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• The Result: As existentialism began to be viewed as an outdated mid-century intellectual trend, Macquarrie's masterpiece, Principles of Christian Theology (1966), came to be seen as a relic of a bygone philosophical era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'.

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 6

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 6

Walking by the sea

GUERNSEY'S most spectacular attraction is probably the unspoilt cliff paths that run from Havelet Bay all the way to Pleinmont. Thousands of visitors, and Guernsey people, too, can enjoy a pleasure that is hard to rival anywhere in the British Isles — of walking for miles by the sea, undisturbed by traffic, with unfolding views before them of magnificent coastal scenery.

Since 1927 the policy of the Guernsey authorities has been to preserve these beautiful stretches of open country, and nowadays houses or hotels are no longer allowed to be built along the cliffs.

The Cliffs of the South

Visitors who return to Guernsey year after year often have their favourite section of cliff paths. Many would agree that the southern strip is the loveliest part of all. Lofty, majestic cliffs, steep wooded valleys running right down to the sea, shady leafy lanes —all nature's beauty seems crystallised in this small area. The sea views from the south are unsurpassed, for the land rises steeply from the foreshore to heights of over 300 ft.

The motorist has the choice of several good roads that will take him out of town to these uplands, but if you want to walk you can follow the cliff paths from the bathing pools at La Vallette and enjoy an almost fairyland walk. Just past the bathing pools, by the steps leading to Fort George, and the start of these cliff paths, is the Guernsey Aquarium. Here, in the picturesque setting of a converted German tunnel, are many tanks of curious and colourful local fish. [This is now closed]

On the boundaries of St. Peter Port and St. Martin's is Fermain. The slopes above Fermain are thickly wooded and the natural beauty of the bay, combined with its proximity to St. Peter Port, make it one of the favourite holiday spots in Guernsey. A summer attraction at the bay is the passenger launches that run between Fermain and St. Peter Port.

Immediately south of Fermain Bay pleasant and picturesque cliff walks will take you to the fisherman's harbour of Bec du Nez, Marble Bay and Divette.

The glorious cliff scenery of this part of Guernsey, with grass and furze covering the rocks and softening their harsh blackness is typical of the southern coast. Perhaps some of the finest scenery is to be found in this south-east corner of the island, in the peninsula known as Jerbourg. Visit St. Martin's Point, and look across Telegraph Bay to the famous line of rocks called the peastacks. From here, a charming lane follows the crest of the cliffs, and then runs inland to the Doyle Monument.

The original monument was erected in memory of Sir John Doyle, Governor of Guernsey at the beginning of the nineteenth century. It was demolished by the Germans, and the present monument was built to replace it in 1953. An enchanting panorama unfolds at this point; it includes the whole of the East Coast and the full sweep of Moulin Huet Bay to Icart Point.

A little way from the Doyle Monument there's a path leading to Petit Port, one of Guernsey's most popular bays. Although the steps down to the beach seem unending, Petit Port is perfect for bathing, and a popular spot for surf bathing, too. Next to Petit Port is Moulin Huet, easier to get to, and therefore more crowded.

Saints Bay, the next along the coast, is another fine spot for bathing, and the little fishermen's harbour nearby is a paradise for keen swimmers. On the far side of Saints Bay is Icart Point, which gives a fine view of cliffs and bays in either direction. Looking west, you can see La Bette, Jaonnet, Petit Bat and Portelet, and away in the distance, La Moye Point.

The twin bays of Jaonnet and La Bette are delightful, with their golden sand and lofty caverns. They're not so easy to reach as some of the other bays, and for this reason few people visit them — but perhaps this is part of their charm. Petit Bet, next along the coast, makes quite a contrast. This tiny bay is very popular, and the winding roads approaching it give tantalising glimpses of the golden sand and azure sea as they wend their way downward through the woods.

Adjoining Petit Bot is Portelet, the last sandy bay on this beautiful south coast. You will find it less frequented than Petitbot, where the road runs right down to the bay.

Now the contours of the coast take a wilder turn, beyond Le Gouffre where the seething waves boil unceasingly on the rocks. Next comes Corbière Point, then the Havre de Bon Repos, a little bay where at the east end you will find Venus's Pool. The receding tide leaves this hollow in the rocks filled with clear warm water that is grand for bathing.

