Southern Escapades

The fact that I am a Canadian who chose to come to the UK to study American history has always been a good conversation starter; people always seem to get a kick out of it. As I write from Nashville the irony of my situation has increased. I arrived here almost two weeks ago to do some archival research for my dissertation, and have had to explain almost daily that I am a Canadian, living in the UK, studying US history, and that I am here to do research on Andrew Lytle, one of the twelve Souther Agrarians who wrote I'll Take My Stand. Life is never dull.

I have now completed my research and plan to spend the remainder of my time here (one day) exploring the house of President Andrew Jackson. Tonight I am taking a few moments to record some thoughts about my time and my research. 

I arrived at the Nashville airport at almost midnight, exhausted from a full day of travel, I boarded a shuttle to take me into the city. I was the sole passenger aboard a large bus, so it was not long before the driver began asking me where I was from etc. Minutes later I found my self listening to an animated lecture on American politics, specifically the driver's dislike of Obama. The driver (lets call him Bob), explained to me how the book of Revelations warns of an anti-christ and that Obama and his presidency apparently fulfilled many of the prophecies found therein. Bob was also highly suspicious of Obama's Muslim and unAmerican origins. I couldn't help smiling to myself in the dark — I had arrived in the South. As we entered the downtown area Bob began to point out the various honky tonks with obvious pride and he told me of all the places that I simply had to visit. Arriving at the door of my hostel I thanked him, and he wished me a happy stay in Nashville. 

The next day was sunny. Coming from Oxford, sun was only something I vaguely remembered like a far off dream, so I took full advantage of it and walked many miles to a park. I bought a coffee (I'm sorry to say at a Starbucks), plopped myself down under a tree and opened a book on the thought of Andrew Lytle, the character who was to consume my waking hours for the next little while.

Andrew Lytle was primarily a novelist, but he also wrote some social critique. This is the aspect of his writings which I am focusing on. Lytle took pride in his Southern origins and wrote of the distinctions between northern and southern culture, as he perceived them in the 1930s. Lytle grew up in a happy farming family and this background had an immense effect on his outlook and philosophy. Moreover, Lytle's grandmother had lived through the Civil War and reminisced over her experience of it to Lytle. In his writings Lytle warned of the dangers of industrialism, as the South he knew and loved became less and less of a farming culture and 'embraced' more and more the modern world. Lytle longed for, and called for, a return to a more communal and family ordered society in which neighbour knew neighbour and all men respected nature, instead of destroying it in the name of progress.

Lying in the park, contemplating all these ideas, I was struck by the contrast between them and those which my environment reflected. The park in which I say was beautiful. Behind me was a replica of the Parthenon, constructed in 1897 for the Exposition, and in front was a busy road, overloaded with SUVs and suburbans,  fronted with Starbucks, high rises, and other 'necessities' of the American suburb. This was a more well off part of Nashville, developed around Vanderbilt University. However, I had walked through almost slums to get to it. The disintegration of community and the evidence of an extreme capitalist society — the very things Lytle warned of— were all around me. The grace and beauty of the Parthenon behind me spoke to a past age in which people took pride in good craftsmanship and the proper symmetry of architecture. Yet the reality of this parthenon was a symbol of the progress the 1897 Exposition had advertised and heralded. The 'progress' which had resulted in the view I gazed on in front of me.

This morning I missed a bus I was supposed to catch. I sat on a bench on the sidewalk enjoying my morning coffee and watching the downtown tourists pass by, decked out in their cowboy hats and boots. Across the road was a building bearing a sign which read: Acme Farm Supplies. The building was boarded up and flanked by a chain restaurant on its left. I began to analyze the building. It was beautifully built out of brick with many ornate details and perfect symmetry. It made me wonder what Nashville used to be like before it became the "Country Capital" of the world. Maybe then the town itself was filled with craftsmen working at their trades and visited by farmers coming in to get 'farm supplies' at Acme's, or maybe I am just romanticizing; probably the latter. However, I saw Acme's Farm Supplies as another symbol of the past (probably idealized), or rather a symbol of a vision of an alternative society, one of which Andrew Lytle wrote.

