Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 7

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 7

Exploring inland

OF Guernsey's' ten parishes, nine have part of their boundary along the coast. The exception is St. Andrew's which, like the southern parishes, has innumerable green and leafy lanes winding between tiny hamlets, beckoning to be explored.

St. Andrew's is also the parish in which the privately run Guernsey Zoo is situated at La Villiaze. Since it was founded several years ago it has been expanded and improved. Emphasis has been laid on smaller animals of all kinds which are especially appealing to children.

There are many lovely walks to enjoy inland, as well as on the coast, but if you feel lazy you may prefer to join one of several island coach tours and an evening drives organized by local transport companies.

The regular bus services cover the whole island and are very frequent. Visitors continually remark on the friendliness and courtesy of the bus drivers, who are always ready to help you. You will find too that the comprehensive pocket time-table is useful as are a new set of Perry's guide maps, in booklet form.

You may hear people talking about the Water Lanes. They are a feature of the scenery which belongs to Guernsey alone. These rugged, picturesque lanes leading to the shore have a stream in their centre, and the cool water gurgles over smooth stones among luxuriant green ferns of rare and fresh beauty. The best-known Water Lanes are those at Moulin Huet and Petit Bat.

 

A fascinating and unique chapel is situated at Les Vauxbelets. It is the smallest church in the world, having room inside for a priest and a congregation of two. Built beneath the trees beside a former Roman Catholic College, it was the life's work of one of the brothers, who decorated the entire surface, both inside and out, with shells and pieces of broken china. The sun, slanting through the trees, highlights the church in the clearing, and the effect is of an enchanted fairyland of multi-coloured mosaic. People who have visited this shrine, built in the style of our Lady of Lourdes, used to' send consignments of broken china from all over the world to decorate the church.

An interesting spot, if with somewhat macabre associations, is Bailiff's Cross, a crossroad where stands the Hangman's Inn. Lowering your gaze from the rather gruesome inn sign, you will notice a stone with a faint cross cut in it. This is the Bailiff's Cross Stone, where a Bailiff, Gaultier de la Salle, is said to have paused for the sacrament on his way to execution. Legend has it that Gaultier de la Salle, to resolve a dispute with a neighbour, (invented a charge of theft against him. The neighbour was arraigned before the Bailiff in court and was about to be sentenced when the Bailiff's treachery was discovered. Gaultier de la Salle was forced to change places with the accused and duly despatched to the gallows not far from this crossroad.

History, however, has a simpler explanation. It is that Gaultier de la Salle was sentenced for complicity in the murder of a man who had been pardoned for an accidental killing. None the less, the legend holds its own.

Colourful memories of Guernsey are provided 't ' by the island's beautiful gardens. Our mild climate coaxes all kinds of flowers to bloom which most amateur gardeners only dream about.

For horticulture on a grand scale, go up to Saumarez Park, once the home of an ancient Guernsey family, and now a hostel for old folk. Here you may stroll in the green parkland, beside the lily ponds with their quaint Japanese summer houses. Every year, Saumarez Park is the scene of the Carnival of the Battle of Flowers which is the highlight of a two-day horticultural and agricultural show. A parade of floats depicting all kinds of subjects and decorated with a profusion of glorious flowers, the "Battle" attracts over 20,000 spectators. Today the old custom of tearing the floats apart and pelting people with blooms has been dropped. Instead the prize-winning exhibits go on floodlit display.

Near Saumarez House is the Guernsey Folk Museum which is full of delightful treasures from the past. They depict the islanders' traditional way of life — particularly that of the cottagers. It has old farming equipment, carriages, a cider press and a replica of a Guernsey kitchen complete with spinning wheel, butter churn and furze oven.

The Evening Scene

Guernsey does not pretend to have a big-city night life, but there is plenty to do in the evenings if you like shows, dancing, eating out or enjoying a drink in romantic settings. Local night life is friendly and informal in keeping with the island's character.

At the Little Theatre — up a flight of steps from the markets — a versatile repertory company puts on a different play every week, changing the programme mid-week to give visitors a chance of seeing two or three productions during their stay.

Britain's latest film releases are shown at the two cinemas — the Odeon in Upland Road and the Gaumont in St. Julian's Avenue. Late buses for cinemagoers run to most parts of the island.

Cabaret shows starring well-known mainland artistes are staged at several hotels. There is dancing every evening at many of the larger hotels together with late-night clubs and discotheques for the young and trendy. An all-family evening rendezvous is the tenpin bowling alley in First Tower Lane.

You can find out about the current events from the Guernsey Evening Press & Star or from the two holiday guides issued free to visitors, What's On and What Where When.