The last place of interest along the beautiful south coast is Creux Mahie, the largest cave in Guernsey, and an eternal lure to intrepid explorers. The mouth of the cave is above high water mark, so you're quite safe.

 

And so you've come to Pleinmont, where the scenery changes to the broad bays of the west. You can spend days rambling through the paths which honeycomb the southern cliffs, never once retracing your footsteps. And you'll understand Guernsey's claim to a beauty that has no parallel in the British Isles.

The West Coast

IT IS a constant delight to visitors to Guernsey that they only have to go a few miles to experience changes of scenery which, in bigger countries, would only be seen in hundreds of miles of travel. Down the west coast, the shore curves gracefully in and out in a series of wide, sweeping bays, showing — at low tide .— a broad expanse of sand, and punctuated by rocks and fortresses, headlands waiting to be explored.

One of the great advantages of these bays is that they are right next to the main road which runs along just behind them. For this reason, perhaps they're best for children, especially as the bathing is safe and shallow.

The hinterland of the west coast is a broad plain, protected against encroachment by the sea by a strongly built wall. At each bay, you'll notice a slipway, which often extends as a paved or cobbled path for some distance across the beach. These paths were built for the gatherers of seaweed, so that they could bring their horse-drawn carts right down on the beach.

Seaweed gathering used to be a widespread occupation of the islanders. The old horse-drawn vraic (seaweed) carts have disappeared from the scene, however, and motor lorries are used to gather it now.

During the 19th century the manufacture of iodine was carried on, and until recently there were still traces of the industry on Lihou Island. This island is a place of wild and rugged beauty, where you will see the remains of a priory and some very fine rock pools.

Facing Lihou is Fort Saumarez, a tall Martello tower — relic of the Napoleonic wars. In striking contrast is the concrete addition built by the Germans.

There is little to choose between the west coast bays for sheer holiday-making delight. Vazon, Cobo and a host of smaller bays all have their faithful band of devotees. All offer gloriously safe bathing, and sun-bathing on fine, sandy beaches.

South of Perelle Bay — still very much local fishermen's bay — is L'Eree Bay culminating in L'Eree headland from which you walk across to Lihou. Then on south again, till you come to a vast curve of shore which encloses Rocquaine Bay, largest bay in Guernsey. Across the wide sweep of Rocquaine Bay, tucked into its southernmost wing, is Portelet, a little harbour formed by a small bay. With its sandy beach sloping gently seawards, Portelet is another paradise for children.

Now you're at the south-west corner of Guernsey, at the tip of land called Pleinmont Point. The scenery here is wild and romantic, the land giving place to the sea at rugged precipitous cliffs. This untamed region is well worth a visit. There's a ruined castle called Pezerie, whose history is lost in the mist of antiquity. The high ground almost opposite gives a good view of this fort, which is built in the shape of a star.

 

Looking westwards you can make out a line of reefs called Les Hanois which has been the grave of many a gallant ship. In 1862 the Hanois Lighthouse was built, and its revolving beam throws a warning to mariners up to 12 miles distant of the deadly welcome that awaits them on the Hanois.

At the foot of the cliff at Pleinmont Point there is a curious circle of stones with a concentric trench. Probably of prehistoric origin, this is called Le Table des Pions — the footman's table.

YOU can choose any one of a number of roads back to Town from Pleinmont, all full of interest and scenic beauty.

Near the Town Arsenal stands the red granite pile of Victoria Tower, built in commemoration of the visit of Queen Victoria and the Prince Consort to Guernsey in 1846. Built to a height of 100 ft. with the top over 300 ft. above sea level, Victoria Tower provides a fine vantage point from which to view the town and the surrounding islands.

At the bottom of the Grange is Elizabeth College, Guernsey's only public school. It was founded in 1563 by Queen Elizabeth I.

North from Town

TRAVELLING northwards from St. Peter Port, you'll come shortly to thriving St. Sampson's. A prosperous shipbuilding port in the hey-day of the wooden sailing ship, St. Sampson's later became the loading point for shiploads of granite from the once flourishing Guernsey quarries. The harbour itself is a fine example of Guernsey craftsmanship in the native stone. In recent years; the local granite industry has revived a little, and you will have noticed the grey-blue stone much in evidence in buildings around the island.

