Today I left Londres with the Maltese Coder for a trip to see the rising waters in the Eastern mudflats. We saw a tree half submerged, only half of its crown poking out. All the buds were dead. In another place we saw the soil being washed away, exposing the network of roots beneath. Trees were falling over the low cliff onto the seaweed-strewn beach. Despite all this our mood was high. The day was gloriously sunny, so much so that I now have a pink face.
We went through Woodham Ferrers, the latter name having come over with the Norman conquest. This could be regarded as quaint, if I didn’t know the legacy of land ownership arising from that invasion. The subsequent enclosures added injury to injury. When people say that the Isle is a violent colonial power and we should be ashamed of that history, I feel compelled to point out the first victims of violent landgrabs were here, on this Isle. Colonialism always has a class dimension that is worth considering: some benefit more than others. Just ask the Duke of Belgravia.
Time to start planning for the spring equinox. Perhaps we should invent a ritual to repel Normans. Or perhaps it should be a ritual to repel violent rulers. That one is timeless.