Guernsey's diners-out have a choice of at least 30 restaurants of varying price and style. The fame of some local restaurants has spread well beyond the island, and most of the better establishments feature local shellfish, island-grown vegetables and Guernsey cream on their menus. English and French cuisine predominate but there are also restaurants specialising in Italian and Chinese food.

It is in the friendly pubs that many visitors find the real flavour of Guernsey, meeting local characters and — in some of the country districts — hearing the Guernsey-French patois spoken. You will discover that Guernsey has a fascinating variety of pubs and bars from the sophisticated to the rustic. Many of them have wonderful sea views and others have equally picturesque inland settings.

Most of the draught and bottled beers served locally come from the island's two breweries. Connoisseurs say it is good stuff — but watch your head because it is probably stronger than your pint back home!

What might George Orwell have said about scrapping the minimum wage

What might George Orwell have said about scrapping the minimum wage

One of the oldest tricks in political life is to convince ordinary people that the small protections they possess are somehow shackles on the nation’s greatness. When a minister declares that a minimum wage “strangles the economy”, he is really saying that the economy must be liberated from the inconvenience of paying workers enough to live. It is the familiar language of those who speak of freedom while quietly eroding it.

The idea that abolishing the wage floor would unleash prosperity is the sort of fantasy that thrives only in boardrooms and newspaper columns. In the real world—the world of shop assistants, cleaners, carers, and labourers—it would mean longer hours, lower pay, and the steady erosion of dignity. A society that tells its poorest citizens they must take second jobs to survive is not a society advancing toward freedom; it is one drifting back toward servitude.

Inflation, too, is a convenient scapegoat. It is easier to blame the worker’s wage than to examine the structures that allow prices to rise while profits remain untouched. To say that fair pay “turbocharges inflation” is to imply that the problem lies not with the system, but with the people who keep it running.

The minimum wage is not a radical invention. It is a small barrier against exploitation, a reminder that the economy exists for human beings, not the other way around. When politicians and commentators call for its abolition, they are not proposing reform—they are proposing that the weakest shoulder the burden so that the strongest may walk unencumbered.

Miss Constantine

Miss Constantine" is the seventh and final episode of the first season of West Country Tales, a British supernatural anthology television series written by acclaimed children's horror author Josephine Poole. First broadcast on March 8, 1982, by the BBC, the folk-horror drama explores themes of isolation, urban development encroaching on tradition, and the breakdown of reality.

Miss Constantine
by Josephine Poole

The motorway cut through the land that belongs to the big house. Now there is a new bridge near Map's cottage, where strangers park their cars and watch the holiday traffic hurtling in and out of the West Country.

Old Map used to hurl himself after rabbits and catch them barehanded as they rushed from the diminishing islands of corn at harvest time People all round remember this and the marshland that the road gobbled up, the marsh birds and butterflies. Before the road there were apple orchards, and beehives. A strip of compulsory development — it is difficult to believe that the Authorities can smell flowers, or know the taste of an apple. The death's-head Authorities —

Miss Constantine lives on her own in the big house. It is as old as the Tudors, and includes forty rooms — counting the servants' bit -- with unique moulding on two drawing room ceilings. The jackdaws call for Jack! Jack! all summer, round the roofs that have aged to a tender grey. Beards of grass overhang the gutters, and a blackbird nests in the Tudor plumbing. The patched walls hide under a Boston ivy — like a shabby woman clinging to her fur coat. But in autumn the creeper turns to a raging, a furious red; the house glows then, as if it was burning.

The wood nearest the house needs cleaning out; a tree uprooted in the last south-westerly balances on its neighbour like a fainting person. Over the tattered trees, the rooks blow about like scraps of burnt paper. A rickety wooden gate leads into the flower garden. The great pillars on either side of the gate are garlanded with ivy.

Once there was tea on the lawn — sandwiches, and plum cake. There were servants then to carry the bone china. There were tennis courts in those days. Tennis was a game, and always good-humoured. 'Sorry !"Bad luck!' Well played!'— these were civilized comments.

But Miss Constantine doesn't linger on the lawn, though there is the acacia tree, hung with mistletoe bunches as big as footballs, and the swing where she used to rock, child and girl, lazily expectant, drifting in a controlled arc between green grass and blue, cloudlessly blue sky. No: as a rule she hurries on up the narrow path between the box hedges, where the greenhouse used to be.

