Escaping to the country is good for the soul

Despite the fact that an increasing amount of its population lives, and most of its business is done, in the big cities, America still likes to think of itself as an agrarian society. We grew to greatness on the backs of those hearty pioneers who sent ploughs through virgin earth and settled the wilderness.

Of course, much of that is a myth. Not only was the land not as "virgin" and "wild" as we think, but many of our ancestors never set foot on a farm. Perusing all four nationalities of my ancestry, there's not a farmer or a country dweller amongst them. (Though there were some fine gardeners.) Still, we all love this idea of the rural idyll, and many an urban dweller aspires to a farm as a second home and escape from the city.

I spent Labor Day in one such spot, revelling in a weekend so American it could have been created by Disney and stuck in the back of Epcot's U.S.A. pavilion. The location: Gerald, Missouri. A classic midwestern one-stoplight town, arranged in a few streets stretching in a grid pattern out from the grain silos next to the train tracks. There's a Dollar General store ("civilisation" in the form of the nearest Wal Mart is half an hour's drive) and a gas station with a mini mart. And not much else. Small wooden houses are generally undistinguished, though a few have some charming architectural details or porches with the requisite porch swing. A community of mobile homes stretches down one hill, some tidy and surrounded by neat little gardens, some a stereotypical jumble of junk, trash bags and old auto parts. And everywhere the American flag flies. The nation's GDP might be made in the cities, but the overwhelming majority of its soldiers come from towns like this. (Don't ever believe small town America is completely oblivious to foreign policy; it's their sons and daughters who are more likely to die for it.)

Gerald might not sound the ideal holiday retreat, but it does have one major thing going for it: the landscape. Miles and miles of rolling hills, forests, clear brooks babbling through exposed limestone, fields dotted with native wildflowers, still ponds ringed with pussy willow. At night, the sky glimmers with stars able to give a proper show freed by at least 100 miles from the nearest source of urban light polution. And it is magnificently quiet. Who would need an iPod if your walk's regular soundtrack was no more than the wind in the trees, the chatter of a stream, the hum of bees and the pad of your dogs' paws on the gravel behind you?

Admittedly, we did inject a bit of noise into this pristine environment. Inevitable, considering that the extended family of which we were invited to be a part swelled to more than 20 when everyone turned up. Country tunes spilled out the boom box, engines revved as the jeeps went off-roading through the fields and shotguns reverberated over the hills. The artillery was a key part of the weekend fun; most people took a try at shooting the clays. I clearly need a lot more practice before I hit anything. This being America, it was perfectly legal to have a wider selection of guns on hand. A few of us had a go with a military assault rifle and the patriarch of the clan looked quite menacing as he threatened a target with his enormous Dirty Harry style handgun. While it was interesting, from an academic point of view, to get a first hand sense of the awsome power of these weapons, I think I'll be happy to return to a world where I'm limited to a heavily regulated shotgun and no fancy stuff. I suspect the respect and discipline with which my hosts managed their arsenal is not as common as it should be.

Much of the rest of the weekend was spent sitting around the firepit, drinking beer, watching the boys barbecue, eating the barbecue, making s'mores, eating s'mores. Relaxed, peaceful, simple pleasures in a green and pleasant land. I think the desire is pretty common in all corners of the globe; this is why people want to escape to the country.