Paradise Regained…

So let extend thy mind o’er all the world,
In knowledge, all things in it comprehend.

It was an email from my good friend Paolo that did it. Not directly, of course. Just a little nudge; which, in turn, morphed into a diminutive, but nagging, suggestion; which, gnawing at a widening area of brain-cells, wouldn’t let go. Thirty minutes later, I had changed into some light walking trousers, a thin T-shirt, and a medium-weight fleece. (Although the only marks in the sky were man-made – the number of planes travelling over Tysoe having seemingly increased in the last year or so – the Met Office warned of northerly twelve mile-an-hour winds: making seventeen Celsius feel like fourteen.)

Anniversary (a)musings…

Just a little set of amuse-bouches – of hastily-scribbled, reasonably relevant, limericks… – to celebrate four years of blogging! (Photo courtesy of the wonderful people at Dr C P Grey Opticians.)

Read ’em and weep

The Bard of the village of Tysoe
Did wonder and worry just why so
     Few views were logged
     Of the words he had blogged
The paucity making him cry so

Hot off the press

There once was a brilliant Bard
Who typed so exceedingly hard
     That his fingers were numb
     (As was his poor bum)
And the keyboard he hammered was charred

Did Cicero say anything?

The Orchestra’s Writer-in-Residence
Loves using his words to set precedence
     With notes so unique
     They could well be in Greek
Ή ακόμα και για τους γούνιους ελέφαντες†

And the courage never to submit or yield…

The mind is its own place, and in itself can make a heaven of hell
Pain, it appears, has no appointed programme; nor consequent sleep any scheduled assignation. Alive (afterwards) to the fact that I had spent too much of my day in writing – itself a diversion from the devouring distress of a deepening migraine, gnawing at my left eyeball like some resolute rodent after rotting fruit – it was, however, the subsequent clumsiness – born of fading concentration; my proprioception misty and maladroit (even at the best of times) – that was the crucial moment’s mainspring: an instant unwinding, a lightning strike cascading through my stricken, confounded limbs; rapidly unfurling its coercion, before reconvening all its clout, condensed, at the accustomed spot, speck… the spike where my circuits were sabotaged so very long ago.

What hath night to do with sleep?
No manner of oscitant opioid, lethargic anxiolytic, or torpid tricyclic would rid me of my wretchedness and wakefulness: an expected early night failing fast; successive struggles satisfying me that the only remedy – however short-lived – should be yet more distraction: my boots, recuperating by the front door, cajoling me, inveigling exercise and exploration; demanding to get back on my feet.

Windmill Hill revelation…

The village yet damped-down beneath the oil of night; the only report, the high-pitched, mock-bark fracas of fox-cub. In the nucleus of nautical dawn, all is grey: green-grey grass; mauve-grey cloud; brown-grey stone; black-grey horizon – the world the colour of mallard, wood-pigeon, blackbird, and rook.

Leaving the Shipston road, the burble of an old valve radio being spun between stations grows with the wheat. My footsteps and stick-falls are silent, here: but still that splashing of song sooner turns trickle; soon turns stream; turns river; turns waterfall – drenching me in an incessancy of resonant comfort; drowned merry in a sea of skylarks. To my right, a crisp rustle of stalk. Then muffle of noiselessness. Only as I move on, the blades once more immobile, threat dissipated or dissolved, does the torrent of Matins restart.

The soul that sees beauty…

Sunday
There is a hierarchy, it seems, to Tysoe’s with-sun-rising birds. As the first sodium-bright slash of dawn slices the horizon, the barn owl – its wings the shade of the night-mourning sky it haunts – yet circles the windmill: peeved, perhaps, that my presence has quiesced the small creatures in the verges, trembling umbellifers, ruffling daisies. The hedges here serenade me with the river-runs of goldfinch; the gossip of sparrows; the bossy robin; the caution of blackbirds. The crops, a sea of skylarks: effervescent; ubiquitous. But none yet leave their roosts. It is the raptors which rise pre-eminently on the cool air: a lone buzzard, one lazy, subtle flap of its wings propelling it yet higher. A glint-eyed kestrel shearing across my path; grasping the dead branch of a wayside oak from which to study me. There is nothing here to interest such a hunter; but yet he waits until I have passed before busy wings pull him beyond my sight.

A male pheasant, paranoid, dull-witted, staggers away from me: its drunken pose and anguished cacophonies aimed at naught; only rendering it more manifest. Thirty paces I tail this manic meandering, before remembrance of cover emerges between those frenzied eyes.