St. Sampson's is the nearest Guernsey has to an industrial area. Here, there is the only ship repair yard in the Channel Islands; the island's electricity power-house; the sea-water distillation plant; and the Guernsey Tomato Marketing Board's packing station. But St. Sampson's has also developed as an attractive, flourishing shopping centre, and gives visitors the impression of a bustling village community, busy about its daily affairs.

Travelling northwards again, the next place we come to is Bordeaux, a fishing haven in a tiny bay.

 

Farther on, at the northern tip of the island is L'Ancresse Bay — a lovely wide stretch of sand. Behind the bay lies L'Ancresse Common, another pleasure spot like the bay itself for tourists and local people alike. Peppered with Martello towers like chessmen on a giant board, the common is the site of the Guernsey golf course.

Beyond L'Ancresse Bay (also known as Pembroke Bay) is the rugged headland of Chouet, which in turn gives place to the inlet of Grand Havre. Running alongside the golf course here is Ladies Bay, an attractive sandy beach that seldom becomes really crowded.

What might Clement Attlee have said about scrapping the minimum wage

What might Clement Attlee have said about scrapping the minimum wage

It has always seemed to me a curious inversion of public duty when those entrusted with the welfare of the community speak as though the modest safeguards placed around working people were somehow impediments to national progress. The minimum wage is not a luxury, nor an indulgence; it is a simple recognition that no citizen should be asked to labour for a sum that insults both his effort and his dignity. To suggest that its removal would strengthen the economy is to forget that an economy is built upon human beings, not abstractions.

The argument that businesses are “strangled” by fair wages is one I heard often enough in my own time, and it was no more convincing then. A nation does not prosper by driving down the living standards of those who keep its shops open, its streets clean, and its services running. It prospers when it ensures that every man and woman has the means to live decently, to raise a family, and to participate fully in the life of the community. That is the foundation of social stability, and without it, talk of growth is mere illusion.

As for the notion that people should be free to take second jobs, I would remind its advocates that the purpose of a civilised society is not to encourage endless toil, but to ensure that one job is enough. Leisure, rest, and the chance to enjoy the fruits of one’s labour are not extravagances; they are essential to the health of the nation. A policy that assumes the poor must work twice as hard to stand still is not a policy of freedom, but of failure.

The minimum wage may be debated, refined, or improved. But to abolish it outright would be a retreat from the principle that the state has a responsibility to protect its citizens from exploitation. That principle, once surrendered, is not easily regained.

Awakening

Our beloved OXO Lady
"Onwards and upwards"
Linda B. would say
"Don't let the b*****ds get you down"
She lost her long brave battle
The "Gravy Lady" of renown

And yet, the very day she died
In October - the year of 2014
Our Martin was inspired
To recollect - with talking!

That truly is a day
I never will forget
I may be old (and sad sometimes)
But have no right to stay upset,

'Mum'

Housewife 1947: Invalid Kitchens

A fascinating story from Housewife magazine, 1947, and a glimpse of post-war social history in London during the rebuilding not just of bricks and mortar, but of society.

Housewife 1947: Invalid Kitchens

A valuable service which enables many people who would otherwise be unfit for work to live a normal life

By Barbara Banks

WHEN I discovered that the Invalid Kitchens had been in existence for over forty years I decided to investigate what sounded an interesting and unusual service. I telephoned the secretary of the nearest Kitchen to inquire if I might go along and see it. She said she had eighty invalid dinners to help prepare and all the shopping to do, so would I come tomorrow. Eighty dinners, and all the shopping! I assured the cheerful voice at the other end of the line that tomorrow would suit me equally well. The Kitchen had a light, pleasant dining-room with a serving-hatch to the kitchen.

‘What kind of people come here?’ I asked the secretary. ‘

‘Anyone needing a special diet. They must bring a doctor’s certificate or one from the hospital. We get T.B. cases, people suffering from all types of gastric trouble, diabetes, duodenal ulcers and many others. Naturally we work in co-operation with the local medical authorities.’

‘However do you know what to give all these different cases?’

