The Thinker's Arms

2003-08-29T19:00:00.000-07:00

This evening, before a crowd of people in “The Thinker’s Arms” – well, actually only two, but they were stout yeoman farmers – you know the type -Professor Barstow announced the death of literature. “Henceforth” he declaimed, “literature as we know it is dead. No-one really cares any more about characters, plot, setting. All they desire is entertainment. Literature is dead”.
“But, Professor” – the question came from the back of the room, “if literature is dead, shouldn’t you resign?”
This question was like an unexpected googly, when the professor was lining up to face a fast ball; he hesitated slightly, “Well” he began. The pause seemed to give him confidence, “The twenty first century marks the death of literature, but we are far from understanding or appreciating the literary canon of the previous twenty centuries.”
“So, shouldn’t we study archaeology, then?” the questioner persisted.
“Very funny” the Professor replied, disarming his questioner as if he imagined himself Alistair Campbell wrongfooting the BBC. “But the ideas and thoughts of the literature of the past still affect today’s culture. How we see ourselves is drawn from the nexus of our cultural experiences.”
“Oh, yeah” came a sarcastic drawl, “so how can a ‘Sun’ reader know himself”.
“Well, he just has more limited cultural horizons” replied the professor quickly, “but in our modern society, all cultural horizons are valid.” With a deadpan expression he continued, “who are we to judge the relative merits of Shakespeare and the ‘Sun’ ?. It might be argued that the ‘Sun’, the most read daily newspaper in Britain, reflects our culture with more honesty.”
“Yeah, especially page 3”, a sniggering voice announced.
“As I was saying” Professor Barstow continued, “I come to praise literature not to bury him. Literature died at the hands of lesser authors, who preferred to write genre fiction, and entertain, and sell books, rather than grapple with the real issues of the human condition. There are no more Shakespeares to reveal the men and women within.”
A well-educated voice replied, “But can’t even genre fiction deal with the realities of the inner life. For example, fantasy can provide a mythology that puts the spiritual plane into a way that we can relate to.”
“Nonsense” replied Barstow, “fantasy provides the comforting, and dare I say it, reactionary notion that ‘good’ will always overcome ‘evil’, just like detective fiction. Real life is more complicated than that. ‘Good’ and ‘evil’ often coexist together. ‘Good’ in one setting is ‘evil’ for someone else. Literature brought out these complications, which became more apparent as humanity advanced. That is why DH Lawrence was a better writer than Shakespeare because he did not shrink from our animality”.
“Animality’ said the sarcastic voice., “what kind of made up word is that”.
“It means behaving like animals” the Professor responded briskly, ‘which is what we humans are. We are brute beasts who can write and speak. That is all. Goodnight”.

2003-08-28T19:11:00.000-07:00

With the holidays and harvest in full swing, the conversation in “The Thinker’s Arms” has been very sparse lately. Until today that is when one of our regulars, Timothy Trentt, announced in a loud voice, “What’s the country coming to! A report I read today says the English are the rudest tourists in Europe. That can’t be true. I mean, I always get excellent service when I travel to Gstaad or St. Moritz; have to speak a bit loudly sometimes, but these foreigners don’t always pick up things the first time”.
While Trentt was pouring forth – some have cruelly suggested that he added the second “t” to his surname in order to distinguish himself from the river his verbiage so clearly resembles- a bold stranger piped up, “Well, you could always learn a few phrases of French, or German”
“Sorry, old chap” Trentt replied, holding his hand to his ear to make his deafness clear “didn’t hear what you said. Lost hearing in my right ear on the Normandy beaches, you know”. This is another bone of contention. Monty Longston, who was on the beaches on 6 June,. swears blindly that Major Trentt never went further towards Europe than the Grand Hotel in Brighton.
The young stranger spoke loudly and slowly with exaggerated care, “I-said-you- could-always-learn-a –few-phrases-of-French-or-German”
“What’s the point of that” replied Trentt, genuinely bemused, “everyone knows that all foreigners who serve tourists speak English. They’d be more offended if I mangled their language. Anyway, these languages are so ridiculous and long-worded, unlike the plain straightforwardness of English.”
“Even given that the roots of English are a blend of German, French and Latin” the stranger waspishly suggested.
But Trentt was no longer paying attention. He droned on, “and they say the English are so vulgar and uncultured. Well, I suppose the lower orders are, but who cares about them anyway? How many foreigners would know what “timeo Danaos et dona ferentes” means ?”
“What does it mean?” Professor Smythe, a lecturer in classics, replied.
‘Who guards the guardians, of course’ Trentt eagerly replied, a schoolboy keen to please, ‘the benefits of an Eton education, you know”.
Professor Smythe beamed broadly as Trentt fell into his elephant trap. “Actually that was ‘quis custodiet ipsos custodes ?’ Juvenal’s ‘Satires’ you know. “Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes’ is ‘beware of Greeks bearing gifts’ and is from the ‘Aeneid’”.
Trentt was discomfitted now, “Well, what does that matter, anyway? The point is that whenever I spend my summers in Provence or Tuscany, the locals are so pleased to see me. “ ‘Monsieur Trentt,’ they say, ‘you must come and sample the ‘Chateau du Ronnec’, ’39 vintage. I know you are a true “connoisseur du vin’ and this is a rare vintage indeed’. Not that there are too many locals in the village –unless you count the Shepherds from Devizes and the Wiltons from Cirencester.’”
“They’re probably too sensible to hang around a crowd of rich braying drunk upper class snobs” said the young stranger with contempt. He placed his glass on the table with deliberate loudness, and left, accompanied by a shocked silence.
“How rude” said Trentt loudly, and with the crowd around he bemoaned the descent into yobbishness of the lesser breeds.

2003-08-27T19:53:00.000-07:00

Apparently, there was a Bank Holiday earlier this week. Here in Upney St. Mary, though, we don’t set much store by these national holidays. Our breaks reflect the natural progressions of the year, so with a harvest to gather in, our farmers will not want to take any breaks. September is coming soon, so they will want to have the wheat in barns, before the weather breaks down.

It is only recently that the village altered its clocks to fit in with the rest of the country. In most other places, the coming of the railway required each station to harmonise its time with the other stations on the line to ensure punctuality. But the railway never reached here, and so the village always took its cue from the church clock. The previous vicar, in a display of independent bloody mindedness – typical of the man, so I’m told – set the clock ten minutes fast. This was popular with the parishioners because it meant the service finished ten minutes early, giving them plenty of time to natter before ambling to “The Thinker’s Arms” for a leisurely pint.

