A Somerset Lad

A warm summer’s afternoon in Glastonbury and the town was full of its eccentric diversity. Yet as as Glastonbury may be, it is a model of sane and peaceable conduct when compared with the world beyond.

From the humdrum existence of a small West Country town in the 1970s, it has undergone a gradual transformation to become a capital city of the esoteric –  and the plain bonkers.

Perhaps it is a fulfilment of G.K. Chesterton’s maxim that ‘when men choose not to believe in God, they do not thereafter believe in nothing, they then become capable of believing in anything.’ Perhaps Glastonbury is the ultimate expression of a society that mingles beliefs in pre-Christian notions of angels and demons, with Eastern ideas of karma and reincarnation, and secular attachments to conspiracy theories. Perhaps Glastonbury has replaced Christian orthodoxy with an a la carte menu of all religions and none.

The ‘whatever you’re having yourself’ approach might allow people to pick whatever they want from the options available to them in terms of spirituality and meaning and purpose, but it seems to bring also a loss of parts of the story.

Visiting the chapel and almshouses of Saint Mary Magdalene, the beautiful garden led to an enclosure beyond. On the south wall of the enclosure, there hung a painting that might have been a scene from a book of children’s Bible stories.

There must be countless such illustrations that attempt to capture the tales of a First Century itinerant Judean preacher and his small groups of followers. Except this one was different, in this one the figures are set against the background of Glastonbury Tor. To the right lies Sedgemoor, but as it might have been in more recent times, for in the First Century it would have been water and marshland. Beyond the moor lie hills, among which is the one where my own village stands.

This is Glastonbury, this is the place to which Joseph of Arimathea is said to have brought the chalice from the Last Supper, this is the place where Joseph is said to have brought Jesus as a boy.

A woman with a glitter star in the middle of her forehead stood beside me.

‘Blake’s Jerusalem.’ I said.

She looked at me, a confused expression.

‘The Last Night of the Proms, do you know the lines?’

And did those feet in ancient times
Walk upon England’s mountains green?
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On England’s pleasant pastures seen?

The woman shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know it.’

There was a temptation to ask how much of the Glastonbury tradition meant anything without the Jerusalem allusions. Perhaps glittery stars and neo-paganism have supplanted the more ancient stories. Perhaps embracing everything means a loss of some things.

My supervisor told a story of academic intrigue.

‘It sounds something that might make a plot for an episode of Morse, culminating with a murder among the dons.’

‘Goodness me, no’, he laughed, ‘it was Hull. It w, more soapas more Vera than Morse‘.

‘Heartbeat, then?’

‘Oh no. That’s the wrong part of Yorkshire, that’s North Yorkshire. It doesn’t do to get them confused’.

‘What about Inspector George Gently? No, though, I think he is up in Vera’s patch’.

We moved on to the proper business of the meeting.

Perhaps there is a gap in the television drama schedules for a detective from Hull – a gritty rugby league fan who could quote lines from Philip Larkin and solve murders committed by jealous academics.

Sitting watching an episode of Heartbeat, it seemed a piece of harmless light entertainment, more soap opera than crime drama. Some of the characters are closer to those from a comedy programme than to the grim social realism of the BBC 4 Saturday night offerings from Scandinavia.

A striking thing about Heartbeat is the music. Snatches of 1960s tunes provide a backdrop to each of the stories. Someone familiar with 1960s discography would be able to give the date intended for each of the episodes, assuming that the music is selected with attention to detail.

The music is familiar, or it is familiar, at least, to someone of sixty-one years of age. The tunes are ones that have been played on countless occasions since their release more than fifty years ago.

The artists, many of whom are now in their eighties and some of whom are still touring, must have earned considerable royaltoes on the songs that have received so much air time. No artist recording in the 1960s could possibly have imagined that three minute recordings issued on 7 inch vinyl discs would still be earning them a regular income in their old age.

A series like Heartbeat could not be made about the 2020s.

In part, how would one make a series about the work of police officers in a rural community when there are no police officers to be seen? Once, villages had constables resident among the local population, each small town had a station. Everyone knew the name of the local members of the constabulary. Now the police have disappeared from rural areas.

In part, there is no music that would be remembered by more than a small element of the population. Pop music no longer exist.

A musical accompaniment to a crime series now would not sound like Heartbeat.

It was the retirement service for the local vicar today, spending twelve years in the parishes, she has been someone who understood the words community and service, someone who had become much loved for her gentle loving kindness, particularly her care for those isolated in lockdown.

A rare attender at church services these days, I drove to the service.

It was being held in Langport church, a building now closed for regular services and in the care of a body called the Churches Conservation Trust. Last year, I saw it advertised as holiday accommodation, it was a delight to see it restored, for a short time, to is proper use.

There is no parking at Langport church, and even if there were it has become difficult to access since the road from the Muchelney side of the town was closed after the idiotic driving of a Heavy Goods Vehicle brought the large lorry into contact with the Hanging Chapel that stands aside the road. (Are drivers and their employers ever made amenable for the costs they inflict on communities?)

Parking at Huish Episcopi church, I joined the flow of people walking the few hundred yards to Langport church. From the church tower in Langport came the sound of the peal of bells. At the church door, a queue of people had formed, each person stopping to wish the vicar well. Inside, the church was filled, only by walking to the front of a side aisle did I find a seat.

Sitting in the church, there was a moment of timelessness.

Today was the anniversary of the civil war battle which brought a clash of a 10,000 strong Parliamentary army with a force of 7,000 men on the crown side. What tragedies had been played out that day? How many people had come into this building to pray for deliverance from the violence?

How many other moments had these walls witnessed?

The congregation sang with enthusiasm and joined loudly in the responses to the prayers. Yes, there were plenty of octagenarians, but there were also dozens of primary school aged children and their families.

A girl of six or seven years of age sat nearby sang a Christmas carol to herself. Her church attendance was obviously as frequent as my own.

The Gospel reading for today was the parable of the Good Samaritan, a fitting reading for a farewell to a vicar who had sought to live by the spirit of Jesus’ teaching.

There were to be speeches and lunch to follow. Being a stranger in their midst, I picked up my jacket and nodded in apology to those around.

Walking back towards Huish, I thought I understood how my family had spent so long in this timeless place. As if in a moment of perfect synchronicity, a farm jeep pulled up alongside me and one of my uncles greeted me