Miss Ames smiled. ‘It certainly isn’t merely a question of a little steamed fish. We have an organising dietician at our headquarters .so all the meals are scientifically and correctly balanced. Some folk seem to have the idea that we are just a glorified soup-kitchen. But, of course, that isn’t our purpose at all. We do feel the work is important and when we see how wonderfully different patients respond to correct diet it makes all our efforts worthwhile. We had one man suffering badly from gastric trouble. His wife was very debilitated after her confinement but struggling to feed the baby. She was unable to go out shopping and he was too weak. Our van took them their dinners. In a very short time she was stronger and in consequence the baby was better, and he was able to return to work. He finds that by coming here for his dinner and continuing to have proper dieting he keeps quite fit.’

‘What do you mean by the van? I thought everyone came to the Kitchen.’

‘Oh, no. Each Kitchen has its delivery service and meals are taken to invalids who are too ill to come and old people who are bed-ridden. Come out to the kitchen and see the dinners put up.’

Piles of deep metal plates were on the table. After the hot food was put in them they were stacked tightly on top of each other, placed inside a thick, round metal cylinder, the lid firmly fixed, and away went the driver on the first round.

‘Five of those go to a factory,’ explained Miss Amen ‘We used to send to a number of factories, but now their own canteens are doing more themselves. Our dietician is always pleased to advise factory canteens about special diets.’

I volunteered to do some potatoes while I waited for the dining-room to open.

‘All the meat has to be minced,’ explained Miss Ames. ‘Vegetables are either minced or thoroughly mashed. When we serve fruit it must be sieved. I could not give patients whole prunes; they are made into a purée.’

 

By the time the driver and his helper had taken away the twenty-seven dinners for delivery it was 12 o’clock and the first people were arriving in the dining-room. I left my potato-peeling and followed Miss Ames to her desk near the entrance. The maximum charge is 1s. 6d., but many pay less than that. Old Age Pensioners pay 8d. each and some pay as little as 6d. I noticed a large bowl of Bemax stood by the hatch so that anyone who liked could take some with their pudding.

‘How do you manage to pay your way?’ I inquired.

‘We are supported by voluntary contributions,’ replied Miss Ames. ‘And we certainly do want a lot more financial help. Apart from the existing Kitchens (we have eight in different parts of London) there is such a need for them in other districts. More money would enable us to extend the service.’

‘Tell me about some of the people. What is the matter with that man who has just come in?”

‘He was a very bad gastric case. He has been coming for six or seven weeks and has gained a stone in weight. The little woman over there is a diabetic; she has her own dinner here and then takes one home to her invalid husband. We have several young ex-service men with a war legacy of gastric trouble. By proper dieting they are able to carry on with their work. But without this help many of them would be unfit for normal duties.’

The whole place had an air of quiet friendliness. When I remarked on it Miss Ames said, ‘Well, I take a personal interest in each patient. The diets are important, but their beneficial effects can be increased when they are eaten in happy congenial surroundings.’ She looked regretfully round the room. ‘And I do like to have flowers on the tables, but they are far too expensive just now.’

As we ate our own dinners I wanted to know more about the delivery service... ‘It is, of course, a very important part of our work,’ said Miss Ames. ‘Although from a financial point of view it is expensive. But this is an instance where the end really does justify the uneconomic means! For some of the bed-ridden old people the visit of the van is the high light of their long, lonely day. One old woman is ninety-five, but she thoroughly enjoys her hot dinner and a word with the helper who takes it.’

‘Do you need helpers?’

‘People who are really reliable and good drivers for the vans are always welcome. Otherwise we have to pay someone to do it. And as you know our funds are really inadequate to meet the demands on them.’

As I went home I reflected on the very valuable service these hard-working people were rendering the community. Surely if others knew of the need, more financial and practical help would gladly be given. After years of destruction and laying waste we now face the task of building up again. The invalid Kitchens of London are doing a very vital part in that building-up process.

More Short Stories: A Life Examined at Sunset

This is the story I have written about Robert Grant, in Dapoorie, July 1838, which I set shortly before his death, with his hymn "O Worship the King" moving like a distant chorale beneath the narrative. The hymn was published posthumously.

A Life Examined at Sunset

The gentle glow of the setting sun was gone. Now the monsoon clouds had gathered early that evening over the Governor’s country residence at Dapoorie, their deep thunderheads rolling like the very chariots of wrath Sir Robert Grant once described in his hymn. In the distance, the rugged, dramatic outline of the Western Ghats mountain range provided a striking backdrop, as the monsoon shrouded the peaks in rolling storm clouds and dense mist. But this, too, was part of God’s glory and might, both the light and the dark.