However, the sad march of progress has finally turned up here. Last 11 November, the local British Legion were joined by a group from Oxcaster for the two minutes silence. Since the time of commemoration was set by the church clock, the silence began and ended well before the official time. All would have been well if one member of the Oxcaster delegation, had not happened to be watching TV just after the commemoration. To his horror, he heard that the “two minute silence” was beginning. He passed on this information to the national president of the Royal British Legion, who wrote a snotty letter to the vicar, demanding that he explain this insult to the war dead. The tone of the letter was so venomous, that it took six cups of strong tea for the vicar to recover.

So, in order to expiate the village’s shame the vicar made the ultimate sacrifice and had the clock set to the correct nationwide time. One small part of individuality is crushed by an iron wheel. Just don’t expect the farmers to celebrate.

2003-08-24T11:06:00.000-07:00

After the Patron’s Day service, “The Thinker’s Arms” is crowded, as the villagers celebrate the munificent generosity of the Scrimley family in the time-honoured English tradition of downing a pint before going home to their roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, and an afternoon spent in the garden. Although not at the service myself, (being a pub landlord has its advantages), I can get a flavour of it from the conversation.

“Vicar did well today” said Toby Chelkinghorn, “preached a good sermon on how we should be grateful to the Scrimley family for their many generations of service to our village, and to England. He reminded us that in times of peace the Scrimley’s have lavished their attention on the village, and in times of war they have served England and the Empire loyally. God has blessed us and our nation with such loyal and devoted servants, and they remind us of our duties – to serve and honour those whom He hath placed in high esteem’.

Was I the only one who heard the muttered voice – “served their country. Hah! from a safe distance, perhaps”. I wondered again about Uriah Dempster. He had left the village because his questioning of the devotion paid to the Scrimley’s had outraged the tenant farmers. Maybe, though, his spirit was still at work, unsettling the ancient bonds of loyalty on which this village has rested for a thousand years.

“It saddens me, though” Chelkinghorn continued, “that there are those who would tear up that loyalty. What kind of country would it be without great families to lead us?”

“America” said a loud voice with withering contempt, “they believe that everyone is equal there. Of course they say it, but they don’t really believe it. No black kid from an inner city school is going to become their President. No, our ways are better. We know our place, know that we are meant to serve, and leave the ruling to those whose birthright it is to rule. Question anything and the whole structure is brought down”.

“Mere anarchy is loosed on the world” said another doleful voice. “Better the Scrimley’s than that.”

“Anarchy is better than deference” a young, cultured voice remarked. A youth in jeans and T-shirt, clutching an electric guitar by the neck, had just entered the bar. His clothes were ragged, and he wore dirty flip-flops. The crowd looked at him in amazement, for this was Josiah Scrimley, youngest son of the family. He was just eighteen.

“Well, if you say so, young Scrimley” an old man at the bar replied in a quavering voice, “but such words could haunt you.”

“I know my family, though” Josiah replied with a sarcastic laugh, “they’ve bought you all with their displays of public generosity, whilst they manage their estate with an iron grip. How many tenant farmers were evicted because they failed to pay their rent on time?”

“If any were, it is because they were idle and lazy” replied Ranulf Digby, “they wasted their lives on drink and debauchery.”

“Last week, young widow Perkins and her baby son had to leave their cottage, because my mother wanted that land for an extension to the flower garden” Josiah replied. “I didn’t see her drinking or smoking pot”.

“Well, her ladyship knows best young man” Chelkinghorn replied and in a placating tone he continued, “as I’m sure you’ll find out one day”

“I don’t think so” said Josiah, “because I’m leaving England and never coming back.”

A car had pulled up outside. Josiah swung the door open and we saw him jump in. The driver revved the engine. We heard the car’s roar fade in the distance.

2003-08-23T13:06:00.000-07:00

Upney St. Mary had its annual church fete and flower show today. This is a hallowed and time-honoured tradition that dates back at least…twenty years. Lady Scrimley inaugurated the tradition, with the then vicar’s help, in order to benefit the church roof fund. The church roof was repaired on several occasions, but the proceeds from the fete and flower show all go to this fund. Mediaeval roofs must need ongoing restoration….strange how this one has lasted for about one thousand years.

The fete follows a strictly traditional format. It is heralded by a procession of steam traction engines, and farmers in carts pulled by heavy horses. The horses are groomed until they shine and have gleaming golden horse brasses. They process up to the grounds of Scrimley Hall where the fete is held. Lady Scrimley opens the fete, and then distributes to all of the children under thirteen the “Scrimley dole” – a golden guinea and an orange. The fete has traditional steam-powered fairground rides, as well as coconut shies, rolling old pennies down a slide, and goldfish in plastic bags for prizes. Cream teas are served, with scones homebaked at Scrimley Hall.

After everyone has enjoyed the pleasures of the fair – which they do every year, because the weather is always hot and sunny – the climax is the award of prizes for the flower show. By custom, prizes for the biggest vegetables always go to the men of the village. As they receive them, they tug their forelocks in deference to her ladyship. The final prize is the prize for the most beautiful rose. It is an unspoken rule in the village that only Lady Scrimley can enter this competition, and of course only she can win. This year she did, and made the same acceptance speech as every year before.

“The Thinker’s Arms” has never played much part in the fete. Our one contribution is the trial of strength stall, where each contestant has to strike a pin with a sledgehammer. When the pin is struck, it releases a block which rises up a measuring pole. The one who gets the block highest wins the prize – a year’s worth of pints of Old Sharpleton. This year, Malcolm Corbett won, but no one got the block high enough to strike the bell. That was only done once – by Roland Bell in the contest’s first year (he vanished soon after – rumour had it that he had sold his soul to the devil in return for his prodigious strength, and that he was seen with a black hound at the nearby crossroads; others said he was found sleeping in a ditch drunk, and vanished to avoid his wife’s rolling pin).

Tomorrow, will be the Patron’s Day Service at St.Verna’s. The service thanks God for the bounteous generosity of the Scrimley family. The vicar is expected to preach an oleaginous sermon full of praise for the Scrimley virtues, and reminding everyone how good it is to know your place and stay in it.

After the fete, many of the village’s men, along with the farmers, come down to “The Thinker’s Arms” to flee their wives and children. Drink loosens them up; this year was no exception; Uriah Dempster, a farmer’s son, blurted out, “This fete is all fake. It is completely bogus. Scrimley just puts it on to make her look good. Why should she get all this praise?”

There was the stillness before the storm as he finished. Tension hung like a thick curtain over the room. “What foolishness did you say, Dempster,” a ruddy faced man growled, “How dare you speak thus of her Ladyship!”

Other voices joined the chorus of disapproval. Faces laced with beer grew redder than tomatoes. The scene was like a Bateman cartoon.

