All the vain things

fullsizeoutput_1aa9I’ve owned this nice 1968 edition of Pascal’s Pensees for over twenty years: unread, though looking great on various bookshelves. Like other items in my fantasy vanitas (cars, guitars, record sleeves) the style and idea of the thing – where it leads my imagination – is always as attractive as actual knowledge, I have to admit.

But lately I’ve been reading a little of it each day – first thing, between sips of hot tea – and beginning to see why Malcolm Muggeridge often cited Blaise Pascal as one of a handful of luminous thinkers who convinced him that Christianity, shorn of ecclesiastical pretensions, was both reasonable and beautiful. Like a desk drawer of small but potentially useful items, many of which don’t have an obvious purpose or reason for being there, Pensees is really a commonplace book of thoughtful bits and bobs – representing the mathematician’s notes towards a rational defence of Christian belief, which were recovered after his death in 1662.

Accordingly, quite a lot of it seems random and inscrutable, with odd phrases like Pensee number 107 – ‘The parrot wipes its beak although it is clean’ – being included as if requiring no further elaboration. However, just when you think you’re reading a four hundred year old philosophical shopping list, treasures like this turn up:

“Vanity is so firmly anchored in man’s heart that a soldier, a rough, a cook or a porter will boast and expect admirers, and even philosophers want them; those who write against them want the prestige of having written well, those who read them want the prestige of having read them, and perhaps I who write this want the same thing, perhaps my readers…”

For Pascal, the internal conflict faced by men and women arises from the duality of human nature: that sense of our own greatness, always threatening to over-inflate our ballooning pride, vying with alertness to our abject failures, which leads so easily to despair. The resulting crisis confounds even those who appear to have everything: a king, writes Pascal, ‘left to ponder and reflect on what he is’, will soon grow morbid without the ‘limp felicity’ of constant distraction.

FullSizeRenderSo much of what we present to the world is just a dust jacket concealing an entirely different story within. The inner discourse, veering as it does between the vain and venal, needs (and secretly longs for) a third voice, telling us we are not God, yet calling us to God. The older I become, the more I realise this is pretty much the heart of my spiritual desire: a longing to surrender my overweening ego to a higher cause, a higher personality than my own. Early morning attempts at prayer, before glancing at the fairground mirrors of social media, consist largely of this – and a huge release it is, too.

Hard on the heels of another Good Friday, with Watts’ unsurpassed line from When I survey the wondrous cross – ‘all the vain things that charm me most, I sacrifice them to his blood’ – still ringing in my ears, I long to do the same and increasingly wish (pace Ray Davies) I could be like Isaac Watts. To be put in my proper place: with God in his. ‘I have often said’, writes Pascal, ‘that the sole cause of man’s unhappiness is that he does not know how to stay quietly in his room’. He’s right, I think – and if I can do that without gazing the while at my groaning shelves, so much the better.

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Theodolite

tumblr_mrd80s7Zpm1snysgoo2_1280It was an especially soggy Good Friday, the sky grey as a pavement. Nevertheless, the small band of believers went ahead with their customary walk around the parish. This year, the mood was dampened not merely by the weather, but by the fatal shooting, five days previously, of a young man named Ezra Mills, on the Central Hill Estate, the huge (and now doomed) housing project that spreads in brutal beauty around the slopes of Gipsy Hill, South-East London.

With sopping songsheets behind a rough cross, we formed our familiar, quiet crocodile, halting here and there to read a scripture and arriving, finally, at the alley where the lad had been gunned down by six youths, on the day after his birthday. The significance of being on the precise spot, the wooden cross, the impossible command to love our neighbour – all converged in that one bedraggled moment, as we began to sing ‘When I Survey’. A couple of windows opened as the hymn continued, guttering the mood; a pause as all stood still, then mingled down and away.

This experience touched and tagged everyone present: and though we left SE19, a splinter of the scene still snags. Poignant as the brown flowers of a wayside shrine, such ‘acts of witness’ tap deeply into England’s Christian past. The high or standing cross was our original sign of hallowed ground and represents a unique tradition in British and Irish vernacular art. In the seventh century, as English kingdoms were converted, stone or wooden crosses became the local focus of spiritual meaning in most parts of the country, often pre-empting the building of a parish church. At their foot, prayers would be offered, the Eucharist celebrated, gatherings held. Unhoused – a spiritual commons predating later acts of enclosure – the standing cross mapped our places of worship, staking the claim that God was here, known or not.