One of the critiques often levied at Lytle, from the few scholars who actually bother to read him, is that his critique and commentary offer no concrete solutions to the evils he observed in society. To some extent this criticism is warranted, and as I read his work I have asked myself how one would actually begin to implement (or return) to the kind of society he envisioned. I haven't come up with the answer yet, but I believe the initial steps towards such as society must occur by reestablishing relationships between people. This may sound abstract, but if one becomes established in a city, town, neighbourhood, or village, one can then begin to know the other people living there. By establishing relationships, not only with friends, but with those who run the businesses (whether chains or independent) which you frequent, the bus driver, and the gas pumper one begins to foster some sort of community. From such a foundation other initiatives may grow and develop. On a less practical level, I believe, along with Lytle, that the realization of such a society requires a recognition, by the individuals who belong to it, of who they are and for what purpose they exist.

"For Christendom had reached that crisis all civilizations suffer when they lose their awareness of the supernal. Belief in a divine order was once as necessary as bread and as commonplace. The loss of this rarely happens as a thunder clap. It wanes slowly. [...] The fall is into history. The mutual permeation of the divine and the carnal gradually drew apart. Eyes lowered to the ground, no longer in prayer but out of curiosity about matter, which the mind began to divide into elements as a means of power over it."
"Power replaced charity."  — Andrew Lytle, A Medley. History, and Myth and the Artist. 

Part I  Cornwall 

(I started writing this post 2 wks ago when these memories were still fresh; however, I have been too absorbed with school and daily life to complete it. So here it is, a bit late and perhaps a bit rusty.)

I returned to England on 2 January, after a short holiday back home, to a week of intensive reading and writing to compensate for the lack of work accomplished over the holidays, and to allow me another sojourn the following and last week before term. Prior to the break, I and my three roommates had discussed travelling to Cornwall for a few days of revitalizing sea air. Unlike so many other idyllic plans which fail to be realized, we took the necessary steps to actualize our Cornwall adventure; we booked a cottage, and organized our transportation.

Thus a week after arriving back in England, I found myself repacking and setting out for the West. Cars being so much smaller here than in North America, it took a lot of creative manipulation to load four bodies, their necessary possessions, one dog (borrowed from a roommate's family), its paraphernalia, and the other required provisions acquired along the way, into our means of transportation. However, having accomplished this multiple times, as each stop necessitated, we finally reached West Cottage, Pentireglaze Haven, our final destination in North Cornwall. The last leg of our journey had seemed to stretch on into eternity as we travelled narrow roads, barely wide enough for one vehicle, in a thick blanket of fog.

Hours later, car unpacked, cottage explored, filled with good wine and good food, we sat in front of the fire dozing off to sleep.

There is something in the air near the sea that toys with my emotions. This may sound funny, but on all the occasions that have brought me to the sea, I find my self repeatedly reflective and philosophical. The smallness of man is so evident as one surveys the ocean, but this realization also brings with it, for me, an incredible peace. This trip was no different. I woke the morning after our late night arrival filled with excitement, like a child on Christmas morning, and ran to my window seat, rubbed the pane and peered out at the sea. Then, pajama clad, I raced down the stairs and out the front door over the fields to the sea. One of my roommates had followed, and the two of us frolicked in the waves along with the dog much to the entertainment of more reserved early morning beach walkers. Salty and soaked, we returned to West Cottage for tea and breakfast.

A Glimpse of the Sea from my Bedroom Window

As it was the middle of winter there were few tourists travelling the seaside paths and climbing the cliffs that bank the sea. The next few days were spent, one could say idly, but I prefer to say they were spent reflectively—a retreat into nature.

The Sea

Cornwall Walks

Part II  Subsidiarity's Last Stand. 

On the last full day we spent in Cornwall we decided to talk a long hike along a coastal path that, according to our maps, led to a small historic fishing village. It was already noon by the time we set out but we had determined that the two-and-a half-mile walk to the village, a quick snack, and the walk back, could be accomplished before the daylight passed. We set out. As we proceeded up craggy hills and round bends, each new view we beheld seemed more beautiful than the last. Finally, two hours and many photo stops later, we reached the "historic fishing town" hungry and hoping to find a welcoming pub. However, this village consisted of two or three little cottages and a wharf. Luckily we found a woman who was just leaving in her car and inquired as to the next nearest village. We were told Port Isaac was only half a mile away if we traveled the farmer's fields instead of the coastal path. Decided on this course of action, we recommenced our walking, driven on by our hunger. Finally, an hour later, thinking we were lost, I climbed atop a farmer's wall all overgrown with grass, and down the hill nestled in a little bay I beheld Port Isaac. I shouted with glee, and climbed back down. We began to trundle down the hill towards the village. Entering the village, I could smell the sea and noted the fishing boats moored in the harbour. It did not take us long to find a pub, which we all entered, dog included, to order pints of beer and cider and sit down, warming ourselves in front of the fire.