A wide yew hedge separates this part of the garden from the tennis lawn, and there is a strip of grass which used to be a bowling green, with an ornamental pond at the end. On the other side of the path is a long flower border, beautifully sheltered by a red brick wall. The path ends at the `Temple' with its pagoda roof, where the bowls (and deck chairs, and garden tools) used to be kept. No vandals in those days. Now bees nest just over the door. At least the bees keep the boys out.

The flower garden keeps its old-lady smell: roses, myrtle, honeysuckle; the dusty smell of box. It was designed for private delight, but ivy and boys have long since climbed the wall.

Most days — weather permitting — Miss Constantine works at her rockery. It's a fight with weeds for possession; and the weeds are winning. For she can't stay long in the garden without being distracted.

They ran races up and down this lawn, Miss Constantine and her brothers. She puts down her trowel and covers her face, standing with her back to the boys. That's Grandmother’s Footsteps, and Reggie creeping up to touch her before she can catch him. More of a slap than a touch, but she doesn't complain, and off they go, helter skelter down the grass, until there's a splash Oh, Reggie!

The pond has been dry for years. But Miss Constantine, you see, still plays, in the pot-pourri scent of the old garden.

And she calls the dogs to heel, as she goes back to the house. Come along, dogs! Pilot! l3rownie!

Those are the names on the little grave stones under the yew tree. Miss Constantine lives in the past. She's happy there.

The mullioned windows, catching the rays of the weltering sun, glare as if the house is on fire. Swallows come back every year to nest in the servants' hall. They dart in and out through a broken pane.

There aren't any servants now of course, just Miss Constantine, at home. She opens the door, and goes in.

The house has the accumulated darkness of very old things, a darkness of times and people gone forever. But it's home to Miss Constantine: or it would be if it wasn't for the young people from the Authorities.

The young people from the Authorities! She can't remember now when they moved in. She doesn't know their names. If she speaks to them, they don't answer. They are simply present, in a group, standing together or sitting

in a row. They dress alike. She can't tell how many of them there are. And their faces — Their faces are white, as if they've been rubbed with ash —

Miss Constantine's use of the house shrinks in winter. It's too difficult for her to toil to and fro with logs, or buckets of coal; so she crouches in the rooms she can heat electrically, whose windows aren't broken and whose ceilings don't leak. But in summer — in summer she travels through this house which contains her whole lifetime's experience. She meanders through the light, the shadowy coolness of the different rooms.

Her fingers leave a trail up the dusty banisters, all the way up to the attics where the cobwebs hang like the ghosts of hibernating bats, and Reggie set out his trains. The creeper has grown right across the attic windows. The leaves pressing the panes are luminous, as if they too are made out of glass.

Other people go away in the summer, but she has a cheaper solution. For she can spend hours in the attic, looking at the labels on the suitcases, remembering dead holidays. She catches herself laughing aloud at times, at some of the things she remembers. Yes, on the whole they were happy days.

But now the young people from the Authorities have moved in. They've no discretion. They turn up anywhere.

The other day she tried to get through to them. She tried to make them understand her point of view, see things from her angle. And she must have started to scream. She woke up on the floor, with a splitting headache; she must have struck herself when she fell. She thought then that perhaps she'd scared them off. But she hadn't. That was the night they got into her bedroom.

She'd taken her pills, and gone to bed very calmly. It was a beautiful moonlit night, and she played with Reggie by the stream, much later than they were allowed. The stream and the trees and fields were black and grey and white. It was almost possible, in the silence, to understand the language of the stream; and the owls were just starting to hoot; they listened to them but not to Nanny calling thinly from the house.

Miss Constantine fell asleep then. When she woke, moonlight was streaming across her white bedcover, and the young people — the terrible young people — were standing in a row at the foot of her bed. It was the first time they'd ventured in, and something she would not bear. Quick as thought, she slipped out of bed and grabbed her valuables — Mother's rings and her brooch from Father, and Reggie's medals — shut them up in a drawer and locked it, and hid the key in her nightgown. There! They won't get their hands on those in a hurry!

But that was when the stealing started. It was only her shopping list to begin with. She found it at last, screwed up in some rubbish. Oh, they're devils!

She knows what they want, of course. They want to get her out. They want to get her put in a home. They want the house for themselves.

But she won't have that. Her family have lived and died here for hundreds of years. She won't give way, no matter what they do.

If only she could tell someone about them! But one has to be so careful. Tittle tattle, Chinese whispers. She doesn't want people talking about her. People can be so unkind.

But she'll have to get rid of them somehow. They'll simply have to go. Before they drive her mad.

Miss Constantine used to be a regular churchgoer. She trudged the family footpath across the fields in her hat like a brown bowl, her old-fashioned prayer book clamped under one arm. Bad weather provided a challenge, and put an edge to her voice in the hymns.

