How does where we live - be that city, countryside or somewhere-in-between - affect our lives? In this blogpost, Michael Loveday shares some 'Edgelands' experiences from growing up, and reveals how this feeds into his new V. Press flash fiction novella Three Men on the Edge.
Living on the Edge
I grew up with a form of identity confusion.
My family home was in Northwood, in the former postal county of Middlesex, a
region on the Northwest edge of Greater London.
“Middlesex” belonged to London. But we had a Hertfordshire phone number.
We lived on a quiet street. But 50 yards from a fairly busy main road.
If I walked away from my house, in one direction I moved towards the
densely-packed suburbs of Greater London; in another direction I could find a
series of splendidly landscaped golf courses; another direction took me into
the heart of a private housing estate of detached, mostly mock-Tudor properties
with large grounds; elsewhere nearby I could walk our Bernese Mountain dog
through thick woods into unkempt fields whose ownership seemed unidentified –
apparently common, wildmeadow land. In Northwood, we were serviced by the
Metropolitan Underground Line. Except it was overground. We called it the train
(not “the tube”) - I didn't understand the difference between real trains and
my tube-trains until adulthood.
Welcome to the identity confusions of the suburbs, where you are neither one
thing nor the other.
Later, after a few years of moving around, I bought my first flat not far
from Northwood, in a commuter town called Rickmansworth, which lay about 3
miles northwest – a couple of stops further out on the Metropolitan Line.
Rickmansworth is in a valley where three rivers converge – literally the
Three Rivers District of Hertfordshire. They feed the Grand Union Canal as it
passes through between London and Birmingham.
It also marks the northern beginning of a remarkable series of over 60 (yes,
sixty) lakes (former quarry pits – whose extracted gravel was used to build the
original Wembley Stadium) that combine to form Colne Valley Park, a zone of
managed wildness stretching many miles from Rickmansworth in the north to the
Thames in the south, towards Slough in the west, and Heathrow in the east.
Despite the proximity of all this beautiful, watery countryside,
Rickmansworth is densely housed, and expanding – a population of 15,000 in the
2001 census, 24,000 in 2011.
I lived in Rickmansworth from 2007 to 2016, and experienced there the
strange, unsettling territory of a true “Edgelands”, an experience neither
urban nor rural, neither truly London nor the Hertfordshire countryside. I had
to start writing about it.
The “Edgelands” are a concept first defined in 2002 by the writer Marion
Shoard in her essay of the same name (published in Jennifer Jenkins (ed.),
Remaking
the Landscape (2002)):
“The apparently unplanned, certainly uncelebrated and largely
incomprehensible territory where town and country meet… it is characterised by
rubbish tips and warehouses, superstores and derelict industrial plant, office
parks … golf courses, allotments and fragmented, frequently scruffy, farmland.”
In its own low-key way, Rickmansworth can lay claim to all of that. I’m not
sure where exactly I first heard the term “Edgelands” but I do know that my
first immersion into researching the concept was a book written by poets Paul
Farley and Michael Symmons Roberts (
Edgelands: Journeys into England’s True
Wilderness (2011)) that further opened my eyes and ears to the territory I
was living in. I was fascinated by the catalogue of landscape features that
Symmons Roberts and Farley identified as classic “Edgelands” elements:
landfill, water, pylons, allotments, verges, canals, wasteland, woodlands,
hotels, retail parks, industrial estates, golf ranges, airports etc. And I
found the descriptions themselves captivating, possessed of an ungainly,
mythical beauty: “the fringes of English towns and cities, where urban and
rural negotiate and renegotiate their borders…” (p.5), “the hollows and spaces
between our carefully-managed wilderness areas and the creeping, flattening
effects of global capitalism…” (p.12), “In the A-Zs of major English cities,
there are always pages where the circuitry of streets gives way to blank grid
squares, peppered with nameless ponds, industrial parks, nurseries and
plantations…” (p.20), “seldom visited wastelands bypassed by the flows of
commerce and leisure, the landfill sites and blank unnamed pools of dark
standing water…” (p.23), “this is a different wildnerness… It has the echoing
silence of miles of empty car parks, dark and locked glass offices, pockets of
woodland and strips of standing water.” (p.267).
Their book was the perfect introduction to the idea of “Edgelands”, and I
heartily recommend it. It’s a future classic of landscape writing to be
mentioned in the same breath as its acknowledged ancestor
The Unofficial
Countryside (1973), by Richard Mabey, who pioneered writing about the same
kind of geography before anyone else had thought to celebrate it.
My book
Three Men on the Edge (V. Press, June 2018) took me six and
a half years to write, and in it I’ve tried to celebrate the strange hinterland
that is Rickmansworth, neither properly the suburbs of a big city nor exactly
the countryside. As research, I often went for walks with notebook or camera in
hand, documenting the landscape around me and trying to find ways to bring it
into the context of my fiction. (I think the people I passed may sometimes have
looked at me oddly).
Three Men on the Edge attempts to capture the
split self of the town as a character in its own right, divided between its
canals, lakes, fields and woodlands on the one hand, and its supermarkets,
commuter train lines, and busy cafés on the other.
The book also has another in-betweenness. It’s very much a literary hybrid:
a novella composed of three linked sequences of miniature stories, informed by
the techniques of prose poetry. I might suggest with a fair amount of
conviction that you won’t have read anything similar before.
If you enjoy books that put landscape and environment at the centre, or if
you have ever experienced the strange and ambivalent emotions of suburban life,
or if you enjoy the “edgelands” of unusual forms of writing, I hope you might
find
Three Men on the Edge an interesting kind of territory to
encounter.
Michael Loveday
https://michaelloveday.com/fiction/
Sample flashes and more details about the book can be found here: Three
Men on the Edge (V. Press, 2018)
This summer has been an exciting one already for V. Press, with flash fiction writers Santino Prinzi and Michael Loveday launching their new titles on Sunday in a V. Press showcase at this year's Flash Fiction Festival. 
V. Press is also delighted to share a new review of Charlie Hill's fiction pamphlet Walking Backwards.