Faith, I’ll bear no base mind…

It is seven months and six days since I last donned my fervent walking boots and headed out of the front door in search of the spiritual nourishment only nature can provide – the act of doing so more psychologically and physiologically strenuous than I had initially envisaged. But such challenges are there for us to subjugate… if we are to be alive to our values (and alive for them). Should we let either external constraints or internally-driven apprehensions suppress (or even oppress) our compelling predilections and true-hearted desires, then surely our very identities and individualities are at risk of corruption or cessation.

That familiar conviction…

From time to time, I forget that kestrels can fly: so used am I to seeing them simply suspended (the majestic puppets of an invisible deity) – tail bowed, almost motionless, even in the strongest blusters – or merely spiralling (a little like a lazy lark): withdrawing upward for a better sighting of their prey. But, on Thursday, making my way by the Avon, a keen example flashed close by me: gliding (a little like a sizable swift) fleet and fluent across a burgeoning field of barley – winging perfectly parallel with the tips of the green fronds (and only a few inches above them) – reminding me that these raptors’ abilities in the air are manyfold and magnificent.

I had found myself on the route of an almost identical (in almost every fashion) stroll to one I embarked on two years ago: encountering (again) not just my first damselflies of the year (banded demoiselles: as always, on these verdant cow-parsley-crowned banks); but perhaps premature butterflies – including bejewelled peacocks and small tortoiseshells: both of which wouldn’t – shouldn’t…? – normally be around (in such numbers, anyway) until July. (Having said that, I did espy a rather pecked and pale mature peacock, today, torpidly sunbathing….)

I was also lucky to spend a few minutes, on my rather leisurely walk – when immersed deep in stippled woodland, shadows, and thoughts – observing both a chiffchaff (which I heard before I caught sight of); and then an almost perfectly-camouflaged treecreeper – speckled with markings that merged with the leaf-filtered dancing dapples of sunlight on bark: demonstrating perfectly its apt appellation with its characteristic entertaining flits and scurries… – before a friendly chocolate Labrador nudged tenderly at my knees in welcome: craving a little attention (with which it was duly rewarded… well, until its much livelier companion spaniel requested the same – albeit a little less politely…)!

I was reminded of all this, earlier today, by another within-reach windhover – displaying more (to my mind) typical movements… – as I mooched up Windmill Hill (exhibiting my own such “typical movements” – i.e. ponderous plodding, and swaying steps). At first, I was more entranced by a solitary red kite: bewraying not one simple flap of its splayed fingers as it traversed the Tysoe-facing slope against the prevalent easterlies; directed only, it appeared, by that inimitable rudder of a forked tail. (Such poise; such beauty; such grace….)

But then the kestrel rose – although not to a great height – directly in front of me: cruel beak and talons noticeably empty. At first, I assumed it would simply drift, habitually, to one of the many power-lines and posts that straddle the hill. But no….

Soon it dived again: a small pause above the ground; and then, this time, victorious… – although the resultant worm, trembling in its beak, seemed a meagre reward for such unsparing skill. As the bird quivered over the tall hedgerow, not far from my path, I lost sight of it; but wondered if this quarry could be (partial) breakfast for one of this year’s progeny.

Later, coming down the hill towards Epwell Road, joining the witless Compton Wynyates ‘road to nowhere’, I noticed (and was grateful) that the rights-of-way here have finally been re‑scribed – albeit crudely, with some form of crop-killing spray. A cynical (rather large) part of me wonders if this would have been carried out at all, were it not for Saturday’s Tysoe Windmill Run.

And yet the more popular, direct footpath from Shipston Road had obviously only been re-instituted as a consequence of those runners’ pounding feet pulverizing the field of clover-rich green manure as they descended. If my fellow wanderers, today, are anything to go by, there is still some confusion as to where the authentic route lies.

By the way, the reason for the lethargy of my loitering circuit of Windmill Hill, this morning – apart from the obvious avian attractions (additionally, rare yellowhammers; the usual truculent rooks, and cheeping dunnocks by the dozen) – was the long tail of a virus which finally floored (well, bedded) me, over the weekend.

I therefore missed the chance to admire the stalwarts taking part in the above event. However, I was delighted to witness (from my bedroom window) the village’s transformation – especially yesterday, in the glorious seasonal warmth – into Bourton-on-the-Water (or some such similar Cotswold tourist hotspot), thanks to the National Garden Scheme (NGS); and the ten kind hosts who welcomed so many visitors onto their becoming plots. Never before have I seen – or had the opportunity to rejoice at – our “small, blessed corner of Warwickshire” so inundated with such a wonderful plethora of checked and striped shirts, oft-inappropriate shorts, and fascinating (mostly straw-based) headgear!

The Good Lady Bard – who toured the gardens in yesterday’s sunshine (summoned by a full peal of bells); passively gleaning only complimentary reactions: not only to the individual plots, but also to people’s discovery of the wonder that (we, of course, know) is Tysoe… – was exceeding impressed with both the horticultural talent and passion on display; as well as the obvious skill and effort that had gone into organizing the whole shebang.

