

In the end he agreed to drop me at a reasonably nearby pub. We cursed our luck. As we were visiting on a Saturday we would be unable to take advantage of The Belvedere’s no doubt mouth-watering Sunday carvery. Resolving to return at a later date for some tepid beef, watery gravy and rock hard Yorkshire pudding, we walked the ten-minute walk to the farm. The taxi drivers’ reluctance to go anywhere near the farm meant that we were bricking it as we neared the site. I steeled myself, despite my better instincts half expecting to be mauled to death by dogs or challenged to a bout of bare-knuckle boxing. So we were relieved to find that the travellers were very friendly, as soon as it had been established that we weren’t from the Basildon Echo – the local paper that they feel smeared and whipped up prejudice during the eviction in order to shift more copies.
Advertisement

We walked up the road which led up to the destroyed travellers’ site, which is now flanked by two lines of caravans in which the remaining evicted travellers now live without plumbing or mains electricity.



We were soon greeted by a group of traveller boys who must have been about nine years old. They were very friendly and interested to know what we were up to. They also insisted on being allowed to have a look at my phone. I handed it over, they wanted to know what music was on it. “Do you have any Dale Farm music?” asked one. “Er… I don’t know. What does 'Dale Farm music' sound like?” “We won’t go! We won’t go!”, he said. I lol'd.
His random mashing of the key pad ended up selecting some Gogol Bordello (no joke). Gypsy-punk about the oppression of itinerant peoples seemed pretty appropriate, if incredibly annoying (why did I still have it on there?) as we set off to survey the desolate remains of what used to be homes but are pretty much now just holes in the ground filled with assorted charred furniture.Every so often, we would pass a plot and one of the boys would point out that it used to be his family’s home.

I was about to get really emo about the plight of the humble traveller when this cheeky one-armed scamp reverted to stereotype by nabbing Joel’s phone and running off into the distance. If this was the Mail I would use this to make a story about: "FERAL GANGS OF ORGANISED GYPSY CRIMINAL CHILDREN”, but instead, I’ll use the fact that all his mates helped us track him down – and then he gave the phone back with just the vaguest threat of calling the police – as evidence that they’re no more or less mischievous than any other kids their age. With Joel’s phone retrieved, we went to find some more mature company. Unfortunately, most of the travellers refused to talk to us.
Advertisement


None more than this guy, who resolutely stonewalled us no matter how nicely we asked him. They made it pretty clear pretty fast that they’re sick to death of the media. “We used to have faith in reporters but they blew it,” said one woman. “If we say ‘white’ it’ll come out that we said ‘blue’.” In particular, the men didn’t want to be seen by potential employers as travellers in the media because, they said, “People don’t want to hire a pikey to paint their house.” One mother got as far as: “It’s shit. We’re living in our own filth. Fuck Tony Ball [Basildon council leader]. They want us to disappear but we have nowhere to go. It’s like what Hitler said to the Jews,” before once again complaining that there’s no point engaging with the media and that all journalists are bastards.We were beginning to fear that the travellers’ not quite Trappist media silence would make our journey fruitless, when an elderly woman poked her head out of her caravan and said, “You look hungry, would you like a sandwich?”



The elderly woman was Nora Sheridan, a widow, and she let us sit in her little caravan with her son Daniel.
This is a picture of Nora’s husband’s tomb. “Big gravestone,” commented Joel. “He was a big man,” said Nora. As she chain smoked and made us cheese and ham sandwiches and cups of tea, she described how her post-eviction life is a real pain in the arse compared to before.
Nora’s daughter Having no mains electricity would be bad enough for most people, but Nora has (deep breath) asthma, diabetes, arthritis and fluid buildup in her legs, meaning that on bad days she is unable to walk. She could kinda use a reliable power supply. “I have to wear a machine when I sleep because I lose all oxygen to my brain. So I need electricity and I haven’t got it. When my generator runs out I have to sit up all night and can’t go to sleep. If the generator runs out at two at night, that’s me sitting up until the following morning. Some nights I’m not able to go to the generator with petrol because my hands are shaking with arthritis, and it’s dangerous.”
Advertisement

Advertisement