But recently, she's missed the Sunday service, and this worries the Vicar. She's been such a constant attendant, he almost feels as if the font or pulpit has been mislaid.

He finds her in the churchyard one morning, among the generations of Constantines. She's brought a basket of flowers for the family graves. Her parents have roses; every week she offers them a formal bouquet according to the season. But the forget-me-nots are for her brothers, with daisies and buttercups for Reggie; he always liked butter, yellow under a little boy's chin.

The Vicar asks her gently whether anything's wrong. He feels his way, carefully insisting; he can see she's troubled. She explains that she's mislaid her reading glasses.

The Vicar is a good man, and he knows his parishioners. He can imagine how cut off she feels without them. He offers to go home with her and help her to find them.

There's no knowing whether she's pleased or not; but she's obedient, anyway. She trots off across the field, and he has to hurry to keep up with her All the birds are out today, singing.

On the way he tries to draw her out, though she's even more fluttery than usual. But he gathers it isn't only the glasses that have gone; she's lost her pension book, as well.

Well, what of it? That's nothing to worry about! He's absent-minded himself. He's always forgetting people's names; worst of all, he loses himself in the sermon, starts off in Acts and wanders into the Gospels -- she must have noticed it. But while he passes it off, making a fool of himself to console her, she lays a timid hand on his arm. There's more to it than that —

He bends, and she whispers in his ear.

Not lost, but stolen!

Now who would steal from Miss Constantine?

The young people from the Authorities! What does she mean?

Funny old thing! He's glad he's with her; it sounds as though she needs help. He'll sort it out.

But he's conscious of a certain change in the air, as they approach the house. A change that he can't quite put a name to. It's as if the ordinary rule of things has lifted, just here; as if there is no longer any clear division between what can, and what can't be. (He's been taught to analyse, but it doesn't do him much good.) He thinks it may have something to do with the stubborn persistence of a certain way of life, which has thrown its surroundings out of gear: like finding a dinosaur on a golf course. There is certainly something — well — unusual about the place —

They pick their way down the drive which is puddled with little skies, blue and white. He throws out a remark about the unsettled state of the weather.

The house casts a long shadow, even in summer.

It's all locked up, of course; she's very particular about that. And she has to go in by the back door in order to undo the front. She won't let him follow her; certainly not. He must wait for the formality of the front entrance.

He looks at the gabled roofs — too sharp for comfort; at the tall chimneys; at the television aerial hanging out of use, as if the house, annoyed, had shrugged it off. The starlings know which chimneys are never used, and build there.

Crumbling stone, patched like an old suit. Tudor glass, with bars at every window: you'd think they'd keep the thieves out! But where is Miss Constantine? He's been forgotten!

He rings the bell. The bolt clanks back at once and the door opens on the chain. Miss Constantine's scared eye peers through. She seems relieved to see him there. She opens the door, and after this little drama, he walks in. The door closes slowly, squeezing out the sunlight.

He stands in the lofty hall, looking about him. He is dogged by one banal thought — how cold all this must be, in winter!

Now, this pension book. Where to look first? He follows her into a shuttered room.

The chaos is unbelievable. You might stumble on a Rembrandt or a Ming vase -- or .a cough-drop tin filled with plastic buttons. He notices several clocks, all stopped, as if the time weren't worth telling any more. The old grandfather shaped like a coffin — he's been dead for years.

And the rocking horse, her dappled Beauty, with his arched neck, and legs caught in the act of galloping. Miss Constantine used to hunt him when her brothers rode to hounds. He's been waiting ever since for the new generation, the children who were never born.

She trips ahead of the Vicar, leading the way to the morning room. But he gropes after her like a sleep-walker, the past wrapping round him like a cloak. So out of touch he is, so ignorant of the contents, the implications of the seething house.

The morning room is reassuring. At least it has a lived-in air; and the oval paintings of children on the walls are charming. And there on the table, among bills and bills, and gardening catalogues, and more bills, he spots her glasses. That's something, at any rate!

There are three staircases in the house. The one from the hall is painted white. There seems a vast space between the red Turkey carpet in the hall, and the landing ceiling. The banisters crowd upwards like the spears of storming soldiers.

When Reggie tried on the old military uniforms, Nanny heard footsteps up and down here all night.

Miss Constantine and the Vicar peer into the kitchen. Ranks of home-made jam — her bazaar and garden fête offerings. He wouldn't care — or dare — to eat here.

But it was easier for the children when the servants left. Not so many complaints. Cook hung on to the last. Boiled mutton and macaroni pudding, and the food cold by the time it reached the dining room. Where the Constantines ate their meals under the family portraits, making conversation in a congealing silence.