Huge thanks, therefore, to the marvellous Julia Sewell: whose idea I believe this was; and to all those volunteers whose implementation of her plans was impeccable.

At last, it feels like summer has truly arrived…!

Wary of the furrows that we’ve churned…

Who can tell me where I am…?

Having worked in agriculture, I struggle to understand those landowners and/or farmers who plant a crop, and then force people to tread all over it, willy-nilly: damaging the young seedlings; flattening the ground; and, ultimately, reducing the yield. Try walking up to Tysoe Windmill, at the moment, and play a jolly game of ‘spot the path’ on your ascent. (Fun for the whole family!)

This is not a path; this is not a stile…

If you’re like me – badly disabled – you may be tempted to take the route of least resistance: looking for a gap in the next hedge, and heading for it as straight as the crow flies (although not today: the northerly wind was buffeting them like a mainsail rounding the Orkneys…); crossing your fingers that a gate or stile lurks there. However, if you’re really like me, and have innate, well-developed sensitivities about these things, you will try and follow the tractor’s elephantine depressions in the soil, tiptoeing gingerly between the green sprouts, and trying to minimize the spoil.

Probably pining for the fjords…

That such a strategy led me to encounter the stiffened, stripped corpse of a young badger seems strangely apposite. If it had been trapped, I suppose it would have been removed. However, rendered paranoid by the deterrence of erased trails – and a pair of rusty spikes seemingly designed to carry trespassers’ severed clotpoles… – I wondered if this too was a warding-off, even a poisoning? The rigid death-pose looked highly unnatural; and I can only pray that the resultant scavengers were more fortunate, if so.

Enter Guiderius with Cloten’s head…

Legally, paths have to be reinstated within a fortnight of ploughing and planting – but, of course, some (I feel I must be allowed to call them) capitalist bastards prefer you not to access their land at all: and will therefore string barbed or electrified wires across defined rights-of-way. Anarchist that I am, I am more than happy to smash these illegal (and anti-social, of course) blockages with my handy walking stick: until I can pass without fear of major bodily harm (and the subsequent Bard-invoked lawsuit).

Theory, one; reality, nil…

Such routes have either been hard-fought-for; or have existed as byways for many centuries. Why should the greed of a few spiteful individuals ruin – as they did today – my enjoyment of fresh air and public access: especially when I know these are effective treatments for both my chronic pain, as well as my PTSD-originated depression? (I therefore returned home more miserable than when I had set off… – my many rude mutterings causing the local, wind‑hovering buzzards to mew in dismay; the chattering chaffinches to blush; and the truculent rooks to welcome me with open wings….)

Round like a circle in a spiral…

Packwood House – what a real path actually looks like…

What a contrast, though, from yesterday! Not only the weather: but every footpath I traversed between Baddesley Clinton and Packwood House was clearly marked, and well-maintained. You feel welcomed (and even appreciated); and you therefore relax (despite, in my case – after a long, enforced bout of rest – setting too high a target; and not doing myself any physical favours – hence the re-stretching of limbs, today…).

Bluebells – you wouldn’t have known, otherwise would you…?

This was strong, sweet medicine, which required no sugar to swallow: especially as the wildlife also seemed happy in the surprising warmth. (My fleece stayed on for only a few hundred yards; and even a thin, technical T-shirt felt too much! Today, a thick, hooded fleece and a long-sleeved thermal vest were no protection from the harsh wind… – although it did help push me up the hill…!)

I know a bank where the wild thyme blows…

(Minus) eight degrees of reparation…

Although my head felt a little like Trotsky’s must have – or even because my head felt like that… – just before sunup (a little past eight o’clock, this morning), I headed towards Windmill Hill to watch the curtain rise on a new day. I was not to be disappointed.

Frozen into the crusted, sodden ground was evidence of those who went before me: deep tractor tyres (looking like a dinosaur had passed by, wearing wellingtons); sturdy-soled boots; the clawed stamps of walked pets – mixed in with those diamond dog‑prints so familiar around here: perhaps lured by the many rabbits visible in last night’s headlights… – and a bonus trail of crisp cleft deer impressions heading away from the footpath.

Very little sound, though – the odd chattering blue tit, and belligerent robin, against a background of commuting cars – and very little movement: even the fluffed kestrel I passed, highlighted by the first rays, was content just to gaze from its perch on the power-lines.

Eventually, the low, undulant cloud would overwhelm the brightness; sap the colour from the sky – bringing rook calls and repeated pheasant crowing – but my timing was perfect: a hearty, cold breath of pale ice-blue; then a blaze of rose-gold, charming the frosted stalks and leaves, warming my soul.