Port Isaac

The pub was not very crowded, as it was only about four at the time. However, apart from ourselves it was all local people who knew each other. The lady behind the bar was friendly and gave us the number for a cab to enable us to get back to our cottage by nightfall, as the pub owner came down the stairs from his living quarters and greeted us. Much revived after our pints, we traveled home.

Back in Oxford, and term begun, I was talking to a friend about his break spent here in Oxford. We sat having a pint in the beer garden of the Rose and Crown; he was telling me of the many nights he had enjoyed there over the holiday. He now knew the owner by name, and had even experienced a lock-in. A lock-in occurs when an a given night at closing time the pub owner locks those at the pub in, and they continue talking, drinking, and making merry. By locking the door the pub abides by the law that such establishments close at eleven. Those remaining within the locked pub are reasoned to no longer be in a public place, but present as the guests of the pub owner.

Soon after this encounter with my friend at Oxford's Rose and Crown, I was at another Rose and Crown, the pub in the Cotswold town of Charlbury. I had gone to Charlbury to visit a friend and we walked down to the pub on Saturday night for some live music and a few pints. In this pub I was the anomaly; everyone knew each other, those working behind the bar, and those being served at it. However, a few beers and songs later I was chatting amongst these people of all ages, while the pub owner's dogs moved in and out between the patrons' legs.

I sketch these three pub stories not to demonstrate how much I am drinking here in England, or how much others drink. Rather, as I was in the Rose and Crown in Charlbury it struck me that British pubs were really one of the last examples of successful small business and subsidiarity in action in our modern culture.

The Rose and Crown Oxford, North Parade

The pub owner, can make a successful living owning his own pub and interacting with his neighbours. Moreover, he can, to a certain extent, execute authority at the proper level by hosting a "lock-in." Even in a town, or rather city, the size of Oxford people have their local pub where they know others and are known. One can go in alone and have a pint and a word with the pub keeper, or one can go in with a group of friends. The service pubs offer is to the immediate community and the atmosphere created is one of an age largely past when people talked and met each other without prearranging it via text or Facebook, when young talked to old and proprietor to worker. Life in the pub is still lived at the local level.

Continuity and Universality in New Places

It has been far too long since I put fingers to keys. This is due to the busyness of the end of term, a broken wrist, and a lack of impetus to artistically and articulately recreate some of my experiences. Term has technically been finished for three weeks, yet I feel in many ways that I have now more projects to complete than I did during term.

At the beginning of my "holiday," I travelled north to St. Andrews, Scotland to meet my good friend for her graduation. I had never been to St. Andrews before, but had heard enough description from my friend to have formed a rough mental image of this ancient university town. Yet nothing really prepared me for the beauty situated on the shores of the North Sea. Entering St. Andrews, one is immediately impressed by the awesome ruins of the old monastery and cathedral which were destroyed during the reign of King Henry VIII. However, the beauty which confronted me was that of wind, sea, rock, and sky. The contrast between the ruined masonry of centuries past, and the powerful blue sea, and white waves, rolling into and crashing upon the sand shores at the foot of the crag, on which a castle once stood, reinforced to me the fleetingness of our existence in relation to creation and eternity.

This momentary recognition, which hit me as I stood on the cliffs overlooking the sea, was not depressing, but rather invigorating. Being but a vestige of their former glory, the ruins of monastery and cathedral powerfully called attention to the glorious powerful structures they once were. Man, so long ago, with such limited technology, created such glorious works of art and yet, they still pale in comparison to the view of God's nature in whose imitation they were made. This realization is overwhelming: what a beautiful world we live in.
I don't know why but the sea seems to have a way of drawing thoughts such as these out of me; perhaps its the vastness of it, or the power, I am not sure which, but there you have it.

Today there stands in St. Andrews, overlooking the sea, a little Catholic church, which I attended on Sunday with my friend and her mother. It had been her parish when she was studying there. Through the process of writing this, I have been struck with the continuity of God's beauty and the Church throughout the ages. In spite of trials and persecution, there remains in St. Andrews, materially demonstrated through this parish church, a remnant of the past glory present in the monastery and cathedral ruins. This beauty, constantly manifested in the sea and the stone, is the glory of God's creation and a glimpse of the beauty promised in the New Creation.