The portraits! You can't move your eyes without encountering the gaze of a great-great someone or other. The Vicar doesn't like it. They give him a haunted feeling.

They move into the drawing room. The windows are barred and shuttered. He has to edge his way round the furniture, the muddle. He is suddenly confronted by an Adam fireplace, very beautiful; he is face to face with a white marble head, contemplating him with sightless eyes.

Mother never felt comfortable in the drawing room. She didn't care for parties. Father had his shooting. For some reason there is the gun case in the corner, as if Father was preparing for a shoot-out. There's a curious little three-sided cupboard lined with glass: for displaying ornaments, most likely. Miss Constantine doesn't like mirrors. You never know who you'll see looking over your shoulder.

The flotsam and jetsam of a lifetime. The vicar feels disconcertingly out of his depth. But what's this? Deliverance! Her pension book!

Now let's have no more talk about thieves! Exit one very untidy old lady, and a kindly vicar.

But as he is about to leave, Miss Constantine clutches at his sleeve. She's made up her mind. She speaks very fast. Please will he throw out the young people sent from the Authorities?

He stares at her. What does she mean? What young people?

She becomes agitated. But didn't he notice them, a moment ago? They were in there, sitting on the sofa! He must have seen them!

She leads the way to the morning room. Look! There they are, still sitting in a row!

Well! He can't see anything! But that won't help her. So he tells her to open the doors through to the hall, and to hold the front door open herself.

Then he pretends to drive them out. Now come along please, you can't stay here any longer. Miss Constantine can't put up with you anymore. Come along, all of you! Out you go! He shoos them in front of him like a flock of geese, while Miss Constantine stands nodding and smiling at the door.

He asks her then if they have all gone. She shakes her head. No, because there's a nun under the piano.

He stares. A nun. Under the piano.

She smiles up at him. She beams confidence.

He goes to the piano, crouches, peers into the dark cave beneath. It's years since he's played hide-and-seek. Come along, Sister! You ought to be saying your prayers. You've no right to hide under a piano. Come along, out you go!

And that's that. Yes, they've all gone now. The house is empty.

She asks him then, whether he noticed their faces. He tells her no, not particularly.

They're so pale, she says. Their faces look as though they've been dipped in flour.

Her choice of words sends a chill down his spine.

He pauses on the threshold to warn Miss Constantine. She mustn't tell anybody about this. People talk. People might think she was imagining things — But she reassures him. She won't tell. She knows what people would say. She'll keep herself to herself — has done for years.

So the Vicar walks home across the fields.

And Miss Constantine locks herself in. She feels extra ordinarily light and free. She floats among the rooms. They have surged back, her family who belong here, all those who were temporarily eliminated by the young people from the Authorities. She's not afraid of ghosts. These house ghosts are her friends.

And Reggie — he's been sent to bed without any supper. She never feels hungry herself when that happens. She'll choose one of his favourite books, read aloud to him in bed. He always enjoys that—

But the Vicar is not easy in his mind about Miss Constantine. Next morning he cycles over to see how she spent the night.

The old black bicycle bounces down the drive. He rings the bell, and stands back, looking up at the house. How many faces must have looked out of those windows! How much hope and grief, love, pain, joy lie crammed within those walls! No wonder she loses her bearings!

But he needn't have worried. He can see at once that all is well. Miss Constantine slept like a child. She assures him that he has cleared the house of the young people from the Authorities.

So he pedals away, whistling a hymn (Ancient & Modern), congratulating himself on the success of his little trick. Meanwhile, the clouds are thickening over the sun; there's a storm coming. He'll have to get home quickly or he'll be soaked.

He's caught, though, at the drive end, as he grapples with the gate. The man who lives at the cottage, old Map's son, leaves his gardening and comes across.

Here, Vicar. You know those young people you threw out of Miss Constantine's yesterday —

Our Vicar is taken aback. He protests. Now — come on. What's all this about? Just an old lady and her imagination!

But the man interrupts him. He means the young people, with the faces like they've been whitewashed.

He saw them. They were trying to get in again all night

Disappearing Christian Thinkers: John Macquarrie

 

John Macquarrie (1919–2007) is largely obscured in contemporary Christian theology because the primary philosophical framework he championed—existentialism—fell sharply out of favor shortly after his peak influence. Despite being widely considered Anglicanism's most distinguished systematic theologian of the late 20th century and holding the prestigious Lady Margaret Chair of Divinity at Oxford University, his distinctive intellectual synthesis left him without a natural home in subsequent theological movements. [1, 2, 3]

His marginalization stems from shifts in academic philosophy, changing theological trends, and the specific nature of his work.