This may not be alpine Buttermere – here is a different kind of beautiful; a daily delight – but it still embraces me as only home can: the rolling layers of hill, fog, light, tilth and rime, cordial companions; the cereal crunch beneath my feet, affectionate assurance: earthing me in nature… yet again.

Let me the knowledge of my fault bear with me…

The Ballad of Windmill Hill
For Keith…

The man clambered to the windmill, blunt pencil in his hand;

Head empty as his notebook: as nothing yet was planned.

But he sat down on his jacket: spine cold against the stone

Where the bread had once been moulded; the seed had once been blown;

Where the stooped-back miller once had toiled for hour upon hour

To turn the labour of the harvest into finest golden flour;

And he soon began to scribble, as the wind began to call

From the houses far below him; from cottage, church and hall.

And this is what he registered – inspired by what he learned –

Never passing any judgment on what his neighbours clearly yearned.

All we want is something simple, that we all can understand:

Nothing complex or beyond us; notions rooted in the land;

A village with a future; where each to each is known;

A place which folk find welcoming; that is everybody’s own;

Where, gradually, in union, with corresponding power,

We spread this presence evenly, and remember well that our

Stay upon this well-tilled soil means little to time’s sprawl;

Though man is one of many visitors whose impact may be small

Next to heaven’s mighty globes and the voyages they’ve turned;

But that yet we must be wary of the furrows that we’ve churned.

What wisdom can we manifest; who amongst us will take stand

To garner our agreement; stop our wishes turn to sand?

How will we ever vanquish those who want to reign alone:

Whose voices shout much harsher, whose only word is sown

On fallow ground, whose every thought is selfish, sharp and sour;

With no empathy or sympathy: their lust set on the tower

Of ruling over everyone; of leering over all;

Of meeting our petitions with an egoistic bawl?

Are there those amongst us brave enough – whose regard we know is earned –

Who will help us stand together; guarantee such fools are spurned?

And then the breeze veered westerly; and light glowed on the hand

Of one, then two, then several more, until a mighty band

Of villagers of every class who all had always shown

Great steadfastness and loyalty to the place in which they’d grown

Stood strong and straight in unity – no longer would they cower:

This was the land they loved – each tree, each bird, each flower –

And they would hold forever, brought together by that call,

To ensure that all three Tysoes could never ever fall;

Would from here deal right and fairly with each resident concerned;

Would from here shine bright with passion that in every heart now burned.

Upon the hill, the man awoke; his blank pad on the grass;

Yet sure that all he’d seen and heard would shortly come to pass.

Straight outta Compton (Wynyates)

Written on Windmill Hill

A walk – a metaphor for a life –

beginning and ending in mist:

the spindrift confetti of gulls

and crotchety staveless rooks

bursting beneath the robbed-out windmill,

and fading facets of connection

kidnapped by the crawling clouds.

Now I know why they’re called drones…

Until yesterday, I had not visited Upper Tysoe’s windmill to say hello to its shiny new prosthetic sails (‘prails’?) at close quarters (an addition that warms me with a feeling of quite some empathy). But, ‘encouraged’ outdoors by a clingy migraine, I decided This Was The Time. As I climbed Windmill Hill, I could see, in the far distance, what looked like a buzzard circling the summit – but it appeared to be flying backwards (perhaps for Christmas). It soon disappeared, though: and – momentarily forgotten – the only animate beings remaining were me, and the young cows in the next field: utterly accomplished in the disdain they demonstrated for their latest passer-by.

I had joked, before I set off, about our most significant landmark (since the sad bygone erasure of the sequence of Red Horses) now resembling the first obstacle on a Brobdingnagian crazy-golf course: with its stubby, fixed-lattice blades – perhaps locked deliberately in the ‘celebration’ position (which would seem appropriate). Although the sails are reasonably faithful to the design shown in the 1930s (after the tower mill went out of use, around 1914), they are considerably, disproportionately smaller; oh, and appear to be set to sweep in the wrong direction….

However, after so much time – first, with rotting stocks (below); and then completely armless (as above) – I am immensely grateful that the time and money has been spent (I presume by Lord Northampton) putting ‘our’ Grade II listed guardian monument on a par with the likes of Napton-on-the-Hill; – although, not yet, perhaps, attaining the high standards of beautiful Berkswell; the chef d’œuvre that is Chesterton (coincidentally, open to the public, this coming weekend); heavenly Heckington; or wonderful Wheatley.

We are just so very fortunate that our remaining mill has not gone the way of so many others: such as Edgehill or Warmington. Although it would be good, of course, to see it open its doors again; and for Kineton’s mill – a bigger sister to Upper Tysoe’s – to receive similar treatment.

