Professor Follies
My name, for current administrative purposes, is the Rowbridge Gnome. Professor Follies has a form for this. I have been described as practical, earthy and offended by ornamental stereotypes, which is broadly fair but omits several centuries of context. My people come from European and Renaissance folklore, where gnomes became earthy keepers of hidden things and tidy gardens. We once occupied the serious end of mythology, before branding departments, souvenir magnets and men with drones began asking whether we could stand slightly to the left for a better composition. In my more celebrated period I was known for guarding subterranean treasure and appearing wise in very small proportions. It was meaningful work. There were prophecies, terrified witnesses and an acceptable level of ceremonial smoke.
Now I reside near the transmitter mast and surrounding ridge at Rowbridge, because even an immortal embodiment of folklore eventually discovers the Isle of Wight property market. Retirement has been pleasant. I spend much of my time mushroom polishing and tool borrowing, followed by an evening watching a home-improvement programme with proper tools. This is what the old songs leave out. They mention the terror. They rarely mention the blanket, the snacks or the repeated need to pause because somebody has walked past outside saying, 'Do you think that bent branch is a clue?'
The problem is Follies. Not Professor Follies personally, although he has labelled one of my footprints 'probable evidence' when it was plainly a footprint. I mean the tourism proposition. Apparently I am now part of an island-wide story experience. There is a Passport, a Legendary Anthology, virtual Story Tours, real-world quests, music, clues, field reports and victory pages. I know this because the Professor explained it while standing behind a bush that concealed neither him nor the clipboard. The offer is £10 a month, unless one owns the Passport or anthology, in which case it becomes £3. There are also three free games. Three. Free. Games. This is how civilisations fall. First the free sample, then forty-five locations and a family in matching waterproofs examining your shrubbery.
My formal objection is simple: low-cost access means people will scrutinise every tidy patch of soil for gnomish involvement. In the old days, encountering me required courage, misfortune or a badly judged shortcut. Now it requires a discount code. Questers arrive with charged phones, sensible footwear and the confidence of people who have read an FAQ. They expect narrative fulfilment. They want a sighting, a clue and ideally a photograph suitable for sharing before lunch. One woman recently stared at an entirely normal stone for seven minutes because it looked 'deliberately mythological'. I had not touched it. I was nevertheless impressed by its commitment.
Naturally, I do nothing to encourage this. The prints beside the path are coincidental. The broken twigs are weather. The small arrangement of objects pointing towards the most scenic route is a statistical event. The strange sound just after sunset was probably plumbing. Please disregard the fact that there is no plumbing there. I certainly do not wait until visitors are nearly convinced the whole thing is nonsense and then move briefly at the edge of their vision. That would be theatrical, manipulative and extremely effective.
Professor Follies says I secretly enjoy being known as useful, not ornamental. This is an outrageous interpretation of the evidence and also not entirely wrong. A legend requires witnesses. Total privacy is merely obscurity with better curtains. I object to being packaged, mapped and monetised, but I also object when nobody notices the carefully placed clue. There are standards. If I am to be part of a tourism proposition, it should at least be a good one. Follies does make people look at the Island differently. A lane becomes a possible escape route. A harbour acquires intentions. A woodland starts behaving like a chapter. That is not nothing.
So come to Rowbridge, or investigate from home. Read the story, follow the clues, enjoy the music and purchase whichever object unlocks the most financially efficient route through the mythology. I understand funnels now. I dislike that I understand funnels. Just remember that I am not guaranteed to appear on demand. I have a reputation, a retirement schedule and a film to finish. Still, should you notice an impossible mark, an oddly placed object or the unmistakable sensation that something ancient is quietly judging your footwear, do report it. Discreetly. With a flattering photograph. And no flash.