1. The Decline of Existentialism

Macquarrie tied his theological legacy tightly to 20th-century continental existentialism. He famously co-translated Martin Heidegger’s Being and Time into English and dedicated his early career to synthesizing Heideggerian philosophy with the "demythologizing" theology of Rudolf Bultmann. [4, 5, 6]

• The Problem: By the late 1970s and 1980s, academic theology moved rapidly away from existentialism, pivoting instead toward post-modernism, liberation theology, and post-liberalism.
• The Result: As existentialism began to be viewed as an outdated mid-century intellectual trend, Macquarrie's masterpiece, Principles of Christian Theology (1966), came to be seen as a relic of a bygone philosophical era rather than a living system. [1]

2. The Post-Liberal Pivot to Scripture

Macquarrie’s theological methodology relied heavily on human experience, philosophical inquiry, and natural theology before building up to revelation. [7, 8]

• In the late 20th century, the academic landscape was swept by post-liberalism (led by the Yale School, such as Hans Frei and George Lindbeck) and a resurgence of Karl Barth's neo-orthodoxy. [9]
• These movements fiercely rejected Macquarrie's method, arguing that theology must begin with Scripture and the internal narrative of the Church, not secular philosophy. Evangelical and post-liberal critics alike argued that his existential program carried him "long way beyond biblical revelation," reducing Scripture to a tool for corroborating human self-reflection. [3, 7, 8, 9]

3. Straddling the Middle (The "Too Liberal, Too Catholic" Paradox)

Macquarrie was a theological bridge-builder whose eclectic positions ultimately left him without a fiercely loyal partisan base to keep his memory alive: [10, 11]

• Too radical for conservatives: He rejected a literalist view of the Bible, defense of traditional dogmas was highly philosophical, and later in life, he openly championed interfaith dialogue and the idea that non-Christian religions reveal ultimate truth.
• Too traditional for liberals: He was a deeply sacramental Anglo-Catholic convert who loved traditional liturgy, wrote extensively on Christian mysticism, defended the sacrament of reconciliation, and controversially opposed the ordination of women. [5, 10, 12, 13, 14, 15]

Because he didn't neatly fit the modern progressive or conservative camps, neither side claims him as an intellectual forebear.

4. Overly Lucid and Explanatory Style

Paradoxically, Macquarrie’s greatest strength as a writer contributed to his academic disappearance. He was celebrated for his "wonderful lucidity" and his ability to translate dense, agonizingly complex thinkers like Heidegger into clear, accessible prose. [2, 11, 16]

• In higher academia, thinkers who are clear, moderate, and common-sense coordinators are rarely treated with the same enduring fascination as thinkers who are dense, polemical, or controversial (such as Barth, Tillich, or Radical Orthodoxy's John Milbank). Macquarrie resolved tensions rather than sparking volatile debates, making his work less likely to anchor modern doctoral dissertations. [9, 17]

Summary of His Legacy

Rather than a foundational architect of a new school of thought, Macquarrie is remembered by specialists as a masterful synthesizer. When the specific elements he sought to synthesize—existentialism and classical Anglican sacramentalism—drifted apart in the 21st century, his system lost its structural tether to the broader theological conversation. [18]

Notes:

[1] https://en.wikipedia.org

[2] https://www.smh.com.au

[3] https://www.thegospelcoalition.org

[4] https://www.researchgate.net

[5] https://theologicalstudies.net

[6] https://www.latimes.com

[7] https://journals.sagepub.com

[8] https://www.cambridge.org

[9] https://www.youtube.com

[10] https://www.nytimes.com

[11] https://www.telegraph.co.uk

[12] https://www.thetimes.com

[13] https://ndarchive.forwardinfaith.com

[14] https://muse.jhu.edu

[15] https://www.researchgate.net

[16] https://www.theguardian.com

[17] https://www.christianhumanist.org

[18] https://tonymusings.blogspot.com

More Short Stories: Harvest Home

Henry Alford’s hymn Come, ye thankful people, come was born out of soil, scripture, and the quiet rhythms of rural life. As Vicar of Wymeswold, he lived among the farmers and the fields. This is a reflection on the hymn he wrote, “Come, ye thankful people, come”. It is fiction grounded in fact.

Harvest Home

Henry Alford looked out of the Vicarage window, up from the desk where he was preparing his Sunday sermon. He remembered coming to the village, which White’s Directory had described as “a large and well built village on the banks of the Mantle rivulet.”