Dempster, though was unabashed. “You feudal addle-brained peasants! She owns you, body and soul! Don’t you want to be your own people for a change, rather than enriching her ladyships’s coffers”.

Anger succeeded tension. Beer glasses were placed down. A loud voice said, “Leave now, traitor boy, or we’ll string you from the oak tree.”

I had to act. I moved from behind the bar, and confronted the crowd, who were moving like a giant wall, towards Dempster. “No-one is going to touch him” I said, even though I thought the anger and drink might be too potent a force for anyone to stand against.

“Out of our way, landlord” cried one voice, “This young whelp needs a sound thrashing”. As an illustration of their intent, some of the crowd brandished riding whips.

“No” I said. “Are you in league with the boy, then ?” one very drunk voice cried. The others in the crowd silenced him. “Don’t be silly, Bob. Ted is a loyal villager”. The other was not convinced, “Then how come for the last twenty years I’ve never seen him at the Patron’s Day Service.” “Well, that’s obvious” said another, “who else would serve us our Sunday pints after church”. “Oh I hadn’t thought of that” the first voice subsided.

I turned and whispered to Uriah, “Leave now”. I hoped he would slip out the door but mistook his passion. He yelled, “I am leaving, and I am shaking the dust of this slave village off my feet. You can stay in this prison but I – I choose freedom”.

Then he left, slamming the door quickly. A few seconds later, I heard the beat of hooves on the road. I got up from the floor; I had dived under a table to avoid a trampling as the furious crowd surged out. Later, I learned that Uriah had vanished and was never seen again in the village.

2003-08-20T17:40:00.000-07:00

There was an intriguing article in the “Upney St. Mary Bugle”, our local paper. Apparently, old Jack Adams who farms up on the Westcaster Road, looked out over his wheatfield two nights ago. He says he saw the wheat flatten as if a gale was roaring through, but it was hot,. humid and still. As he looked, the thought was implanted, “If you build it, they will win.” He went to bed, and the next morning went out to see his field was exactly as he had left it. Two days later, he looked out of the same window at night, and saw, emerging from the wheat a tall full bearded man, dressed in cricketing whites, and carrying an old fashioned doctor’s bag in one hand and a cricket bat in the other. Now Jack is a living almanac of cricketing lore, and he knew that the man taking his stance at an imaginary crease was none other than W.G Grace. As he looked, he saw another figure appear from the wheat; a tall lean man also dressed in whites, and holding a ball; with a shock he realised it was Ray Lindwall, the Australian fast bowler of the 50’s. Lindwall bowled to Grace, who smote a towering return over cover point. Surely that must have been a six; in his head Jack swears he heard the ripple of applause. The next ball Grace faced, he snicked a quick single. Jack was so engrossed – he swears – that he hadn’t seen that the remainder of the Australians had entered the field. Grace ran and the batsman who replaced him was Denis Compton. He now faced Lindwall and drove a sweet drive past silly point for four. Jack stayed up most of the night – he’s a widower and farms alone- until his eyes nodded shut. When he awoke. He went to the field. It was completely untouched. Not a stalk of wheat was damaged –yet he was sure that he heard a voice announcing “This is the Timeless Test”.

At the weekend his son came to visit. When his father told him of his experiences, he pooh-poohed the whole idea. “You’re getting senile, old man. I should have Dr. Struthers check you out”. But Jack was insistent, and suddenly his son, who is a bit of a local entrepreneur, suddenly got a gleam in his eye. “Dad” he said, “you’ve hit the goldmine.” His father looked at him perplexed. “Why don’t we tell people your story” his son continued , “and set aside a portion of the wheatfield for people to come and watch imaginary cricket matches?” “But who will come ?”. “Cricket fans desperate to relive an era where England could actually compete with and beat the best teams in the world.” His father wagged his head sceptically. But Jack had left the harbour now. His visionary sails aloft he ploughed on. “Corn circles are passe; we aren’t allowed to plant this field under EU rules; so why don’t we sell this story – we’ll make more than we will from farming”. So Jack called Don Quoitt, the editor of the “Bugle” and he sent his newest trainee reporter, Gillian Haverest, to get Jack’s story – they paid for the privilege.

“So old Jack’s going to come into some money at last” remarked Peregrine Fincham, “I’m pleased for him”. There was a general round of approval, tinged with a sense of ‘I wish I’d thought of that one’. “Well, he’d better buy us all a round then” added Monty Norcross genially. Jack was popular, and respected for his hard work and frugality.

It was then that I noticed the tall stranger in a dark suit, standing at the back of the saloon.
He was holding a copy of the “Bugle” in his hand, and had a faint smile. “Will you tell them, or will I ?” he said.

“Tread softly, for you tread on their dreams” I replied.

“Listen up, gentlemen” the man in the suit said. I noticed for the first time that his accent was a soft American accent, “I’m sorry, but you’re too late. This has already happened in America”. There was distinct rustling of disapproval, like the increasing wind before a gale, turned in the smart man’s direction. I distinctly heard a huffy voice say “What’s that blithering fool talking about. Americans don’t know anything about cricket”.

“Yes” the man in the suit softly replied, “but we do know about baseball. In the state of Iowa there is a field outside Dyersville, where people come to watch imaginary baseball games. It was inspired by the movie ‘Field of Dreams’ in which Kevin Costner sees baseball players emerging at night and playing ball. So, I’m sorry, but you are too late”.

No-one saw him leave, but when I looked up he had gone. ‘Another reality check in the way of good fiction’ I thought as I polished some beer glasses.

2003-08-19T17:54:00.000-07:00

Monday 18 August

The end of civilisation is on us. Apparently, in one of the London newspapers there was a headline in bold “The Death of Seriousness”. The gist of the article was that an opinion poll of 2,000 randomly chosen Brits were asked to rate 5 recent news stories in order of importance. The stories were as follows: the death of David Kelly and the Hutton Enquiry; the continuing instability in Iraq; Prince William’s 21st birthday; the European heatwave; the transfer of David Beckham to Real Madrid. The results showed that 55% of respondents regarded David Beckham’s move as the most newsworthy story, followed by 30% in favour of Prince William’s birthday party. Only 2% regarded Lord Justice Hutton as worth paying any attention to, and Iraq elicited only a 5% interest rating.

“This is scandalous” remarked Professor Williams, a lecturer in Middle Eastern history, as he contemplated a pint of Old Sharpleton, “soon no-one will care about anything, except eating, sleeping and being entertained. Humanity is descending into an animal-like pit”.

“Cheer up, Professor” said Isaac Dimmer, one of his PhD students, who had popped in at lunchtime to “The Thinker’s Arms”. “Every generation is convinced that the next one is betraying its inheritance. Wasn’t it Plato who complained about the lack of learning of the students of his day?”