15-44-100The cross is the church’s point of orientation in time and space: we return there to gain our bearing, our heading. Attractive or repulsive, it has always been magnetic: the Christian’s true north, setting their course for ‘a better place’, raising inevitably parochial sights towards an eternal home. When they survey, the authors of the New Testament find in the cross not only a key and compass, but also their sense of scale, linking locality to the broad, blurring cosmos. They portray Jesus as one pulled apart in a turf war, yet simultaneously drawing together a torn universe – such a stretching claim, far-reaching more than far-fetched.

Viewed through this theodolite lens, human locale becomes both more and less important than we are usually given to think, at once demoted and promoted to glory. And where no memorial, mossy cross stands, there we affirm Christ in our place: under the sky’s slab, propped up like an impromptu signpost for the lost.

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Glovebox Britannica

Up the Great North Road to Yorkshire in the spare, suspended days after Christmas. I’ve long liked the A1 and have been mulling the idea of a songwriting trip up and down it: maybe an album’s worth of tunes, flipping onto the b-side at Scotch Corner.

The way we see places being entirely conditioned by personal narrative, I realise that my love of touring England by car is partly down to that unsung psalter of British topography, The Reader’s Digest AA Book of the Road. First published in 1966 and remaining a glovebox staple for the next thirty years, it was emblazoned with the Association’s new yellow logo, which, along with the British Rail ‘double arrow’ design and Kinneir and Calvert’s iconic road signage, belonged to a mid-sixties typographical revolution that transformed our perception of the domestic landscape. We still don’t picture journeys without them.

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So, in a junkshop in Knaresborough, I was glad to pick up a 1967 edition for a pound – pristine, though lacking the groovy black vinyl jacket they originally wore. In an era when road atlases, if used at all, are flimsy and forgettable, the quality of the Book of the Road’s design and production is striking – especially its ingenious ‘continuity flaps’, map pages whose extra bulge is satisfyingly offset by the half-width sections before and after. A gazetteer of town plans and interchanges, these include a tiny blue portion covering the nation’s motorway ‘network’ – basically M’s 1, 4 and 5 and the A1(M).

When extended, the flaps not only aided navigation but also were crammed with useful information about the culture, customs and scenery of the page you were on. Travelling in September up the A44, for example, you would be alerted to the Chipping Norton Mop Fair, or (if you already possessed a mop), join the likely tailback making for Orange Rolling at Dunstable Downs. With irresistible headings like ‘dark soil’, ‘broken character’ and ‘secretive river’, this commentary sparked the imagination and unfurled the place you were throttling through, turning the metalled miles – and the British Isles – into a land of boundless curiosity. ‘On the road map you won’t drive off the edge of your known world’, wrote geographer Doreen Massey. ‘In space as I want to imagine it, you just might’. In the Book of the Road, you did.

The transfiguration of ordinary routes – from ‘non-places’ (French anthropologist Marc Auge’s term for transient spaces that hold little significance) into what might be called ‘deep’ places, with a texture of memory and association, is usually enhanced by linking human activity to natural ecology. In this respect the Book of the Road also functioned as a roadside primer, illustrating the wild flowers, fossils and creeping things innumerable to be found along the way. In the seventies, poring over these charts in the overheated queues alongside Stonehenge, it seemed to me that Britain was a teeming playground of curlews, cowslips, coypus and and ammonites: an inexhaustible place.

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The Ordnance Survey, whose peerless mapping was adapted for the Book of the Road, are national guardians of this kind of deep topography. Given the soullessness of much satnav space – bleak blocks of primary colour between cartoon routes – it is encouraging that the OS are developing new apps to bring alive the storied landscapes that belong to all. In the meantime, I’m keeping my Book in the MG, and seriously considering restricting my trips to the road system as it was fifty years ago – in antithesis to Google Maps, who only show you paths vehicles commonly go down, so that you miss the ones less travelled. Those, by contrast, will be the only ones I see. Meet you at the mop fair.