The late autumn sun was slanting across the fields. Wymeswold lay hushed beneath a sky of pewter and gold, the harvest gathered, the barns full, the hedgerows thinning as winter approached. Through the open window, he breathed in the earthy scent of turned soil and straw, feeling again that familiar stirring, gratitude, solemnity, and wonder braided together. A travel writer had said that the village had “a pleasing and delightful air”, and this was so true.

The villagers had worked hard that year. He had watched them from spring to autumn: the sowing, the tending, the anxious glances at the weather, and the long days of reaping.

First the blade, and then the ear,
Then the full corn shall appear;
Lord of harvest, grant that we
Wholesome grain and pure may be.

Their labour was honest, rhythmic, and almost liturgical. In their movements he saw echoes of the parables he had preached so often—the wheat and the tares, the seed that fell on good ground, the grain that grew “first the blade, then the ear.” Christ had spoken in the language of fields because fields revealed truth plainly.

We ourselves are God's own field,
Fruit unto His praise to yield;
Wheat and tares together sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown.

Alford left the Vicarage and walked slowly along the lane, his boots brushing aside the last fallen leaves. He thought of the villagers’ faces at harvest thanksgiving: lined, weathered, hopeful. They knew the miracle of provision not as an idea but as a lived reality. Every loaf on their table was a triumph over uncertainty. Every sheaf in the barn was a reminder that God “doth provide for our wants to be supplied.”

He paused at the gate of a tenant farmer’s field. The stubble lay in neat rows, the gleaning finished. A few crows hopped along the furrows, picking at what remained. Harvest was never merely about grain. It was about God’s bounty, of the seed growing tall, of hope to fulfilment. The barns were not simply storage; they were symbols of safety, of God’s gathering love for the people of the land.

God, our Maker, doth provide
For our wants to be supplied.
Come to God's own temple, come,
Raise the song of harvest home.

As he stood there, the idea of a hymn began to form, not just a thanksgiving for crops, but a meditation on the final harvest, the great gathering at the end of days. He imagined the angels as reapers, the faithful as golden ears of wheat, the divine garner as a place of joy beyond sorrow. And he had known sorrow.

We ourselves are God's own field,
Fruit unto His praise to yield;
Wheat and tares together sown,
Unto joy or sorrow grown.

His mother had died giving birth, and he had been raised by his father and later by his uncle, Rev. Samuel Alford. His early education had been scattered between private tutoring and a variety of schools, but he had nevertheless become a scholar at Trinity College before taking holy orders, joining five consecutive generations of clergymen in his family before him. The seed of his education may have been scattered, but like the wheat in the fields it had ripened, like the good seed on the land.

He remembered looking at the reapers with their sickles. Cutting the very last stand of corn or wheat was a highly competitive ritual. They would throw their sickles at the final stalks to avoid being the one to cut it, as the last sheaf was believed to hold the "spirit" of the field. So the last sheaf would be bound, made into a corn dolly, safely stored away to ensure a good crop the following spring.

He had used the corn dolly during harvest sermons as a visual aid to teach the lesson from the Gospel of John: "Unless a grain of wheat falls into the earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit."

The physical harvest was a rehearsal for the spiritual one. The villagers knew the relief of seeing the last cart roll in before winter storms. How much greater would be the relief of souls gathered into eternal rest?

Even so, Lord, quickly come,
Bring Thy final harvest home;
Gather Thou Thy people in,
Free from sorrow, free from sin.

Back in his study, he lit a lamp against the early dusk. The words came gently, as though carried on the wind from the fields he loved. “Come, ye thankful people, come…” It was an invitation not only to the villagers of Wymeswold but to all who had ever looked upon a full barn and felt gratitude at a good season and a fine harvest.

Now that the formal harvest was ended, the fields were opened to the poorest women and children of Wymeswold. They walked the rows to "glean", meaning they gathered any stray ears of grain left behind to grind into flour for their winter bread, like Naomi and Ruth in the Old Testament story. This was the generosity of God made manifest.

He wrote of wheat and tares, of angels and fire, of joy and purification. Yet the tone remained warm, hopeful, never fearful. The final harvest was not a threat but a celebration, a homecoming where sorrow and sin would fall away like chaff.

For the Lord our God shall come,
And shall take His harvest home;
From His field shall purge away
All that doth offend that day.

When he finished, he sat back and listened to the quiet crackle of the fire. Outside, the fields lay dark, resting until spring. Inside, the hymn glowed with the same gentle promise: that God gathers, God keeps, God brings His people home.

There, forever purified,
In Thy presence to abide;
Come, with all Thine angels, come,
Raise the glorious harvest home.

