Every now and then you'll pick up a magazine or paper and see the picture of some man who has set up a barricade against invading construction crews who wish to cross his land with a super highway. Whether it's a matter of price or principal I do not care. I immediately identify with that man. You see, I am anti-progress in this respect. I have spent too many glorious hours wandering down warm, friendly, silent country lanes to have too much affection for those forbidding wide ribbons of concrete and steel we have come to call Freeways. Free in what way, I often ask myself. True we get there and back in a great hurry on these roads but oh, there is so much we don't see as we strain along at breakneck speeds. Me, I may always be late and a little dusty, but I'll stick to the little back road with its shallow ditches, its flowers, its tall crop borders, its overhanging trees and its occasional ancient creaking bridge. I hope before I die that I happened upon the scene described at the beginning of this piece. Just once before I die I would like to shake my fist at the blade of an oncoming bulldozer.
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