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A cold coming

We arose to snow: a great creaking carpet laid over yesterday’s green and grey streetscape. So, unknown neighbours are out, working to the bark and spark of spade on driveway, rallying like a curling team to assist the antic, skimming motorists. A man I have never met before (or since) grins over the gate: ‘hilarious isn’t it? The snow gives us that sense of belonging together’, ‘…which we crave’, he adds, before trudging up the hill. It’s the ‘which we crave’ that stays with me – he probably knows I’m the vicar, but it was quite far to go, for a momentary exchange. Extreme conditions build neighbourhood, little doubt about that. We behave differently when deluged: familiar territory is transfigured, new routes are taken: the myth of independence thawing instantly. Different place: different rules.

According to American sociologist Erving Goffman, prevailing norms of local behaviour tend to be suspended at times of ‘crisis’ and ‘festival’. Parish priests, it strikes me, spend a fair proportion of their time inhabiting these contrasting states – explaining, perhaps, the curious permission we retain to act in public as if it was always snowing. That, in one sense, is the vocation of the local church: to live as if, in Christ, normal service has been permanently suspended. The old has gone: the new has come.

It being Advent, this symbolic blizzard – unifying crisis and festival – will be in the air whether or not the real stuff melts by morning. December deals in belonging, after all: shovels it on in deep, muffling drifts. We become attuned to our displacement with every keening carol, each cultural sign directing us homeward. Snow on snow. And though a cold coming for so many, the path to Christmas is the right one for rearranging our ideas of society. Here along the Surrey Hills – ‘the place where London ends and England can begin’ in G.K.Chesterton’s somewhat miscarried phrase – we have, for several years, engaged in a kind of festive psychogeography called the Oxted Adventure. Every night in Advent, for an hour in the evening, one small space (a garage, perhaps, or porch) opens its doors like a calendar to a gathering of locals. On some nights there is live music, or a seasonal story; on most, the familiar, indigestive blend of warm wine and mincemeat. The Adventure aims to be a journey home by another route, a parish map in the making. This year the North Downs are appealingly portrayed in Tolkienesque style: Middle England as Middle Earth.

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It’s the opening night, but I’m delayed in another small space: a recess in the wall of the boiler house behind Morrison’s supermarket. Here abides Simon – a man become, in the psalmist’s words, a monster unto many. A kind of local portent or parable, Simon made and lost a fortune developing the sizeable homes that decorate the A25, just yards away. Beside an acrid barbecue, attended by Magi firefighters, he now raves in the car park, para oikos.

‘You do not believe, because you do not belong to my flock’, Jesus chides the Pharisees, inverting the usual criteria for religious community. Believing in belonging is an attractive idea, perpetually frustrated by our desire that the world should belong to us (for ‘belongings’), rather than to the Lord, thereby finding our place as the people of his pasture. However, if creation is defined, not by an almighty accumulation, but a kind of divine allowance, stepping back to make space for another, then let it snow, let it snow.

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Small void

‘Men go out into the void spaces for various reasons’, began Sir Ernest Shackleton’s memoirs, which I picked up last week. ‘Some are incited by a love of adventure, some have a keen thirst for scientific knowledge and others are drawn away from the trodden paths by the mysterious fascination of the unknown’, he continues. Still others take the chance because it’s Half Term, so we settled for a few days under the vast skies of the Isle of Arran, at a softly rotting farmhouse in Blackwaterfoot.

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I was last there the week Elvis died, our asthmatic Austin Maxi overheating all the way and me stuffed between the suitcases in the boot. Punk’s zenith had somehow reached the Western Isles and I recall the front page of the local paper, The Arran Banner, fulminating at a brick having been thrown though the windows of their office, wrapped in a note complaining at the lack of punk coverage in their editorial. I found this hilarious then – still do – so I was glad to find the Banner resolutely upholding its musical embargo nearly forty years on.

Capsule-shaped, like a human head, Arran appeals by easily accommodating to the imagination. Covering an area roughly that of South London, but with only two principal roads – one a coastal circuit, the other a bisection of its highland and lowland halves – the island is small enough to know intimately, yet large and untamed enough to remain obscure. In the seventies, bikers from the mainland would set up semi-permanent camps on the beaches: our taxi driver to Glasgow was one of them, newly landed from thirty years on the rigs and yearning to be stranded on Arran again, with a just a tent and the scent of two-stroke.

While there, I read The Leaping Hare, George Ewart Evans and David Thomson’s fluentfullsizerender profile of a creature that, more than any other on the British scene, symbolises our need for a kind of domestic mystery, at once familiar and utterly remote. I didn’t spot any hares, though the lairds of Brodick Castle, their hallway a thicket of antlers, appear to have made a decent fist of de-wilding the island: some ninety stags’ heads are jammed onto the walls (or through them – I didn’t check the other side), in an overplayed charade of nature’s conquest. If these monarchs were never secure, happily the red squirrel still reigns on Arran and we were briefly ecstatic to see one scratch up a nearby tree, its fur an ersatz auburn, like Jeff Beck’s barnet.