“Yes, I know” replied the Professor wearily, “but when even the broadsheets splash speculation of David Beckham’s future whereabouts across their front pages, what hope is there?”

At this moment, Nathaniel O’ Kelly, a local salesman came in cheerily, “Landlord” he smiled broadly, “I can give you a special deal on big screen TV’s right now. You can liven this place up”. He looked around at the bare wooden floors, and the mostly empty tables – it was early afternoon, so the farmers were still in their fields. To Nat this must have represented a selling opportunity beyond price. Nat, you see was one of those unfortunates who generally latched on to selling a product several years after it was trendy or fashionable. As late as 1986, he was trying to persuade a sceptical public in the village that a Sinclair C5 would be a sound investment.

“Sorry, Nat” I replied, “ ‘The Thinker’s Arms’ has no need of big screen TV’s. We do very well by just being open and providing a place for people to engage in serious discussion. That’s a bit of niche marketing for you.” Nat turned away in disappointment, “Don’t be too disheartened. Here, have a pint. That will cheer you up.”

Isaac Dimmer now had the floor, while Professor Williams puffed his pipe disconsolately. “Don’t worry, Professor. If ordinary people are diverted by the Royal family or football it means that we intellectuals can get on with running the country, like we always have.”

“But Dimmer”, the Professor replied, “don’t you see that the whole point of education is that you diffuse that knowledge so everyone can benefit”.

“Don’t be so old fashioned, Professor” Isaac replied in a tone of gentle mockery, “Education, like everything else belongs in the marketplace, and better that we profit than some unwashed, beer-swilling oaf”.

At that point, a large meaty fist smashed down on the table between the Professor’s and Dimmer’s pints. “Are you calling me unwashed and stupid ?” said a voice with a thick rural accent, “Because oi don’t appreciate it”.

Dimmer, a thin pasty looking man, looked up in fright, to see Giles Farbelow staring down at him. Giles is the archetype of the local farmer to look at, but in his spare time he contributes articles to a net journal on the thought of Soren Kierkegaard.

“No” said Isaac stuttering “N-no offence meant”. He gulped his pint down and left hurriedly.

Giles sat in the vacated Isaac’s chair, “Well, Professor” he said, “and how is the international symposium on mediaeval Arabic thought progressing ?”

2003-08-17T18:11:00.000-07:00

Friday August 8

"On holiday. Back soon" - handwritten note on the door of "The Thinker's Arms".

2003-08-11T20:32:00.000-07:00

Thursday August 7

This afternoon, the village came to a sudden halt as a coach party of foreign tourists pulled up in the parking area opposite “The Thinker’s Arms”; the coach was belching smoke from underneath, and so the driver pulled up with a loud screech of brakes and sparks. The shock was enough to cause PC Stoddart, our village bobby, to swerve on his bike and fall, landing in the old horse trough outside the pub, from whence he emerged blubbering, and covered in weed, like the legendary leviathan of Scrimley lake (it is widely believed that the origin of the Leviathan was in the imagination of George, the 23rd Lord Scrimley, who was known for his eccentricity in the early 19th century) . Fortunately, the 100 degree heat dried him quickly. We invited him in, and a pint of scrumpy on the house later, PC Stoddart was none the worse for wear.

The shock to our constable’s system was that tourists (and even people from north of Birmingham) do not by and large visit our village. Tourists stay on the main roads and clog up Bath or Oxford or York. They do not come down here, unless they are students of mediaeval architecture and history, or visiting academics, studying the local folk customs.
But the coach party were flesh and blood foreigners. Most were Europeans, French, German, Italian and Spanish, and a couple of Japanese.(Fortunately, they were too polite – or blind – to notice Major Galcock’s spitting in the dust by their feet. He was imprisoned in Changi Road Jail in Singapore for the duration of the war.) Most of these were in their late teens or early twenties, and were clad in T-shirts, jeans and flip flop sandals – both men and women. Three of the tourists were from the US – a couple from Nebraska, and a blonde Californian, who looked like he’d mislaid his surfboard. Finally, there was a couple from Walleroo, New South Wales, Australia. They were in their 70’s, and were called Elizabeth and Glenys Wright. Although white haired, and seemingly frail old ladies, they had the sort of expression on their face that suggested a determination to survive, even if it involved eating witchetty grubs and wrestling crocs bare handed.

“Strewth, .mate”, Glenys asked the driver, “where are we?” “Search me, love” said the driver, whose accent showed that he had not ventured much beyond London, “this looked like a nice short cut. I thought you’d see more this way than in a traffic jam on the A303.”

“Yeah, but” Elizabeth butted in, “we’re supposed to be seeing Stonehenge today; tomorrow we do York; Friday Edinburgh; Monday London; and then we have Europe in 7 days”.

“Well, this was all part of my plan” said the driver, fibbing furiously and convincing no-one, “I thought you should see one traditional English village. Notice the church and the pub opposite one another, separated by the village green. Very traditional, that is”.

“You don’t know where we are” said Elizabeth menacingly, “you’ve ruined our trip of a lifetime. This place isn’t real. You took more than a wrong turning. You’ve blundered into another part of the space time continuum, and we’ll never return to show our families the photos of our trip to Europe.”

The sharpness of Elizabeth’s tone had woken the village. All along the main road, net curtains were twitched back from the windows. Then from out of the shadows, as if conjured by dust, phantoms emerged and coalesced; beginning as swirls, these ghosts took shape and became corporeal beings. They were male, muscly and redfaced, and each of them were carrying pitchforks. They advanced on the tourists with implacable stony expressions. Surrounding the tourists, they began to tramp around them as if enacting a ritual. Several of the young women were crying softly; one of the Americans spoke loudly “I am a US citizen. What is the meaning of this outrage?”. The tramping figures simply ignored him. Angrily, he grabbed at one but it was like putting his hand through fine sand.

“Oh no” said the drying PC Stoddart, “She’s woken the Guardians. Her comments angered them, and they will require atonement. How can we stop them?”

“Maybe you should call the vicar.” I hastily replied, “He’ll know what to do.”

So PC Stoddart dialed the vicarage; “He’s in the garden” Mrs Pewter replied, “I’ll call for him”. A minute later, the vicar was on the phone “Ted, what appears to be the matter”.

“The Guardians have awakened and are surrounding a group of tourists. They are very angry. Someone has to call them back”.

“Only Lady Scrimley, as ruler of the village, has the power to return the Guardians to sleep” replied the vicar. “She must be summoned”

I called to Scrimley Hall. The calm, measured tones of Hartsop, Lady Scrimley’s butler answered. I explained the situation and he said “I will advise her ladyship at once.”

