Tibshelf Service Station. I was back in the world of cars. The world of the hitchhiker. The peaks of the Peak District were a temporary excursion, a brief escape from the exhaust and the noise. A glorious one though. I missed it already. I felt like I’d stepped outside the zoo enclosure, back onto the tarmac paths of the human world.
The service station could have dropped the ‘Tibshelf’. It was like every other. Homogenous, bland. American brands, expensive coffee. At least I didn’t wait long. Amy was driving a Mazda van and was excited to pick me up. The van was full to the roof so it took some effort to squeeze in my bag. It joined a sofa wedged at an angle.
I told her I’d been camping in the Peaks, by a reservoir.
“No way, me too!” She said, “Which one?”
It wasn’t the same.
“Huh, funny though. Small world.”
“Or maybe it’s just a small world for hitchhikers and people who like picking them up…” she laughed.
Amy was doing a PhD. I tentatively asked what it was on.
“Do you want the elevator pitch or the three-hour one?”
“Well, we’ve got a while,” I replied.
It involved meta-analysing previous studies on pesticide use and drawing out statistical data. From what I could gather at least. She said that kind of analysis was common elsewhere but hardly done in agricultural studies, hence why she was doing it.
I asked about pesticides themselves. Were they bad for humans at all? That wasn’t her area so much. Still she didn’t think so. There’d been plenty of terrible chemicals used in farming over the years but now they were mostly pretty safe in Britain.
She told me about DDT which was common in the 50s. It was a chemical developed during the war to kill people so unsurprisingly it was good at killing insects. It wasn’t until Rachel Carson’s book Silent Springs in 1962 that there was enough public pressure to ban it. Carson told the same old story about companies spreading misinformation and using lobbies to eke out as much money as they could before the inevitable. I guess the story’s old now. It was new back then.
Amy thought it was similar to the scandals about sewage being dumped in the UK’s rivers. Public pressure can stop these things, she said hopefully. It did with pesticides.
Amy preferred the idea of natural pesticides. In greenhouses, where the ecosystem is controlled, it’s easy: you just introduce lots of predators. Outside was more of a challenge but entomopathogens are one advancing answer. They’re zombie fungi which target a single insect but don’t damage the rest of the ecosystem.
Amy reminded me that pesticides are just a tiny part of the problems we face on the food farming front. For one, most industrial farmland isn’t used for human food. It’s used for livestock. “Most of the world gets its food from farms that are less than 5 hectares,” she said cautiously, a frown on her forehead, “You’ll have to fact-check that.”
I did - she was more or less right. Family farms account for 80% of the world’s food in value terms and 35% of food comes from farms smaller than 2 hectares.
“And something like 40% of the corn America grows is used to feed its cattle,” she continued (correctly).
“Well you can have all the natural pesticides in the world,” I replied a little cynically, “but you’ll never get America off beef.”
We were cruising down the M1, the van rattling fondly. The weight of London was already beginning to weigh and I said so. Amy didn’t like the city. She thought South Wales was busy enough.
“I’m a sensitive person and I thought I was just absorbing other people’s moods and vibes,” she reflected. I liked that idea. Absorbing other people’s moods and vibes. It makes sense. Certainly explains why commuting’s so depressing. “But then I realised it was the noise,” she continued, “What makes being in the countryside so peaceful is the quiet. Peace comes from the soundscape.” I liked that idea too. Very wise.
Amy dropped me at another service station somewhere on the M1. I don’t remember which. Could have been Tibshelf frankly. It looked the same. Wherever it was, the soundscape was far from peaceful. Lorries, horns, snorting motorbikes. Again I was lucky not to wait long.
This time it was a young couple. Probably my age. Audra and Andreas on their way home from Loughborough. They’d both been at uni there and were visiting Andreas’ brother, also at uni there. Audra did nutrition and physiotherapy and had since got a job in Kent. “There’s not much going on in Loughborough,” she told me, “Not much going on in Kent either. But at least it’s nicer!”
They were both Lithuanian and had met over here at uni. Audra was one of the last intakes before Brexit severed the passage. Her younger sister wasn’t so lucky.
I told them about an old colleague who was Lithuanian. He took a tour group, a geography class, through Cambridge and the teacher refused to believe that Lithuania was a country. He spent half the tour trying to convince her. To no avail.
“My boss told me he was from the Isle of Mann,” Audra replied, “I thought he was making that up too…!”
Audra said everyone in Lithuania was constantly talking about the war. The fear of being invaded was pervasive. The country’s geographical position means it’ll be easily stranded and Putin had already threatened an attack, quickening hearts. Lithuanians knew what it was like to be occupied too. Audra said that there’s a unique bond between all the countries around Russia, forged by united opposition. Georgians, whenever they meet Lithuanians for instance, greet them with fraternal warmth.
The car was hot and sticky. Andreas apologised for the broken aircon and opened the windows which made chatting a little tricky. I leant forward to hear, the bare skin on my leg sticking to the leather seats.
They asked where I’d been so I shouted about my weekend in the Peaks. They knew the area well from their Loughborough days. “There’s a big TT event in Matlock,” Andreas called over his shoulder. — “Yes, I’ve heard Matlock’s famous for biking,” I called back. “I’d love to go to the Viking Museum in York!” Audra chipped in— “Push bikes or motorbikes?”— “What are motor Vikings?” asked Audra. We gave up.
It took a couple of hours to reach London. The sun was low as we arrived. They dropped me at an overground station on the M25 and I made my way home, attentive to the city sounds.
It had been a time in the Peaks. I’d miss the quiet for sure. Though on reflection, I realised I’d only spent a couple of hours actually among them—excluding a sleepless, midge-bitten night. The rest of the time it was laybys, pavements and service stations as usual. Certainly not quiet, but I’d say, far more interesting. Perhaps you’ll agree.