Staring at the sea’s silver jubilee, we nearly missed the ferry for our departure. With seconds to spare, our party trundled up the gangplank in a steam of apologies, as the moorings untied, leaving behind a small void.

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Who’s afraid of parochialism?

The Irish poet Patrick Kavanagh, in his 1967 essay The Parish and the Universe, makes the provocative claim that ‘All great civilisations are based on parochialism – Greek, Israelite, English.’ Continuing, ‘it requires a great deal of courage to be parochial’, Kavanagh’s point is that parochialism involves recognition of and pride in, the authenticity of local experience, which requires no constant comparison with, or recourse to neighbouring forms of expression. As such, he writes:

Parochialism and provincialism are [direct] opposites. The provincial has no mind of his own; he does not trust what his eyes see until he has heard what the metropolis – towards which his eyes are turned – has to say on any subject … The parochial mentality, on the other hand is never in any doubt about the social and artistic validity of his parish.

While he is writing primarily about creative expression, Kavanagh’s conclusion that ‘parochialism is universal: it deals with fundamentals’ is a valuable insight into the shifting nature of English national identity, whose catholicity or ‘universal’ definition has, it is being argued, directly derived from a sense of local self-possession. The unavoidable problem for the Church of England, though, is that the seeds of its legitimacy are set in the historic core of political power: the resulting sense of ‘entitlement’ make the parish in its Anglican form deeply ambivalent for many and noxious to some. In the current situation, the account of England as a ‘Christian Nation’, as one narrative among many, remains highly contested – not least because, to borrow the late Doreen Massey’s phrase about space in general, ‘its symbolism is endlessly mobilized in political argument’. Similarly, in the topical question of whether England is a nation at all, such descriptions tend to be heavily freighted by those intending to re-create a sense of ‘Englishness’ in the wake of a resurgent nationalism across the British Isles.

Like all political positions, this one has besetting strengths and weaknesses: the latter always being various shades of nostalgic xenophobia – and, under certain conditions, their more chilling progeny. Its contrasting strengths, however, are communal cohesion and the resulting confidence to engage openly with those beyond our borders. Whenever received wisdom insists on the contrary – that social conservatism and attachment to territory are necessarily a symptom of something sinister – then extremism and insularity become self-fulfilling prophecies, being the only lens people are offered to view these allegiances through. England, owing to her imperious role in the formation and governance of the United Kingdom, is chronically prone to this condition – unlike the Scots, for example, whose commitment both to ‘Little Scotland’ and radical social inclusion is something the English can only watch with envy and (following the European Referendum) a heavy measure of despair.

Given this weighting, localised terms such as ‘parish’ inevitably list towards the past rather than the future, frustrating a balanced view in the present of their value and validity. Therefore, it is vital to recognise that neither parish nor nation are subject to any one geographical narrative, but are – and have been – constantly reconceived, according to the times. It is a commonplace that evocations of Christian society are returned to in times of crisis or national instability, but the fact that they are extremely ancient does not mean they are incapable of renewal. To take one articulation of this, Rowan Williams has written that, by asserting the public and political nature of religious affiliation, the ‘vestiges of a confessional polity’ retained by the state place the Church of England in a unique position to form local society in ways that provide far more than ‘a cheap pool of labour for projects of social integration’. Indeed, as the surviving embodiment of ‘local settlement’, the parish (both civil and ecclesiastical) remains an agent of the kind of social cohesion unavailable at the national level. As Patrick Kavanagh further reflects:

 It is not by the so-called national dailies that people who emigrate keep in touch with their roots … So it is for these reasons that I return to the local newspaper. Who has died? Who has sold his farm?

This comes strikingly close to what Ben Quash calls the ‘polity of presence’ at the heart of the Church of England’s national vocation. In his essay of the same name, Quash notes the marked contrast between the presentation of Anglicanism in the national and local newspapers:

In the local press, the Church’s role in community life – providing care, taking responsibility, focusing local activities, and all the rest of it – is described and acknowledged. In this context there is nothing odd about the place of the church.