Meanwhile, the Guardians, as they walked had been shouting louder and louder, in an unknown tongue. Then there was the silence that portends an explosion. They had lowered their pitchforks, and the tourists were screaming. Suddenly, there was a drumming of hooves on the dirt road. Lady Scrimley stepped down from her carriage; an elderly, grey haired lady; power was etched in every line of her face.

Speaking in a clear voice she asked “Guardians, why have you awoken?”. They said nothing, but shuffled their feet in the dust. “I shall ask again” she said in a schoolmistress’ tone, “why have you awoken”. One Guardian said, “The honour of our village was impugned, and those who dishonour us must pay”. “How was this?” asked Lady Scrimley. The Guardian replied in a pained voice, "“My lady, they do not believe our village is real”.

“Guardians, they spoke in ignorance. They could not know what you and I know. Now” her voice rose, “you must sleep”. The last word reverberated like a bell, and it was as if the sun shone brighter. The Guardians vanished before the tourists eyes; we blinked and there was no-one there except the coach party and her ladyship.

“What has happened” said Lady Scrimley. The coach driver explained how they’d got lost and how the coach broke down. “In that case” said Lady Scrimley, “we must provide some traditional English hospitality. You can all come and see Scrimley Hall and take afternoon tea with me. I will send Farley the mechanic to attend to the coach”. She pulled a mobile phone from her dress. “Hartsop, send Farley and coaches”.

A few minutes later, five coaches, each pulled by two horses, drew up. The tourists got in, and led by Lady Scrimley’s coach, they headed off to the hall.

2003-08-10T20:29:00.000-07:00

Wednesday August 6

There was a party of about twenty strangers in “The Thinker’s Arms” . It turns out that they are members of the Sealed Knot, who over the weekend, will be recreating the siege of Scrimley Castle. This was a very minor, and not particularly bloody battle, in the Civil War, and it usually rates no more than a sentence in most histories.

Incidentally, Scrimley Castle is now a ruin, but it has nothing to do with Oliver Cromwell. After the Restoration, Lord Scrimley, who returned with the King from exile, tore down the castle, and used its stones as foundations for the Palladian Scrimley Hall, which was completed around 1680. The ruins of the castle still stand in the grounds of the hall, and it is here that the re-enactment will take place.

At the time of the Civil War, the Scrimley family was divided. Lord Scrimley was attending the King in London, and went with him to Oxford, when the war began. His mother, Lady Scrimley had remained in the castle. She leant towards Puritanism, and regarded Archbishop Laud’s efforts to impose uniformity of worship as an unacceptable drift towards Rome. So, when the war began she garrisoned the castle with Parliamentary troops.

In 1643, the Royalists were seeking to keep the West Country loyal. So Lord Scrimley led an army to recapture the castle, which lay at the junction of roads from Cornwall and the south coast. So he invested the castle, and demanded that his mother hand it over. She refused, and both sides prepared for a siege. The Royalists brought up some cannon from Exeter and began firing at the walls. The defenders replied with a stream of mostly inaccurate musket fire. No-one was injured or killed, other than a cat which wandered between the lines. Even to this day, descendants of the Royalists and Parliamentarians still blame one another for this feline’s unfortunate demise.

A few days later the Earl of Essex surrendered to the Royalists at Lostwithiel and with his surrender the whole of the West Country came under Royalist domination. So, Lord Scrimley was ordered to abandon the siege of Scrimley Castle, as his troops were needed to expand the area under Royalist control. Most of them perished at Marston Moor and Naseby.

Ted Tanner, who is leading the re-enactment said “Of course, we realise that the real battle for Scrimley Castle lasted all of twenty minutes and there were no fatalities. We are going to sex this up a little. I mean the castle’s a ruin now, so we can’t very well besiege it. So we’ll have mounted and infantry regiments fire at and charge each other. It’s all very safety-conscious. All our guns have black powder and no shot. But it’ll look spectacular. This is what history ought to have been.”

At the end of the day, I tidy the beer glasses away. What will remain of our history?

2003-08-09T21:17:00.000-07:00

Tuesday 5 August

Marcello Williams, our village’s handyman and aspiring novelist came into the pub tonight looking very excited. His unusual name comes from the fact that his mother was very taken with post-war Italian cinema , especially Fellini’s films and so named him after Marcello Mastroianni. He is not at all Italian looking; he’s thin and lanky, with shoulder length hair and a moustache. He works as a carpenter, picking up odd jobs here and there. But he wants to be a paperback writer (with apologies to the Beatles).

Every so often he comes into “The Thinker’s Arms” to share his plots. These are usually very elaborate, with casts of thousands and are all concerned with the movement of historic forces. So, when he came in and announced, “This is what I’m thinking of writing”, there was a strong sense of déjà vu.

“What is it now, Marcie” remarked Giles Flitton, another of our regulars who writes

“Alternate history” replied Marcello stolidly, “what if the First World War had been fought between an alliance of Britain, and the USA against France, Russia and the Austro-Hungarian empire?”

“Who cares” replied Giles, “There’s no bloody point to that. It’s all speculation; it’s all playing games. Novels should be about the big issues, the meaning of life not trying to rewrite history”

Angus McCaulay, a Scottish fantasy writer, then butted in “But maybe Marcello is trying to write about what might have happened as a way of seeing how we perceive reality. Who says any of the great figures of history- Julius Caesar, Michelangelo, even Jesus Christ – ever existed? Maybe they were writer’s creations.”

“But they weren’t” protested Giles. “You only have to look at the records of those who saw the Sistine chapel being painted. They ascribed the work to Michelangelo”

“Well maybe” said Angus, “the works attributed to Michelangelo were not actually his works; they could have been made by others in Florence or Rome under his direction, and his name was attributed to them.”

“Does it matter, though ?” asked Giles, “whether or not Michelangelo actually painted the Sistine Chapel, or whether he watched while a team of apprentices did it. It was his concept they painted”.

“Not necessarily, though” said Marcello, “this wasn’t like painting a house. Those unknown artisans were interpreting Michelangelo’s idea rather than following it to the letter – it’s like an orchestra interpreting a composer’s notations. So they, rather than Michelangelo, controlled the outcome of the work. So it’s perfectly appropriate to ask ‘what if one painter had used a slightly darker shade of red; the whole work would have been affected, and possibly Michelangelo’s place in history. In the same way if the Fashoda incident had led to a war between Britain and France in 1898, the First World War might never have happened.”

“But it did happen” responded Giles with disgust, “There’s no point in writing a book about unreal history. How does it help us grapple with life in the real world ?”

“Because” remarked Angus with finality, “we don’t understand what reality is."