What I had witnessed on my ascent – I then first heard, on my descent, before its swooping presence made itself irritatingly known – was some sort of remote-controlled annoyance: emitting the same sound (I imagine) as a freshly-castrated hornet; or possibly Iain Duncan Smith slandering the disabled. Thankfully, it soon disappeared, after its circuit of me and the hill; but my ears – and hearing aids – were ringing for long after.

I am sure, in the right hands, such gadgets are capable of great utility (although their larger “remotely piloted aircraft” cousins strike me as utterly horrific and inhumane…). These devices can also be used for good – for instance, in the production of awe-inspiring photography – if the top and tail of the RSC’s 2016 Summer Season launch video is anything to go by. But they are, improperly controlled – or used deliberately to provoke and intrude – an embuggerance too far: especially in not only disturbing, but completely eradicating, the peace of a beautiful, breezy, autumnal, rural idyll. (It did nothing to help my migraine, either….)

On my return, struggling to complete my circuit home (even on the flat), I espied a van from the Warwickshire Wheelchair Repair Service. This is provided by Invacare: whose slogan – which was just what I needed at the time – is “Yes, you can.” So, I did.

Wall of separation – environment…

And I brought you into a plentiful country, to eat the fruit thereof and the goodness thereof; but when ye entered, ye defiled my land, and made mine heritage an abomination.

– Jeremiah 2:7

If the plethora of homogeneous portraits of a neatly-bearded Jesus are anything to go by – you know the ones: at the centre of stained-glass windows; coloured Catholic effigies; in Ladybird books… – the fading phenomenon that is ‘hipsterism’ didn’t originate in Shoreditch, in the 1990s; nor even in the 1940s, in America; but in downtown Nazareth, sometime around the year dot.

However, this doesn’t mean that there’s been the corresponding solid ecological patrimony you might expect (just the opposite, sadly…) at the sacred heart of organized western religion for the last two thousand years; nor that we particularly equate the church (more specifically, its ‘modern’ construct, the Church of England) with environmentalism. (Mind you, we don’t equate it with “a double upside down mocha macchiato with soy – low fat, no fat, no lid [and] make it taste like Christmas too”, either. Well, not really.)

Nevertheless, if the House of Bishops’ pastoral letter Who is my neighbour? is anything to go by, the Church of England is keen to make sure it now doesn’t get left behind in the race towards saving (what’s left of) our “green and pleasant land” – undoubtedly one of the many reasons Iain Duncan Smith (despite, or because of, his oft-boasted “Catholic background”?) rapidly attempted to bully yet another typically soft target he thinks(?!) won’t fight back. Methinks he may be in for a shock…

If the responses of the media and the PM are typical of our political culture, it is unfit for purpose. Thoughtful reflections on the electorate’s disengagement are conjured into party political statements to be rubbished on party political terms. Seemingly, the church’s views matter enough to raise alarm.

– Malcolm Brown: Director of Mission and Public Affairs for the Church of England

¶

Perhaps it’s because we are so divorced from the natural world that we consider ourselves immune to the damage we inflict. As the Indian proverb says: “When you drive nature out of the door with a broom, she’ll come back through the window with a pitchfork.”

– George Monbiot: The Guardian

When even the Labour party’s Protecting our environment election ‘issues’ webpage – “A Labour government will re-establish Britain as a global leader on climate change” (which almost sounds like it’s going to try and increase pollution and levels of carbon dioxide and methane…) – has no mention of alternative power sources, but instead leads with criticism of “fun and optimistic guy” Dave ‘Hug a Husky’ Cameron’s only slightly more feeble, flood-diluted policies; and the Green party is struggling both with credibility questions and “discovering that the road from being, in effect, a pressure group that puts up candidates to being a party with real ambitions can be punishing”; I am both gratified and grateful that there is still an established, public-facing organization that has the confidence to talk openly and urgently about one of the most pressing problems we have to confront. (Frankly, the planet can just about look after itself; and will recover – or re-emerge in a different form – once we have disappeared in a large puff of smoke of our own making. But, as a species of temporary inhabitants, we are rapidly approaching the point of no return with regards to our own viability.)

According to its own guide and thematic groupings, below are the sections that the House of Bishops highlighted under ‘Environment’ (in bold – although, as before, I have expanded their extracts to show how they fit within the complete numbered paragraphs):

[2] Followers of Jesus Christ believe that every human being is created in the image of God. But we are not made in isolation. We belong together in a creation which should be cherished and not simply used and consumed. This is the starting point for the Church of England’s engagement with society, the nation and the world. All that we say here follows from this. Anglicans do not have a single view on which political party has the best mix of answers to today’s problems. As bishops we support policies which respect the natural environment, enhance human dignity and honour the image of God in our neighbour.

