As I park up in Naseby's High Street - which although a pleasant and typical village lane, doesn't look conventionally much like a High Street - a moth flies out of my anorak as I extract it from the car boot. I think to myself that in Roman times this would have been a dire omen for the day's prospects. Just go home now! A man drives past. He's vaping through his chariot's open window. I sniff but detect no unusual whiff upon the balmy air. The giveaway's the wound-down glass. A committee of MPs is suggesting we cut vapers some slack and allow them to indulge themselves inside pubs and railway carriages. Personally I'm dead against having to peer at the world through a haze of peppermint, raspberry, or fennel and wet dog. Imagine having to commute each day with that. And before breakfast!
As I walk on down the road I wonder again how we Christians can meaningfully but collectively disagree in love, while preserving a measure of unity. Similar dilemmas arise in 'cabinet government' whether at a national level or even say, within a school's governing body. I'm told that in southern Africa, the notion of the 'indaba' allows for the gradual emergence of consensus, at the expense of much
time spent in exhausting debate. As Christians we look for mutual agreement under the guidance of the Holy Spirit in something of the same way. Anglican synods might be one means of providing for this, except we probably skip from one issue to another in too close order, just as the 'pastoral prayers' in church services very often try to cover the whole of the world's news agenda within five minutes: 'And here's another thing, God...'
The other side of the A14 bridge, the white lines disappear from the middle of my road and it becomes a lane again. I'm learning to regard the roads hereabouts as simply paths which happen to have a bit of tarmac laid across them, and to enjoy the slightly more rapid progress they afford. There isn't so much traffic, and very often the drivers who pass are courteous and helpful. I think I notice that more male than female drivers acknowledge me with a friendly wave or greeting when I step onto the kerbside, and I now attempt to deconstruct this perception. It could be diagnostic of my own prejudice, an illusional by-product of the 'male gaze'. It could actually be true, perhaps because women drivers are still sometimes less confident or concentrate more, or are reluctant to swap signals with a man. I don't know.
I pass the farms: Shuckburgh, Wolley's, Red Hill and Sulby Grange, then turn off on the diagonal towards the site of Sulby Abbey, now a Georgian farmhouse constructed partly of the monks' robbed-out stone. The fields are very lumpy and bumpy, perhaps because of house platforms, or quarries, or fish ponds. The abbey was founded in 1155, and the monks belonged to the Premonstratensian order. Actually they weren't monks at all , but 'canons regular' because they went out in their white robes to preach and minister to local villages. I'm still trying to work out exactly what being Premonstratensian meant in practice, but it's something hair-splitting and liturgical. As happened with many religious houses they got themselves into hot water in the century or so before their destruction under Henry in 1538. There was a bit of an alleged problem in 1491, when some of the canons were caught drinking in Welford, and various of them were banished to Alnwick and (poor things!) Shap for incontinence, sexual or alcoholic. It's a safe bet there were no opportunities for incontinence up on the bleak moors. I could start jokes about the sheep looking happier, but that would be vulgar and inappropriate, wouldn't it!
In a field the other side of the Abbey site, the River Avon rises and then meanders towards Welford. I pass through a gate and negotiate my path at maximum distance from a black bull, who has been (deliberately, I presume) separated from his ladies by the waters of the Avon stream. He sees me, lifts himself onto his feet, and then stares me out every inch of the way round the perimeter to the field exit.
I walk up through a pretty set of barn conversions into Welford and find St. Mary's beside what would once have been the middle street of a prosperous little town. Alas Welford has declined, but the church is still fun. Rather high, I guess, from the statue of the Virgin by the pulpit, although of course the dedication of the church is to her, so maybe not...('Hymns Old and New' on the shelves!) The loo is particularly memorable. For one thing it houses the church's safe, a splendidly impregnable article set into the wall, and an unusual juxtaposition. It's lit through some Victorian stained glass, and on the window-sill there's a framed photo of a Roman loo in Philippi, with the thought feelingly appended by the 2005 incumbent that the construction of that ancient facility required no faculty from the Diocese.
I notice two other things in St. Mary's. The first is a church chest, of the sort I come across relatively often. In Welford it's said that when travellers stayed the night in lodgings, their more precious belongings would be handed to the churchwardens who'd store them safely in the chest until they could be reclaimed the following day. The other thing is that the north chapel is more or less entirely given over to the remembrance of the fallen from the two wars. The significance of this becomes a little heightened over the next hour. One other legend about the church is worth recounting. It's said that there was once a tunnel from St. Mary's to the Abbey. No trace of this has ever been found, remarks the church's descriptive pamphlet. I'm not surprised. It would have been a massive undertaking to dig, the distance between the two buildings being more than half a mile.
There are no women in The Wharf except those behind the bar. I listen to the men banter, and observe the layout and interior decoration of the room around me, comparing it to the church I was in a few minutes ago. In the Baptist chapel of my Erith youth, one of the regular meetings was a one-evening-a-week 'Men's Fireside', which complemented the 'Women's Bright Hour' held each Wednesday afternoon. The male half of our Weston Favell church in 2018 is still invited to 'Men Allowed' for breakfast on occasional Saturday mornings. And so are our traditional and questionable Christian gender patterns preserved - our own mini-reflection of the Jewish and Muslim insistence on 'separate development' for the sexes.