Parochialism is the boon and bane of English politics. Yet, despite its significant drawbacks – wistful exceptionalism and reactionary jingoism not least among them – the ‘England-ness’ of the parish must be reckoned with if the Anglican vocation is to be fully understood. At heart, it expresses a vision for common life that is an integral strand in the complex weave of contemporary English identity: one that, in Julia Stapleton’s words:

defies categorization in simple cultural or civic terms, one that is not lightly dismissed as an inferior or deformed expression of nationhood, or as the thin end of the ‘ethnic’ nationalist wedge.

If, as Krishnan Kumar notes in the same collection of essays, it is more accurate to speak, not of English nationalism, but of an English national tradition, the parish has not only had the ‘hallowing’ effect on territory described above, but made national tradition inseparable from local description – has made England, as well as the Church, parochial. This has meant, not only that national life was imbued from the outset with a localised form of secular Christianity, but also ensured that Anglican ecclesiology has an inescapable secularity to it. Whilst this doubtless contributed towards the separation of Christian social ethics from their source in God, and thus the growing secularisation of English society, it has also enabled a form of what Simone Weil described as:

that mutual penetration of the religious and the profane which would be the essence of a Christian civilisation.

There is, in conclusion, an unavoidable perichoresis to the terms ‘nation’ and ‘parish’, which has existed from the earliest foundations of English society. Largely because of this, the parish embodies a similar mutual indwelling of ‘religious’ and ‘secular’ that has long endowed English life with a highly localised form of civil Christianity: even if, for many, this remains only as a trace element of cultural identity. One cannot sound the word ‘parish’ without both sacred and secular resonance, which gives unambiguous credence to the ‘of England’ definition of the national church. Indeed, the Church’s view of England is unavoidably an imagined projection or extrapolation of its parochiality – and if the national church falters it is usually when presuming a kind of strategic independence of the localities in which it still makes a peculiar kind of sense.

This symbiosis with place represents more than the outworn husk of religious hegemony (although it may be that, too): it reveals an ecclesiology that cannot conceive of a church without its corresponding neighbourhood. The unity of sacred and secular in the Anglican mind was never only political expediency – it was, at origin, a conscious synthesizing of the Protestant conception of ‘two kingdoms’, by which Richard Hooker, the architect of the Anglican settlement, could write of church and commonwealth as being ‘personally one societie’ – a perspective that underwrites the curious compound of parochial Christianity with far greater potency than the accidents of history might suggest. Whilst, from the world’s viewpoint, the Church of England’s institutional influence has long been shrinking like a balloon, this slow puncture has not, by contrast, shrunk the Church’s own view of its worldly reach and responsibility. National allegiance to the Church may be in free-fall, but the Church’s allegiance to the nation remains as lofty as ever. In this, the Church is not so much clinging to the myth of its own significance as to that of the places it exists to serve.

From the forthcoming book Parish: an Anglican Theology of Place

(SCM Press, 2017)

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White’s Ecology

‘Always include the local nature in the membership of the local community’ Wendell Berry

By any reckoning, Reverend Gilbert White’s The Natural History of Selborne – staggeringly, the fourth most published book in the English language – is an unlikely success story. Essentially a journal of the fauna and flora found in one eighteenth-century Hampshire parish, its littleness is undoutedly the clue to its appeal. Unlike many clergy today, preoccupied with global dynamics well beyond their influence, White’s principal pastoral concern appears to have been the varying movements of toads across his rectory garden. Such micro-level attention – and his role as unwitting pioneer of a progressive view of nature that viewed the welfare of human and non-human culture as inseparably related – means that White emerges today as something of a local hero.

Scan 48In a fascinating introduction to White’s Natural History, Richard Mabey considers that ‘parish’ is the crucial idea behind White’s unparalleled description of local ecology:

‘Parish’ is a very laden concept. It has to do not just with geography and ecclesiastical administration, but with history and a system of loyalties. For most of us, it is the indefinable territory to which we feel we belong, which we have the measure of. Its boundaries are more the limits of our intimate allegiances than lines on a map. These allegiances have always embraced wild life as well as human…

Mabey coins the term ‘parochial ecology’ to capture White’s settled attention to Selborne – ‘the landscape of the pastoral dream made flesh’, but there is no ‘illusory’ nostalgia to this affirmation: for Mabey, it became a guiding theme for his pioneering environmental work, as expressed in, for example, Common Ground (1980) and Second Nature (1984). As he writes in the former: ‘The idea of parish … must underlie … a conservation policy which takes any account of human feelings.’