[27] It is vital to find better ways of talking about many fundamental questions facing us today. To name only a few of the major questions which contemporary politics seems determined to avoid, we need a richer justification for the state, a better account of the purposes of government, and a more serious way of talking about taxation. Most of all, we need an honest account of how we must live in the future if generations yet to come are not to inherit a denuded and exhausted planet.

[117] People will commit to the long term if they have a stake in it. Intergenerational justice depends upon sharing power and decision making now. By enabling people to build a stake in the communities they are encouraged to live, not only for the day, but for their grandchildren’s future – and, on behalf of future generations, to cherish the created order rather than viewing our environment as a commodity to be consumed.

To my mind, the preceding two paragraphs in the letter are also relevant – completing the ‘Our grandchildren’s future’ page:

[115] Our grandchildren’s future, not just the wants of the moment, must be factored into economic and political priorities. When prosperity – and, for the least well off, survival – appears to depend more on luck than merit and when rewards seem divorced from virtue, there is no incentive to invest in a future we will not ourselves enjoy. Why build the foundations of the next generation’s future if it could be swept away by the throw of the economic dice?

[116] This shows why economics must be understood as a moral discipline. A thriving economy needs investors who look to the long term. But when the economy has pursued short term profit and stopped thinking long term, people’s rational behaviour follows suit. It is hard to promote virtuous living when the shape of the economy sends a very different message about human responsibilities.

Reading these, it’s not difficult to see why the supposedly “quiet man” IDS exploded, is it? “Will no-one will rid me of these troublesome priests?!” The Conservatives seem to care as much for the environment, for the long-term future, as they do for the deprived and disabled (and about as much as I care for the Conservatives – ‘care’ is simply Not What They Do (not externally, anyway…)).

¶

There are a couple of other paragraphs worth quoting from, I believe – before I go on to analyse my reactions to, and thoughts on, the bishops’ proclamation. Firstly, judging austerity in the section ‘Debt and a humane economy’…

[109] …Is it sustainable? Have the medium and long-term implications been taken fully into account so that the interests of our children’s and grandchildren’s generations are factored in?

…and, secondly, discussing ‘The campaign ahead’:

[121] We believe that these points are crucial if politics is to rise above its present diminished state. Indeed, we can develop those ideas further. In July 2014, the General Synod debated how the church contributes to The Common Good. That debate suggested some further signs that political policies were moving in the direction which this letter outlines. They included… Reflecting the obligation to secure the common good of future generations, not just our own, and addressing issues of intergenerational justice. This must include a responsible approach to environmental issues.

¶

Returning to the “Indian proverb”, above, that George Monbiot quotes: around here, you would think that it would take real effort to be “so divorced from the natural world”; and yet, as I keep saying (increasing the dent in the nearest wall as I do so), we seem incredibly skilled at taking nature for granted. (Or are we simply taking the micturition: through habitual laziness and instant gratification…?)

So what is to be done to dissuade people from – or penalize them for (as this is where we really need a little proscription) – driving half a mile (or less) to the shop, to collect their morning paper or a loaf of bread; from driving their ill-exercised children short distances to the school or pre-school; or even, astonishingly, from transporting their dog in their 4x4 – which I have witnessed far too many times – to a nearby field for a short walk (and so that their pet can defecate all over some poor farmer’s crops, as well as the local footpaths), as they currently do…?

So, if those of us who live amongst some of the most beautiful and apparently idyllic fields that England has to offer, struggle to engage – for instance, why is there not a row of public electric vehicle charging points in the parking bay that stretches from the Peacock to the Reading Rooms: facilitating the hum of residents on their way to work…? – how do we genuinely and passionately reflect “the obligation to secure the common good of future generations, not just our own, and [address] issues of intergenerational justice”, in all that we do, as prompted by the House of Bishops? (And I don’t just mean rolling out detailed, beautifully-presented research on sustainability when we’re attacked by developers; only to then shove it in the back of a dusty drawer: never to see the light of day again.)

¶

Well, I think together with “prompting” us, the bishops also go some way to providing the answer – and you do not need to believe “that every human being is created in the image of God” (or need to drive to church every Sunday) to subscribe. As they say: to begin with “we need an honest account of how we must live in the future if generations yet to come are not to inherit a denuded and exhausted planet.” To which I would add that we also need an honest account of how we must live now.

Being political issues, though, climate change, as well as how we deal with it, are often discussed in fudged, rhetorical terms – and yet, being also blatantly scientific issues, backed up with incontrovertible evidence, there is nothing equivocal about them. It’s like that lump you can feel on your breast, or on your testicle – you’re frightened of the consequences; and yet you’re also ‘happy’ to let it fester until the time you eventually turn up at the doctor’s: when you’re told it’s too late, and you only have a certain, limited amount of time to live. Is it laziness? Is it embarrassment? Is it a feeling of powerlessness? All of these things can be overcome. Trust me. But not by some eleventh-hour, suddenly-newly-developed miracle cure…. The cost of doing nothing is far, far higher than the cost of doing something. And we’ve known this for years.