2003-08-08T09:24:00.000-07:00

Monday August 4

We are having a proper hot summer here. This is so unusual; we have got used to the sound of summer being pouring rain sweeping up from the south west. Not this year, though. The farmers are lamenting the dryness of the fields and weather forecasters are beginning to compare this year to the legendary one of 1976.

It’s good for business, though. We do not have any new fangled ideas like an outdoor beer garden, and children are certainly not encouraged in this pub. So, our customers step in to a cool and shady room. One innovation, though, we decided to put in when we learnt that global warming was going to turn Britain into the south of France was to instal some ceiling fans. These silent comforters are supposed – according to their makers – to create an atmosphere conducive to cool, rational, thought.

Tonight, though, the heat has got to many of us, including the farmers, who have sweated profusely as they begin to bring in the harvest. There are simmering passions here, that needed only a heatwave to renew them.

For many years, the Montgomery’s and Vassall’s have argued over the boundaries of their land. There is a field that both have claimed, where the River Elpid makes a wide curve, and creates a peninsula. The Montgomery’s have pastured cows and sheep there, but the Vassall,s claim the boundary is not at the river but is along a straight line to the north. It’s said that both families have been rivals since the Conquest. The Montgomerys are descended from Gilles de Mont Gomerie, the Norman lord who was awarded the land; the Vassalls are of Anglo –Saxon stock, and were reduced from landowners to serfs. To make things worse, two years ago, Janet, the Montgomery’s 16 year old daughter eloped with Robert Vassall. They ran away, got married in Gretna Green, and are now in the north of England.

Stanley Vassall is downing his third pint of scrumpy when Richard Montgomery walks in. Both are big, beefy, middle aged men. Drink has made Stanley a fighter; he turns and says,
“You thieving rich bastard. Give me back the land that you stole”. “Give it back to you” roars Montgomery with sarcasm, “and see weeds grow in it, you lazy beggar. You only want it because you can’t work your own land hard enough. Why should I subsidize you?” Vassall replied, “You – work hard – you have a ton of labourers to harvest your fields. I only have my family, and some of them left”. “With my daughter” snarled Montgomery, “ I can’t imagine what she ever saw in that shiftless ne’er do well son of yours. They’re probably living on some council estate in poverty, because your son is too damn idle to go and look for work”. “Idle is he” yelled Stanley, “your lot has never needed to work for anything in your life”. Montgomery enraged, hurls himself at Vassall, who punches him in the face.

This is too much. I quickly grab the shillelagh thats on the wall behind the bar – a present from Pat O’ Rourke, an Irish doctor who was a regular here for several years. I walk between them. “Montgomery, Vassall, out!” I shout. They stop, and both are ready to turn on me. I raise the shillelagh as a warning, “If you don’t want me to break your thick farmers skulls, then get out now!”. They look at each other, then me, and gently subside. Quietly, they depart into the night.

The drama over, “The Thinker’s Arms” renews its normal sound of the clunk of beer glasses and waves of chatter.

2003-08-07T21:02:00.000-07:00

Sunday 3 August

Church was controversial again today. No the vicar hasn’t come out yet- he and Mrs. Pewter celebrated their silver wedding last year. Nonetheless, he seems determined to make waves. Today he announced that the monthly communion service would be a Lammastide service, with the communion loaves baked by Mr. Pursley, the village baker. No-one raised any eyebrows at this, but there were some audible gasps when the vicar prayed, “O Lord, we beseech thee, bless the farmers of this thy parish with fertility”. Apparently, some of the teenagers at the back were sniggering – “Last time oi looked, oi didn’t see any of them having any problem with fertility”.

I heard all this from Ranulf Digby, the oldest member of St. Verna’s. Now in his nineties, Ranulf is still well enough to walk every Sunday, across the village green from the church to “The Thinker’s Arms” for his customary pint. Trouble is his hearing has almost gone, and since he forgets to turn on his hearing aid most of the time, you have to shout in his face before he hears you. He assumes this is the normal conversational tone and so he bellows back.

“Disgusting” shouted Ranulf to me, “I don’t know what crazy ideas that vicar has. Next, he’ll be sacrificing virgins at the new moon. What is he trying to do? Start a Mithraic cult?”

“I suppose he thinks this will make more people want to come to church” I replied soothingly.

“His predecessor and the vicar before would never have made such changes” roared Ranulf indignantly.

“Oh come on, Digby” a smooth voice said at his elbow. It was Peter Sharpless, another parishioner, “there have been plenty of innovations in our services over the years. This isn’t really even a new thing. It’s a return to a tradition that existed until the Reformation”.

Ranulf growled, “I never heard of that ‘tradition’. I suppose if you’re clever enough you can justify anything by inventing a tradition.”

Peter muttered to me, “any minute he’s going to say that he was christened there, married there and rung the bells there for seventy years, and nothing changed in all that time. Then he’ll say the old vicar would never have countenanced such changes”.

Indeed, Ranulf then turned –“I’ve been in this church boy and man, and in ninety years I’ve never heard such nonsense. Prayers for fertility indeed.”

He slammed his pint down so hard that the beer dregs slopped over the side. Then he turned and stalked, limping from the bar.

Peter said, “Let’s see how this year’s harvest will turn out” and smiled.

2003-08-03T16:07:00.000-07:00

Saturday August 2

A heated debate broke out in the bar tonight. "Why should those bloody politicians always get to take the whole of August off? I know if I was able to take the month off, and go to Barbados, I would be out of here like a shot. But who'd do my harvesting?" He snarled and returned to his pint.

"Relax, George" his companion replied in a soothing tone, "at least when they aren't in the country, they can't be interfering with us. I mean the Prime Minister goes on holiday but the country doesn't collapse - except in a deckchair if this heatwave they're predicting turns up."

"Unfortunately" said an older man in a tweed jacket, puffing a pipe, "it doesn't stop the Min of Ag wanting this 100 page form on anticipated grain yields by Thursday. Apparently, if I don't turn it in I'm in breach of EC Reg 77/137787/1, and I can be fined. Bloody Europeans"

A fourth man, who by his dress and accent, was clearly from London turned around and said, "But, my dear chap, we are Europeans"

"What!" scowled tweed jacket, "Since when were we Europeans. I'm English to my core. I've fought for those snail-guzzling, wine tasting, garlic loving foreigners, their unhygenic countries, filthy restaurants, and psychotic drivers and frankly I wonder why we bothered. They're permanently ungrateful and are always trying to cheat us. They tricked us into the EEC by sheer cunning. They knew that if we stayed outside, their economies could never compete with ours, so they weakened us and hobbled us with their regulations. And they make excuses to ban our beef.I dread to think what hygiene is like in their abattoirs; I'm sure they'd never pass our regulations." With a "Humph" he subsided.