Highlighting another priest-naturalist, John Stevens Henslow, Rector of Hincham in Suffolk, Mabey argues that, for the man who taught Charles Darwin and encouraged his voyage on The Beagle: ‘Yet it was in his parish that his most important work was done … he was not just Hincham’s rector but its curator.’

Leaving aside the enviable freedom of the single-parish incumbent in this era to attend to broader interests, the essence of Mabey’s tribute to Henslow is profoundly significant. It is not his concern to explore the theological implications of being the ‘curator’ of a locality, nevertheless the resonances with the pastoral ‘cure’ under English law, still retained by the parish priest, are plain – and it may be contended with some force that truly parochial ministry is pastoral on both counts – formed by an ecology of care for a particular place, its people and their relation to the land.

One of the riches of the parochial tradition is thus what Oliver O’Donovan describes as the ‘reciprocal relation between nature and culture … mediating a possibility for human life in community’. By virtue of its territorial stability, the parish is uniquely placed to offer such mediation: a fact that has long been recognised in the pioneering work of Common Ground, the environmental charity that Richard Mabey founded in 1982 with Sue Clifford and Angela King. This saw particular expression in the Parish Maps project, which, for ten years from 1986, encouraged local neighbourhoods to depict in imaginative ways the territory to which they especially identified. Accepting the ways in which this scheme was ‘tugged away from the city’ by the inescapably rural overtones of the term ‘parish’, Crouch and Matless (1996) observed how it:

connects settlement and surrounding land … to a long English cultural tradition of presenting place, especially rural place, in reverential, ritual, sacred terms.

Whilst the imaginative affiliation of ‘landscape’ with rural, rather than urban topography became a conditioning factor on what was produced (and by whom), Common Ground chose the parochial concept, because, as Sue Clifford plainly acknowledges: ‘The ecclesiastical parish has been the measure of English landscape since Anglo-Saxon times.’ ‘Parish’, Clifford argued, offered what no other English term could: an equivalent to the German heimat – a way of describing ‘the intersection of culture and nature’ and ‘deeply felt ties of familiarity, identification and belonging’.

Digging more deeply into the affective connotations of ‘landscape’, however, the charity also offered ‘parish’ as their definition of English particularity expressly because of its rich notes of personal association and attachment – the ‘place of responses’ as Mabey has it. Parish thus becomes an imaginative bridge between ‘real’ space-time community and the less tangible, psychological responses that seek out a place of personal settlement and wellbeing. In Second Nature (1982) Fraser Harrison writes:

At least it can be said that we are saner, more contented people when we have … close familiarity with a small, parish-sized patch of countryside in which we can plant our experience.

The ‘belonging’ resonances of the term are hard to underestimate – and are a theme which the nature writer Roger Deakin picks up, with reference to John Donne’s poem ‘the Good Morrow’:

 A parish accommodates to the imagination because it is framed or contained … by ancient boundaries, natural and supernatural.

In a further assessment of Gilbert White’s parochial ecology, David Elliston Allen, in his landmark History of the Naturalist in Britain, described Selborne as ‘that secret, private parish inside each one of us’. Notwithstanding its need for cultural deconstruction (the ‘each one of us’ in Allen’s statement presumably being only those to whom the word parish carries such emotional significance), the idea of the parish as a secret place of belonging is deeply suggestive. Because, in the English context, notions of belonging are so tethered to a idealized conception of the land – ‘nowhere else is landscape so freighted as legacy’ observes David Lowenthal – such an account must resurface the route between nostalgia, utopia and a genuinely hopeful eschatology, so that parochialism is prevented from becoming, on the one hand, a hopeless quest for unattainable place or, on the other, a stagnant cipher for lost homeland.

The danger – heightened in the current climate – is that debate about place becomes unhelpfully bipolar, such that attachment to territory falls victim to easy caricature as reactionary, exclusive and politically right-wing, whilst liberal geographical discourse can appear detached and curiously placeless. The response must not be to dispense with the territorial principle for being locked into anachronistic perceptions of landscape, but to find the means whereby heritage – and the rediscovery of local ecology – becomes a key to unlock, not barricade, the future. To reverse the old hippie dictum, thinking locally but acting globally may be the best place to begin.

 

 

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