Perhaps a better simile might be be realizing that your customary fifteenth gee-and-tee of the night ain’t right. There are, of course, twelve steps for that – and the solution (sorry) is in your hands. This time, though, maybe the ‘cure’ is more psychological than physiological…? Similarly, there are twelve steps that you can work your way through, as an individual, as a household, to do your bit for climate change. Before it’s too late….

And, if we all carried them out (in unison; in harmony) – building “the foundations of the next generation’s future” – and the Government incentivized them with enthusiasm, and sensible economic policies: legislating for reward, penalizing nonconformance, and thereby encouraging us with both carrot and stick “to cherish the created order rather than viewing our environment as a commodity to be consumed” – who knows what might happen…?

Undertake these things community by community (as I have pleaded so many times before – and which, as the Church of England has obviously also realized, is crucial) – ‘gamifying’ those neighbourhoods’, villages’, parishes’, districts’ efforts… – and I believe we’d wake up one morning to find that it hadn’t been quite as difficult as we’d envisaged (and we’d all be sharing cute little Tysoe Energy LLP electric cars, powered by the beautiful, sleek, new Edge Hill windmills…)!

Baby steps for individuals; but requiring a mammoth change in the way politics is practised in this country, if it “is to rise above its present diminished state”. That’s the real stumbling block: simply believing that change can happen; not being frightened of it; and knowing that you can play a part in it.

“We have lost faith in any of the large available understandings of how structural change takes place in history,” the philosopher Roberto Unger said in a recent lecture in London,“and as a result we fall back on a bastardised conception of political realism, namely that a proposal is realistic to the extent that it approaches what already exists.” This is the whole of British politics encapsulated in two lines: unless a policy looks exactly like what the mainstream parties are suggesting; unless it can be funded by minor tootling on existing tax instruments (and even that will be called a “raid”); unless it will leave the fundamental structures totally unperturbed – then it is the most outlandish idea that anybody has ever heard.

     Therefore, nobody in opposition… should ever get into a conversation about how they will fund something without first underlining that the way things exist at the moment is completely wrecked. The status quo is broken; it’s not even static, it’s constantly worsening.

– Zoe Williams: The Guardian

Hither, page, and walk by me…

Christmas walking seems to be what an American friend of mine would call a “thing”, nowadays: an increasingly habitual, or even traditional, way of burning off some of those excess seasonal calories; or just escaping from the usual rituals and infinite complexities. I even noticed that the wonderful Stratford Town Walk – a very useful and entertaining introduction to “Shakespeare’s Stratford-upon-Avon” – organizes a “Christmas Day festive guided walking tour”.

However, realizing I had not attained its lofty 184 metre summit even once, this year, I decided, bright and early, to ascend the north face of Windmill Hill. So I dug out a pair of fleece-lined walking trousers; clad myself in many, many layers; pulled on a fresh pair of woollen socks, and my still-Buttermere-soiled leather boots; donned my habitual hat; and set off – fortified by a hearty breakfast – companion staff in hand.

Forth I went, through the rude wind’s wild lament, treading boldly, etc.… – and, my goodness, it was bracing! (Once I reached the top, I measured the temperature at just over 2°C; and later learned that there was a windchill factor of at least 4°C!) But I am a hardy northerner: so was not deterred – not in the slightest… – especially as the sky was a beautiful rich blue gradation, and there was hardly a cloud (nor other foolhardy soul) in sight; and it felt that you could see forever. However, the large amounts of sticky Warwickshire tilth clinging to my soles must have increased my burden (and height) quite significantly!

Looking back from the achievement of the Windmill – being moithered by a pair of squeaking blue tits (the only wildlife I saw…) – it was so easy to be proud of our three little hamlets of brick and stone, slate and clay, peeking out between the many trees below, and guarded by the Edge Hills: a sight which should make the heart of any resident beat faster (although, if I am to be totally honest, this symptom may have been fuelled a little by the climb…), and care deeply about their future. I therefore lingered a while, until my face began to freeze; and headed back – albeit a little reluctantly – for home, and a well-deserved large mug of hot coffee.

Then, last night, as the Feast of Stephen faded, typically not being able to sleep, I went on one of my regular dark patrols of Upper and Middle Tysoe – suitably attired again. No snow lay round about, as in other areas of the country: but, as the church clock chimed half-past two, it did begin to sleet from the north-west. Luckily, I had then turned my back on the prevailing weather. The night was dark as Erebus, though, and the wind blew even stronger; but, having supped a preparatory dram or two of ‘Leapfrog’, I certainly found the winter’s rage froze my blood less coldly. Still, I was immensely grateful for the oak-logs flaming in the hearth, when I returned.