The Londoner was unabashed, "My dear sir" he began, not looking at the other, "how else would we prosper unless we traded with Europe" " I didn't say anything about trade" replied tweed jacket harshly. " I mean we trade with the Americans, but they don't try to rule us."

"Not unless we piss off George Bush" said a loud voice from the crowd at the back of the bar.

Tweed jacket looked round, glaring, but the speaker was invisible, and so he resumed, "just because we trade with the Europeans doesn't mean they have to rule us. I mean why should we give up the pound. It has been a symbol of this country for hundreds of years. Hitler couldn't take away our freedom, so why are we surrendering it to a bunch of beer-guzzling Brussels bureaucrats". At this he downed his pint sharply. "Another one, barman". He pushed the glass in my direction.

The smart Londoner replied "Economic sovereignty is a myth. Globalisation means that one country cannot go it alone and prosper, because prosperity is affected by the decisions of others. If the US Federal Reserve or the European Central Bank chooses to change interest rates, that will affect our economy and we won't even have a say in the decision. If we embrace the euro then we can have a say in our prosperity. Giving up the pound makes economic sense".

"You know it's a lie" tweed jacket responded, "First our pound, then our tax policy, then our government spending. The Frogs, Krauts, and Eyeties couldn't invade us directly, but by God, they'll conquer us by stealth if we let them. Goodnight!"
He slammed down his half-empty glass on the table so hard the beer rushed out. Then he stalked, glowering from the bar.

"He's mad" said the young man, whose name was Roger, and who was taking a week's holiday from his job in financial futures in the City.

"No" I said, as I wiped up the beer mess "this is a different England here."

2003-08-02T20:27:00.000-07:00

Friday August 1

August has arrived, bringing with a flock of bedraggled walkers, who got caught in a thunderstorm on their way through the fields to Dorford. It was a hot sultry day until the storm arrived in the early evening. Dripping in cagoules, they entered the bar. They were from London, and had anticipated fine weather - according to the forecast the southwest would be bathed in sunshine all week. But we country folk know how quickly the weather can change.

Still, we're luckier than the Yanks. Last year a party from Podunk, Iowa stayed in the village, and spent a lot of their time in the Arms. One of them was a student of early English literature, and he left me his email address. The last time he wrote he told of a tornado that narrowly missed their city (strange how Americans call anything over 10 people a city). The only casualty was a cow that landed unharmed in a field 60 miles away. Now the only reason they found the cow was that it landed in a field whose other inhabitant was a prize bull. The bull's owner was amazed to wake the next day and see his bull in the heat of passion with a strange cow.

Up till now, we were having a heatwave. "Mustn't grumble" the farmers say as they slump on their stools after the harvesting is done. The corn is being cut and gathered in. Meanwhile, holidaymakers are leaving the cities and the first "Great White Shark in the English Channel" story was in the paper this week. We have become so used to nothing happening in August, but it wasn't the same in 1914.

Then, my grandfather told me, the village emptied of young men almost overnight, as war was declared. He was tubercular so he was not called up.

Now, even the aftermath of war in Iraq and Tony Blair's future garners less interest than who will win the Premiership next season. This is the death of democracy. Everyone feels powerless in the grip of market forces and distant employers. Let's focus on Beckham, and moan about England's cricket failure -it's easier to bitch than actually change something.
This is no country for thinking men, and there is nothing worth defending. The days of causes are over, so let's sit in our deckchair.

2003-08-02T20:00:00.000-07:00

Thursday July 31

It's Quiz night tonight. We have simplified the format since the days we had a philosophy professor write the questions. After a few pints of cider, there could be fistfights over some of his questions, especially tiebreakers, such as "Is Schopenhauer's definition of goodness applicable in the real world ?". After PC Gabriel, our local constable, broke up a few of these brawls, we decided on a new approach.

Now my wife and I compile the questions, with occasional help from passing visitors - this can cause its own problems. Last summer a visiting reader in Scandinavian Studies from Haraldsen College in northern Minnesota caused unintended hilarity , "Who was burnt Njal ?". One of our farmers misunderstood the question and thought he was referring to a Hungarian cyclist, Balint Nigel, whom he found asleepin his haystack, thinking it was a hotel. He launched into a long anecdote about him, which lasted until closing time. The reader was nonplussed, and everyone else was snoring by the time he finished the story.

We stick to the facts now, and avoid any questions that remotely touch on agriculture. Theology is also off topic since the question "How many books are in the Bible ?" prompted a heated debate about the canonicity of the Apocrypha. For several months, this divided the village so much that the pro and anti Apocrypha camps sat on opposite sides of the church on Sundays. The feud was ended when the vicar preached on the fact that each individual can have as many angels sitting on the head of a pin as they want.

We have two teams, whose numbers vary in strength, depending on the time of year. Tonight, we were down to 4 a side, which made the quiz go faster. Quinton's Questioneer's, led by Quinton Hayes, fought off a fierce challenge from Bogle's Badger's winning in the last round by 98-90.

Meanwhile, there's the Oxcaster Darts League to win ........

2003-07-30T21:37:00.000-07:00

Wednesday July 30

No blog tonight. "The Thinker's Arms" is closed

2003-07-29T20:29:00.000-07:00

Tuesday 29 July

Tonight, it's fairly quiet at "The Thinker's Arms". The farmers are busy in the fields from sunrise to sunset, and few people have the time to stop for a leisurely pint. We are somewhat off the beaten track here, so we do not get many visitors. Only the most discriminating choose to spend more than an afternoon here. Many of those are viewing the church, which has remained largely unchanged since the time of the Normans; tradition suggests that the church itself was built on top of a Celtic holy well, and this is believable because the River Elpid runs behind the church. Scholars believe that St. Verna is a a corruption of "Savernal", a local goddess of water and fertility.

Tradition plays a big part in our community. Every Tuesday from Easter until the end of September, the local Morris Dancers practice in the room above the bar, so this piece is being interrupted by the tap of feet and the distant tinkle of bells.

Lady Scrimley is an avid enthusiast for reviving ancient traditions. She got university professors of folklore to record the ancient songs and tales of our community, from those like "Old Joe" Boglethorne, who died at the age of 96 last year, and who was the last surviving storyteller, carrying on a family line that goes back before the Conquest. Every Christmas, there is a Mummers play at the Great Hall, and on 1 May, the children at the village school dance around a Maypole on the village green. Even our Guy Fawkes bonfire and ox roast in November has pre-Puritan overtones, according to our vicar, the Rev. Francis Pewter.