Two problems. One should be the associations of 'separate development' for anyone with anything other than a tin ear, although I know the expression in this instance is mine, and deliberately provocative. The other is to know how we should reflect the desire for all individual groups to find 'safe space' while remaining a ...Jerusalem...builded as a city...that is at unity with itself (Psalm 122, or if you like, C.H.H. Parry's famous anthem: 'I was glad').
I join my old friend, the Jurassic Way for a hobble around a bit of Sulby Reservoir and a traverse of its dam. I meet a woman walking with her small, yappy dog. She has a narrow boat on the canal. She likes the reservoir and says how lucky we are to have access to such beautiful bodies of water. I agree. She observes that the water level is low. Together we eye up the herd on the far bank, in whose direction she's walking. I check that she's up to speed on 'what to do with your dog around cattle'. She is. I go the opposite way across the fields with the drone of light aircraft in my ears all the way to wonderfully-named Sibbertoft. Husbands Bosworth, just north of the county boundary, was a WW2 airdrome, which as the war dragged on hosted many Polish airmen, and subsequently became a settlement camp for them and their families. The connections continue. In Welford church I'd seen a touching letter to the churchwarden written last May by the daughter of a Polish woman who'd recently passed away. Right to the end of her life she remained fond of this place and the people who'd reached out to her in a time of exile and service.
Climbing a low stile, I'm suddenly struck by the paradox that it's quite likely the very people keenest on preserving our yearly celebration of Remembrance unaltered are also the most passionate supporters of Brexit. At least here in Welford/Sulby/Husbands Bosworth I hope account is taken that we went to war, not only for ourselves, but because we were outraged at the treatment of the Polish nation. And that subsequent to the peace there was a determination such things should never again happen in Europe.
The main street in lost Sulby
St. Helen's church is locked. I sit on the bench outside and say a prayer, not much more than a request that God bless the people of the village and those who minister to them, then walk on to encounter Bob and Liz and their little white Hyundai. They're looking for a Naseby battlefield viewpoint the map tells them should be just here, beside the lane. I walk with them a while, and share their puzzlement that no viewpoint's forthcoming, then leave them and retrace steps to my intended route where I find what we were looking for hidden the far side of a hedge. It's not a viewpoint in the conventional sense, just an information board. The only things to be viewed are a few fine horses, some stout fences and a lot of obscuring greenery. Further on, once the bridleway has rejoined the lane up to Naseby village, Liz and Bob pass me again, and I share with them what they've not missed. They offer me a lift up to Cromwell's Monument which I decline, explaining my Rule doesn't permit.
The straight little road suddenly becomes very busy. There are cyclists, and a combine harvester, and a brace of Anglian Water vans. They're looking for a leak, and ask if I've seen one. I haven't. Then a vintage tractor passes me. It's a Fordson Super Major in blue. I'm rapidly becoming a tractor nerd (see previous post).
At the Monument I meet Bob and Liz again. We survey the scene of Broad Moor where (perhaps) the Battle of Naseby was fought. The King's army lost, and Charles' fate was more or less sealed. It was a decisive step on the road to his house arrest, and eventual trial and execution, before England spent a lost decade tasting Republicanism. The sweep of the shallow valley is very suggestive of a field of battle. Today it looks very picturesque with the corn cut and the sun shining. I learn more about Liz and Bob. They're Lancastrians on their way down to Bletchley Park, via Edge Hill and Naseby. I venture the thought that they might be history teachers. Bob says he was. Liz is a Methodist and Bob's a Rotarian. As sometimes happens in these casual meetings we cover a lot of conversational ground in fifteen enjoyable minutes, everything from Rishton Cricket Club to Northampton Council's inadequacies, before they go off to find their gaff for the night at Maidwell's The Stag.
So, to return to the question I posed in the previous post, is what the three of us have just been doing 'dark tourism'? No, I don't think so. It's very hard to stand by the Cromwell Monument, even on a lovely day, and not be moved by the terrible consequences of the Civil War. Some estimates put the loss of life throughout England from injury or deprivation at as much as a quarter of the population. It was simply a dreadful thing. At Culloden, in a different context, I experienced such a psychic whacking that it's stayed with me through most of a lifetime. And a solo visit to the site of the Jewish ghetto in Lodz one gloomy March morning created a similar unforgettable impression. Perhaps children need to see the First War trenches to get a grip on the awfulness of 1914-18. On the other hand, with apologies to my friend and one-time pupil Tim Perkins, I think the Sealed Knot may not be such a good idea. There's a danger of trivialising the tragedy, as there can sometimes be with 'celebrations' of more recent conflicts. For all the power of a full Albert Hall, the greater the number of people sharing the experience, the greater the risk of a wrong emphasis, it seems to me. The difficulty for Naseby is that it's a place of great importance for English history, but there's little to actually see, so explanation will always remain problematic.
Naseby: Broad Moor
Pies in the sky: 19 km. 5.5 hrs. 23 deg. C. Sunny intervals and a cooling intermittent breeze. 8lb pack. 9 stiles. 15 gates. Reports this week cast doubt on the accuracy of Fitbits (which is how I measure my distance travelled). Some say they show too many steps, some that they show too few. Well, go figure! If you're looking for absolute accuracy, forget it, but within acceptable margins, they work very well. I count my steps, then assume a step length of .75 metre for the distance. This probably means I over-estimate, but not by much.
Father
Unimaginable
What happened in these fields
Unimaginable
What still happens in some places this very day
'Heal your children's warring madness'
The hymn begs
'Blessed are the peacemakers'
Exhorts the Gospel
May I be in their number
In my home
My community
My church
My nation
Amen.
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