A walk on the mild side…

Hi,

Just a quick email to say how useful I've found the blog, particularly as a prospective Tysoean (or Tysoenese, I defer to your experience in such matters). I’m moving your way, you see, and was wondering if you had any tips on where to wander first, what to look out for etc? Local intelligence and any advice much appreciated. No obligation, of course, but my wife and particularly poorly behaved collie want to put the right foot first, if you see what I mean.

Kind regards and keep up the good work,

Tom

Dear Tom –

Many thanks for your wonderful email – which I’m pretty sure is the first piece of ‘fanmail’ that I’ve received, in a year of writing (mostly) about the place I live; the place I love. You’re obviously possessed with excellent taste – both in writers and in villages – so feel free to give yourself a pat on the back; and why not treat yourself to a pint, the next time you find yourself in one of our local pubs!

Seriously, though, I’m glad the blog is both useful, and being read by people who don’t already live here (“Tysoeans”, I think – although that makes us sound vaguely mythical or mystical; inhabitants of an almost 21st-century Shangri-La: which, of course, isn’t too far from the truth…). I’m also pleased that it hasn’t dented your attraction to the place.

You may have to go elsewhere for “local intelligence”, though… – but, as to “advice” on where to wander: well, you’ll be spoilt for choice! When we moved here, we ordered an OS Select map from Ordnance Survey, centred on our new home: and we immediately discovered that there are footpaths galore spiralling out from the village, connecting us like a beautifully-designed walker’s web to our neighbouring villages, and beyond. Alternatively, you could grab yourself a copy of the local OS Landranger Map (151: Stratford-upon-Avon, Warwick & Banbury) – which will give you a wider range of places to explore.

So, where to go first? Well, although it currently lacks both its sails and its stocks, the windmill – on the appropriately-named Windmill Hill, between Upper Tysoe and Compton Wynyates – is an obvious landmark; and it’s up a hill (d’oh): so good exercise for all three of you! At 181 metres above sea-level, it is also a great place to survey your new domain – with wonderful views particularly north (overlooking the three Tysoes) and west (towards Shipston-on-Stour and Chipping Campden) – or, on a warm day, to have a leisurely picnic. (What do you mean: you left the wine chilling in the fridge?!)

Should you wish, instead of returning to the village, you can then wander over the far side of the hill – with your rucksacks lightened and tummies filled – down past the stunning Compton Wynyates house (sadly no longer open to the public), and across the fields – on the flat – to Whatcote or Oxhill: both of which have the requisite pub – the friendly Royal Oak and my favourite (especially for fine food), The Peacock, respectively.

If you take the path to Whatcote, you will eventually join the Centenary Way (which leaves Upper Tysoe via Tysoe Manor, one of the village’s many listed buildings). This path is well worth exploring in both directions: and, if you don’t mind the odd gradient, clambering up by Old Lodge Farm is the best way to get to our nearest National Trust property, Upton House – which has wonderful gardens, a great restaurant, and one of the best interiors of any stately home I know (especially if, like me, you’re a fan of interesting art and comfortable chairs!) – or even further along the Edge Hill ridge (famously overlooking the first pitched battle of the English Civil War).

Depending how new you are to the wider area, it contains a plethora of local National Trust properties (although not many will welcome a “particularly poorly behaved collie” I’m afraid – otherwise I would have raved about Charlecote Park: which is home to a herd of fallow deer and a flock of Jacob sheep); and Stratford-upon-Avon itself is good for gentle strolls down by the River Avon, or up into the Welcombe Hills. (Have a look at my online Warwickshire photo gallery, if you need further inspiration; or take a peek at my list of Local links.)

But you don’t always have to leave the village (Mrs Bard particularly enjoys exploring the area around the Epwell Road): as there are byways through, and connecting, all parts of it – and all pretty much on the flat – so, when I’m feeling less energetic (which is pretty much my default mode, at the moment), I’m happy just to toddle along the back lanes to the church and back; or, following the footpath beyond the church and primary school, stretch my legs as far as Lower Tysoe. As I’ve said before, “the three hamlets – from Tysoe Manor to Lane End Farm – are less than two miles from end-to-end (and that’s using the roads; not cutting corners with our frequent footpaths, or as the numerous crows fly…)”: so it’s no great strain, and there is much to be enjoyed (including a wide selection of wildlife) – whichever direction you head in!

Hopefully, this will have given you a few ideas, for once you’ve settled in (or just can’t be bothered unpacking the twentieth box of the morning…). Welcome to Tysoe! I hope the place brings you many happy times and memories.

The wheel of heaven turns above us endlessly

This is all the heaven we got, right here where we are in our Shangri-La.

– Mark Knopfler: Our Shangri-La