Similarly to the continuity demonstrated for me in the beauty of St Andrew's, I was a week later struck by the universality of the Catholic Church. While attending Our Lady Seat of Wisdom Academy I was introduced to the tradition of the Rorate Mass. It became one of my favourite traditions. The mass is celebrated in the early morn in celebration of the Blessed Virgin and is prayed by the light of candles. As the mass progresses, the sun begins to rise, and the church brightens signifying the light of Christ coming into the world. The symbolism and the simplistic beauty of a church lit only by candlelight has an emotional appeal to me. On the second Sunday of Advent my parish here in Oxford announced that there would be a Rorate Mass celebrated during the following week. I was so excited and struck be the extreme gift of belonging to a universal Church: home is anywhere in the world.

As it happened, I was out till the wee hours of the morning the evening before the Rorate Mass; before my head touched the pillow,  I set my alarm for three hours later to walk to the mass. As my alarm went off, what felt like seconds later, I was extremely tempted to turn it of, flop over, and get some more much needed rest. However, the thought of missing the beautiful Advent celebration provide enough impetus for me to jump out of bed before I was able to shut my eyes again. I walked to the church in the stillness of the early morn with the birds singing. The bustle of Oxford life had not begun yet and I entered the candlelit church and was filled with peace.

“Rorate, caeli, desuper, et nubes pluant iustum,” ~ “Drop down dew, O heavens, from above, and let the clouds rain down righteousness.” - Introit from Rorate Mass

Remember, Remember...

Monday was Guy Fawkes day. I have always known about Guy Fawkes day, but I have never really experienced it before. It is interesting how much it is still celebrated here in England, despite the increasing popularity of the imported and competing North American 'holiday', Halloween, and the fact that most of my contemporaries seem extremely fuzzy on the historical significance and details of Guy Fawkes and the Gun Powder Plot.

I am sure all of my readers are roughly familiar with the story of the Catholic rebel who tried to blow up the House of Lords on November 5, 1605. The plot was to kill King James I and replace him with a Catholic monarch. However, the plot was discovered, Fox was tried for treason, tortured and hung, drawn and quartered. Apparently, following the trial and execution, an Act of Parliament was passed to declare the 5th of November a day of celebration for the king's deliverance; this act remained until 1859. 

I believe that traditionally on Guy Fawkes day, dolls of Fawkes are burned atop blazing bonfires. However, my experience tonight did not involve any dolls. Ironically, despite the morbid and Protestant propagandist origins of the evening's celebrations, my experiences transported me back and reminded me of a bygone era when neighbours knew each other, and children played together on a village green, as parents watched out the window of the local pub, perhaps a baby on their knee, imbibing the local ale. Indeed, this was not far off from the scene I was a part of. 

Returning from a day in the Vere Hemsworth Library (Oxford's Library for American History), I joined two of my British housemates. We heated some mulled wine and filled a thermos before mounting our bikes for a cycle to the outskirts of town. Turning down dark Wolvercote Lane, we heard the voices of children and the sound of fireworks as the bright lights began to fill the sky. Cars were parked all down both sides of the narrow lane, and families were walking down towards the pub, called The Plough. Outside the pub, in a field, was a blazing bonfire, about fifteen feet high and surrounded by people of all ages. In the gardens immediately outside the pub, stations for beer, mulled wine and barbecued food were set up. Looking through the pub windows I could see families sitting at tables set out in front of book covered walls, and older men standing round the bar.

I headed towards the fire with my friends, passing a giant oak tree, hung with a rope swing and holding a child. Closer to the fire there was another tree; two boys had managed to climb almost to the top limbs before being ordered down. We gathered around the fire, drinking our mulled wine and trying to find that perfect balance between freezing from the cold fall wind, and roasting in the extreme heat of the fire's flames. People pulled out sparklers as one boy heaped old chairs and wooden rowboats on the blaze sending the flames even higher. 

The fireworks continued and the fire did not wan. However, the crowd thinned, as parents took children home to bed. I lingered by the fire with my housemates, enjoying its warmth and watching the train pass by just behind us. The conversation moved from jokes and summer plans to philosophy and theology before we headed back to our bikes, which were locked to the split-rail fence by the pub, and cycled home. 

Matriculation

Today begins my third week of Michaelmas. I just learned recently to distinguish which term is which, and why they are named as they are. Michaelmas, begins on the feast of St Michael. Hilary, winter term, begins on the feast of St Hilary and Trinity, summer term, begins on the Feast of the Holy Trinity. This is just one of many traditions that remains firmly intrenched here at Oxford, speaking to a rich past.