He too is fascinated by folklore, and is keen to support Lady Scrimley's efforts to restore ancient traditions. In his view, the church's business is to carry on the Christian tradition - the church got it right finally when the Act of Settlement was passed. So he adamantly refuses to update any services, and even to use any hymn less than 200 years old. He sees the Book of Common Prayer as the apotheosis of genius.

Modernity and progress are a threat. The past is a prison, too. Even in our country idyll, gales can flatten the most ancient of trees.

2003-07-28T21:19:00.000-07:00

Monday 28 July

More conversation, and discourses on folk traditions and other things, tomorrow.

2003-07-27T08:50:00.000-07:00

Sunday July 27

About 12.15 pm, the pub fills up with worshippers from St. Verna's, wanting to down a quick pint before going home for their Sunday roast. Usually, there is a buzz of conversation regarding the vicar's sermon; today is no exception.

"He took as his text 'That thou art Peter and upon this rock, I will build my church and the gates of hell will not prevail against it' said George Wiggins, a local farmer, ' and then he explained that the rock is Peter, and that the church traces its ancestry back to Peter, and therefore the church will always survive, no matter how hostile the world is'"

"You and your religious balderdash, George" said a man, who had been sitting quietly in the corner up till then. His name was Stephen Sedbergh and he wore his atheistic convictions on his shoulder. Indeed, if a stranger were to come into the pub while Stephen was there, he would often regret it, as Stephen took great delight in sharing his atheism with everyone he met.

"There is no God, " Stephen continued loudly, " all that happens is that a group of you go through the same ritual every week, like primitive men worshipping fire, or the sun, and that makes you feel better. You are still merely children. But I" he looked misty-eyed and gazed into the far distance, "I have become a man".

"How do you know there is no God ?" asked one of the churchgoers in a quiet, understated voice.

Stephen began, 'Science has told us how the world was made, how man came to be. In the past, primitive men blamed the gods for famines and diseases, and now with scientific knowledge we can feed everyone. We know the chemical processes by which the stars were formed. We know through evolution, that every creature formed from its predecessor, and that man is no more than an intelligent ape. We know what is good and what is evil. The church has no monopoly on morality." His tone grew sarcastic, "What about the Inquisition ? Or burning witches?"

"You haven't answered my question, though" replied the man with the same understated tone as before. "Nothing you have said proves the non-existence of God. It proves only the capacity of men to learn. Where did that come from. No chimpanzee has learned to play the piano or write a novel."

"Yet" replied Stephen emphatically, "who knows what evolution may result in. At least we atheists take responsibility for our own lives rather than entrusting them to the whims of an unknown and capricious deity".

The other man hesitated, and then replied, "But we believe that God's nature is shown in the capacity he has given man to know what is good."

"Then, why" Stephen struck rapier-like, "has the church historically not followed what is good. How many times did you burn and persecute those who refused to believe. If the church reflects God, then God is the biggest hypocrite of all."

"You are wrong, my friend" the other said, downing his pint. For once, Stephen was silent. "We who believe know that we have proved false, but we also know we need forgiveness, and we know where to go. Unhappy indeed is the lot of those who do not think they need forgiveness."

He put down his glass on the bar, and left slowly. Stephen sat staring at his pint, and then let out a loud "Hmm".

2003-07-26T12:12:00.000-07:00

Saturday July 26

Two professors of divinity are sitting in the corner, pints of Old Sharpleton in front of them.

The younger turns to the older, "You know the biggest problem Christianity has today is the church?"

"What do you mean" replies the older "The church is Christianity".

"Precisely" said the younger, "The church equals Christianity. And the church is emptying, therefore Christianity has no substance."

"Excuse me" said the vicar, spluttering over his gin and tonic, "Are you saying that everything I am doing is worthless". "Look at the facts, vicar" the younger professor said wearily. "People don't want to go to church any more. They'd rather go fishing, or shopping, or lay in bed on Sunday morning. You represent a tiny minority, and yet you claim to be God's voice. Isn't that the height of arrogance".

"But" the vicar protested, "I am the one constant for the people here. The village is dying; the young cannot afford to live here, and move to the cities; the shops and doctor's surgeries and post offices. But the church is still here, doing what we've always done, tending to people's spiritual needs."

"Exactly" said the older professor, "we need the church to call us to higher things. The bishops remind us that there is a greater reality than the material world. God will outlast us, when we are long forgotten".

"Really" said the younger professor, with bitterness, "so why does the church feel compelled to change its doctrine to attract new members ?"

"Well," the vicar replied carefully, " we need to get those people back. We want them to feel loved, not condemned"

" Do they care what God thinks ?" the young man stated with finality.

2003-07-25T09:30:00.000-07:00

Friday July 25, 2003
The first day of my new blog! This is so easy! I mean it's like driving, but without the fear that I will not be able to sustain what I am doing, that I'll get carried away and drive off the road.

So why "The Thinker's Arms"? Well, I envisioned this blog as an online country pub, probably situated by a crossroads somewhere in the west of England. Unlike a modern pub, this one is still stuck somewhere about 1900. The roads to it are beaten down earth, baked hard by a proper English summer. All around are fields of wheat,
surrounded by ancient hedgerows. The only sounds are the chirping of grasshoppers and the distant song of skylarks, seen but not heard against the eggshell blue sky. In the fields, steam threshing machines and farmworkers with horses and carts are gathering in the harvest.

There's been a tavern here since the Romans, I'm told. Apparently, the legions stopped here on their way to their camp at Glevum. I saved up to buy this pub because when I was a boy, I climbed to the window and saw in the distance a city skyline full of spires and domes; "What is that?", I asked the gaffer who climbed up beside me; in his slow, old voice he replied "That be th' university. They say the brightest minds in the country are there; but that b'aint for the loikes of us". I wanted to go there and meet these brilliant people. But, although I worked hard at my lessons, and indeed our schoolmaster taught me as much as he knew - before consumption claimed him - I had to leave school and work in order to save my mother from the workhouse.

Then, five years ago, my wife died. She had worked as a maid at the great hall, where I was a gardener. To my amazement, Lady Scrimley called me in shortly after her death; "Giles" she said, "Your wife was a fine servant to me; she told me about the pub and your ambitions. You know the the landlord has just died. Would you like to become the new tenant". "Yes, ma'am" I eagerly replied.

So, I took over the pub and renamed it, "The Thinker's Arms". I had a new sign painted. It is a shield, blazoned thus: first and fourth quarters gules, a pen per bend argent; second quarter, argent an open book azure; third quarter, or a pair of compasses sable; crest; a sunne in splendour garlanded with laurel vert; motto "Liberae sunt nostrae cogitationes".

Well, I hear the sound of boots on the road. I expect the harvesters have finished for the day.