O tell of his might and sing of his grace,
whose robe is the light, whose canopy space.
His chariots of wrath the deep thunderclouds form,
and dark is his path on the wings of the storm.

The weather had been hot and dry before the coming rains. He could see across the river to the open, expansive tablelands of the Deccan plateau in the distance. Strong, hot winds swept across the plains, picking up loose topsoil. The air was constantly filled with a fine, blinding dust that coated everything inside the bungalows. The hymn he had written decades earlier seemed to mirror that of humanity in this unforgiving heat, frail children of dust, and feeble as frail. Only faith kept alive the promises of God’s care, and now the coming monsoon would bring his mercy to this harsh climate

Frail children of dust, and feeble as frail,
in you do we trust, nor find you to fail.
Your mercies, how tender, how firm to the end,
our Maker, Defender, Redeemer, and Friend!

He smiled at the line. It had been his father’s creed before it was his own: that all humanity stood equal before the Ancient of Days. His father Charles Grant had thundered against the East India Company’s greed, insisting that empire without conscience was merely a machine for suffering. His father’s famous tract of 1792 argued that they were purely exploiting India for revenue and ignoring the welfare of the people. Robert had carried that conviction across oceans, into Parliament, into India, and into the very marrow of his governance.

India was a land of poverty, and he remembered how he had aggressively pushed for higher education as Governor of Bombay. He believed that educating young Indians in Western sciences and arts was the most effective way to eliminate poverty, advance society, and cultivate a highly capable local professional class.

And he had set in place vast road-building projects. For surely building efficient transport networks across the rugged terrain of the Deccan plateau was crucial to mitigating local famines, improving food supplies, and allowing rural farmers to easily bring goods to market. If a drought hit the Deccan plateau, grain couldn't be moved fast enough on bullock carts via muddy tracks to save starving villages. He remembered the brutal journey of 120 miles between Bombay (Mumbai) and Poonah (Pune). It had been physically exhausting journey that took anywhere from 4 to 7 days. Things had to change and get better.

Like his father, Charles Grant, Robert believed Britain had been granted power over India by Providence for a specific purpose: to introduce the treasures of the Empire -science, and governance. He firmly believed that if the British military abandoned its positions or failed to expand, the region would collapse back into factional warfare, undoing all educational and medical progress. The British rulers were meant to be the instruments of God's peace, a shield and defender against the local warlords. The annexation of Aden was needed to preserve the trade routes for India.

O worship the King all-glorious above,
O gratefully sing his power and his love:
our shield and defender, the Ancient of Days,
pavilioned in splendor and girded with praise.

He breathed slowly, feeling the weight of his 58 years. His once ruddy face had paled, his hair now a pure white crown. Yet his voice, when he spoke, remained musical, perfectly controlled, as if shaped by the same grace that guided his pen.

A servant approached, offering water. Robert thanked him gently. He had insisted, always, that the people of India deserved education, medicine, dignity. Not charity but dignity. He had been horrified by the lack of scientific medical care available to the native population. In 1835, he forced the government’s attention toward creating an institution specifically to train Indian students in European medicine. He established the Medical and Physical Society of Bombay to drive scientific inquiry.

He watched the rain begin to fall, sweetly distilling in the dusk like the hymn’s dew. The hills beyond Dapoorie blurred into soft silhouettes. He remembered his father standing in the House of Commons years earlier, arguing that slavery was not merely an economic sin but a theological obscenity. How could one worship the King all‑glorious above while denying His image in another human being? His father had taught him that abolition was not politics, it was obedience. He himself had carried that same fire into that very chamber, arguing fiercely that British Jews should have equal civil rights as he championed his Civil Disabilities Removal Bill.

Robert whispered the hymn’s opening line under his breath. Not singing, but remembering. The words had come to him in a moment of clarity, a moment when he understood that worship was not flattery but alignment: aligning one’s life with mercy, justice, and the refusal to exploit the vulnerable.

He thought of the officials who had mocked his reforms. They had wanted profit, not progress. They had wanted obedience, not education. Yet he had pressed on, encouraging Indian scholars. He had not always succeeded. But he had tried.

The storm thickened. Lightning flickered across the horizon like a divine signature. Robert felt a faint ache in his chest, familiar now, insistent. He leaned back, letting the monsoon wind cool his face.

