, but for the occasional dog-walker, that for the first time I felt awkward wandering about with camera and camcorder at the ready. I had the odd sense that rather than me observing at the houses, these bland, suburban exec-detached were in fact staring back at me... disapprovingly.
I would not be out-foxed, I would return. As I drove off, I glanced in the side mirror. Two kids were kicking a football about, twins perhaps, in matching turbans and England shirts. a grey-haired women stood at her front gate, gesturing for the boys to come-in, her turquoise sari flapped about in the breeze.
A week or two later, I was back, accompanied by a trusty companion. As I drove around the spic-and-span streets of Primsland, she surreptitiously wielded the video camera. The results of our pilgrimage to Enid Blighton Corner can be seen below, embellished with a soundtrack appropriate to such an adventure.
voceti: Amrita fled
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