That would be the final harvest when God “will wipe every tear from their eyes. Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away” as he reflected on those words from the book of Revelation.

Taken at the Flood

The Guardian reported on this catastrophe when "a landslide of ice and rock resulted in a torrent of mud, water and debris bursting the banks of the Trishuli River, also known as the Bhotekoshi, which runs between China and Nepal. Homes, roads, bridges and power plants were swept away."

The US Geological Survey (USGS) subsequently said that a glacial collapse was responsible for the seismic event and for the flooding itself.... "When a glacier of that scale collapses, it generates a lot of water, and then there’s a cascading sequence of events … where the water and the sediment combine and bulks up and creates the flood.” 

This poem reflects on this event.

Taken at the Flood

Waters came, with rushing sound
Tearing the soil, down and down
Screaming death as it hits the town
The river breaking free from bound

Now the glacier water is unbound
This raging death in muddy brown
Waters came, with rushing sound
Tearing the soil, down and down

Villages fall and many drowned
Broken bodies are taken down
Flooding brings a deathly crown
With chaos erupting all around
Waters came, with rushing sound
Tearing the soil, down and down

A History of The States of Jersey Fire Service - Part 2

A History of The States of Jersey Fire Service - Part 2

From Jersey Life, 1967

By C.E. Perry

After the war came two more really serious fires, in Messrs. Le Gallais' premises in Hilary Street and in Bath Street, and in 1950 there took place another re-organisation when Chief Officer F. L. Edmonston, who only retired at the end of last year, took over. He had spent part of the war years in the thick of the blitz in the Manchester area and came here with the duty of reforming the service and bringing it up to date and with the operation of the Defence Committee he set about building up the service; more appliances were obtained, a turntable escape was also brought over and in 1954 the Fire Station was moved to its location in Rouge Bouillon where there was more room in the former 'new' Town Arsenal to house the bigger and better appliances which were rapidly being acquired. 

Unfortunately, in this move the old steamer 'Lord St. Helier' became a victim and was sold for scrap as there was no room for it; a great pity but that, I suppose, is progress. Mr. Edmonston set about his task with a will and the tributes paid to him when he retired, both by his superiors and the men who served under him show that his work was appreciated. During his time the strength was increased and vigorous training programmes were undertaken to make the service as efficient as one as is possible in the Island. New services were added, first, one Zodiac inflatable rescue craft was obtained and men trained in sea rescue work and later a similar type twin engined catamaran was also purchased both these craft have proved their worth since their acquisition. Firemen were always trained in first-aid but now they have an efficient cliff rescue team and several difficult rescues have been affected by them in co-operation with the States Police with which body there is complete harmony and co-operation.

In January of this year, Mr. Mahoney took over as Chief Officer with Mr. D. Carter as his Deputy and the strength is now eight junior officers, 25 regular firemen, one maintenance engineer and one mechanic with the addition of two leading firemen and 18 firemen who are on the retained staff and who may be called upon when necessary. The service has a total of five self propelled fire appliances of various types, a water carrier, turntable escape ladder, an emergency tender and a towing vehicle and two major trailer pumps and three smaller portable pumps as well as a car for the use of the Chief Officer. All are radio controlled from H.Q. and in a total of 830 calls answered in 1965, 236 were fires, 147 chimney fires, 317 special services such as pumping out premises, rescuing animals and getting folk into their homes from which they had locked themselves out and other such happenings. There were 116 false alarms 'with good intent' and 14 malicious ones.

Apart from fires and rescues of one kind and another, another very important aspect of fire service work which is being developed in the Island and that is fire prevention, for undoubtedly prevention is better than cure. The fire prevention department is doing a valuable job but as Mr. Mahoney told me the service has no statutory power to enforce fire prevention, they can only advise. They are called in by various States departments and officers to inspect States premises, new buildings, hotels, restaurants, public houses, places of entertainment and so on to advise on fire precautions and this duty is increasing so rapidly that two officers have had to be assigned to it but it is a very worthwhile service.

 

At one time there were fire brigades at St. Aubin and Gorey but these vanished with the passing of the years and now, apart from the Airport Fire Service, which is mainly concerned with aircraft, the States Fire Service is along and has to cope with every emergency. As Mr. Mahoney remarked 'We are on our own, on the mainland appliances can be summoned from many towns in any given area and these can be on the scene comparatively quickly. Here we have no such help apart from the airport service, but we manage'. So the work started all those years ago by Mr. Eady goes on and to borrow from the words of The Evening Post of 1901 'it is evident that we have an efficient Fire Service in Jersey'.