Another such tradition was one which I participated in on Saturday October 13th, first week: Matriculation.  As it was explained to me, Matriculation, in past days included an exam, written in latin. It was through this exam that University officials were assured of new students' excellence and the students were then officially registered as members of the university. Although the examination has since ceased, (thank goodness!) the Latin ceremony remains an important tradition at the Universities of Oxford, Cambridge and Trinity College, Dublin, which also serves to facilitate the practical necessity of registration as a University member. One cannot graduate from one's program, and is not officially a member of the university, until he or she has matriculated. 

The entire day of October 13th is devoted to matriculating the new students at undergrad, graduate and postgrad level for all of Oxford's 38 colleges and 6 private halls, in a series of identical ceremonies at the Sheldonian Theatre. My day began by donning sub fusc, the garb which is worn for matriculating, as well as sitting exams and graduating. Then I gathered with all the other new students of St Hugh's College in the Gardens for pictures and subsequently walked in a long line downtown to the Sheldonian Theatre. As we began our walk the weather was lovely. However, within seconds it changed to rain and hail, causing all of us walking to raise our caps for the little inadequate shelter they provided. As we reached the Sheldonian, the rain and hale ceased and the sun returned. We entered the theatre and were seated along with the new students of three or four other colleges. 

As soon as all the students were seated, the Vice Chancellor entered and we all stood as he read the words which made us all life long members of Oxford University: 'Scitote vos in Matriculam Universitatis hodie relatos esse, et ad observandum omnia Statuta istius Universitatis, quantum ad vos spectent, teneri.'

‘Know that you are today added to the Roll of the University and bound to obey all the statutes of this University, so far as they apply to you.'

Following these brief words, the Vice Chancellor gave a short talk welcoming us all to Oxford, after which we were set free to roam the town in our sub fusc and fill the local pubs, along with the hundreds of other newly matriculated and curious tourists and onlookers. 

Here is the link to a video of the ceremony. 

My matriculation in the Sheldonian

Pre-Matriculation with a Class Mate in Subfusc

Walking to the Sheldonian in the Rain and Hale 

Return To Storybook England

I have been in England for almost two weeks now, but I am just beginning to settle in and finally have a moment to drop a line about my experiences and thoughts thus far.

When I arrived here in Oxford I had no idea where I was going to live for the year, so I stayed with friends outside of Oxford in the charming town of Charlbury - where I had lived last time I came to England. A few days after my arrival, still looking for a flat, I walked out of my temporary home in Charlbury heading for the train station. I had been feeling a little lost that morning, questioning my judgement and decision to jump continents for a nine month master's program here in Oxford. Yet, as I walked the familiar route to the train station the beauty all around me reaffirmed me in my decision.

I find when in England, especially the initial weeks, I am always struck by a much more intrenched and weighty secularism than I find back home. It is not something that I can really express in words, but rather it is something I feel through the scenarios in which I find myself, conversations I have with others, and the media with which I am bombarded. As I left for the station, these thoughts were uppermost in my mind.  However, as I walked these musings were replaced, as the beauty of the old buildings of Charlbury struck me as though I were seeing them for the first time. A rain cloud had just past over leaving everything clean and fresh. I walked through the graveyard which surrounds the Anglican Church of the town (parts were built in the 12th century) and could not help but think of all the Catholics who had worshiped here in times gone by. The hill I walked down, to finally reach the train station, was lined with wild black berries, just ripening. A little further down the hill, I passed over the river and gazed at the sheep grazing beneath the Old Rectory build in Gothic Revival style. As I reached the train station, I looked up at the sun peeking out from behind the clouds and was overwhelmed by the beauty all around me, both God-given and man-made, and how they complemented each other as Creator, creation, and sub-creator should.

There is a reason England is referred to as "Storybook England." The stories of the past are still there before one's eyes, if one only stops to look. Charlbury exudes a rich Christian heritage. I was filled with hope, for behind England's present secularism there still lies a deep foundation, half buried beneath the ground but peeping up above the surface. A really authentic culture is spoken through the art (using the word art broadly) that its people create. In England, an authentic culture has almost disappeared; however the creations of the past remain to encourage the present English to reembrace an authentic culture. If only they have the eyes to see Storybook England!

On a lighter note I am off to buy my sub-fusc for Matriculation

Cheers,

Hannah