Your bountiful care, what tongue can recite?
It breathes in the air, it shines in the light;
it streams from the hills, it descends to the plain,
and sweetly distills in the dew and the rain.

A life worth living, he reflected, was not measured in titles or victories. It was measured in whether one had stood, however imperfectly, on the side of the frail children of dust. Whether one had used power to shield rather than to wound. Whether one had remembered that the robe of the true King was light, not dominion.

He closed his eyes. The hymn’s final verse rose in him like a benediction: O measureless Might, unchangeable Love… He had written those words in faith, but now they felt like a homecoming.

The storm broke fully then, rain sweeping across the plains in silver sheets. Robert Grant exhaled, peaceful, grateful. His life had not been flawless, but it had been faithful. And as the thunder rolled over Dapoorie, he felt himself carried, girded with praise, into the mercy he had spent his life defending.

O measureless Might, unchangeable Love,
whom angels delight to worship above!
Your ransomed creation, with glory ablaze,
in true adoration shall sing to your praise!

Historical Addendum:

Sir Robert Grant suffered an attack of apoplexy (stroke) following a severe fever brought on by exposure to heavy monsoon rains. Because of the intense humidity and lack of refrigeration, bodies had to be interred almost immediately. His retinue had to quickly transport his body from the rural Dapoorie residence across the swollen streams to central Poonah, where he was buried at St. Mary's Church the very next day. This tragic event is precisely why his colleagues immediately pushed to establish the Grant Medical College. They wanted to ensure that future generations in the presidency had access to scientific medical advancements to fight the very tropical fevers that killed him.

Light Encircled

This poem was written with rhyming couplets mostly with iambic tetrameters designed to mirror the steady rotation of the lighthouse beam that forms the poem’s central image. It's from my back catalogue from 22nd July 2004.

Light Encircled

The darkness moved over restless sea
The motion was alive with vibrancy
The rocky crags were sharp and clear
Upon them stood the watching Seer
The light swept circling round the bay
To warn off the ships, to stay away
Picks out white flecks upon the waves
Shines deep within the nearby caves
Then round once more, and out so far
Meeting with light from distant star
The Seer is serene, sees not the motion
But the master pattern behind the ocean
Movement in harmony, in time’s embrace
Where wind and sea make calming place.

A History of The States ofJersey Fire Service - Part 1

A History of The States of Jersey Fire Service - Part 1

From Jersey Life, 1967

By C.E. Perry

The STATES OF JERSEY Fire Service, under that name, first came into being in 1938 when the States, faced with the threat of war, took over the St. Helier Fire Brigade. Curiously enough it was a telephone manager from the National Telephone Company in England, Mr. Eady, who had come here in the telephone service, who started the St. Helier Brigade in September, 1901.

Up to that time there had, as far as parish records go, been no official fire fighting body in the town. For many years from the early 1800s insurance companies established in the Island had provided their own fire fighting equipment; but each company only attended fires at premises which they had insured and which bore the company's plaque. One of these is preserved at the museum having been taken from premises in Museum Street which were demolished some years ago. Prior to the insurance companies 'fire brigades', in ancient times it was the duty of the Seigneurs of the various fiefs to protect their vassals and tenants and to that end they are believed to have provided men-at-arms with buckets to attend to fires; later this became a parochial responsibility but it must have been a somewhat haphazard service to say the least until the insurance companies provided manual pumps, hoses and escape ladders. The garrison troops, of course, had their own fire fighting equipment and doubtless lent a hand if requested to do so, in fact I remember a serious fire in the early 1920s when the fire picquet from Fort Regent, then garrisoned by the 2nd East Surreys, turned out and helped to keep the crowd back. I remember that very clearly for I had a slight argument with an enthusiastic youngster who nearly stuck his bayonet in my eye.

But to come back to 1901. Mr. Eady had been connected with the Fire Brigade in Bournemouth and when he came here as manager of the National Telephone Company he felt that he could make a valuable contribution to the well-being of his new home by establishing a fire brigade; the St. Helier authorities were very co-operative and in September of that year the Brigade was duly formed and trained; it consisted of the Chief Officer, a Second Officer, Foreman and 12 firemen, all volunteers. Their equipment consisted of a horse cart, a hand wheeled manually operated escape and two hose manual systems, provided water was available, could throw a jet of water 50 feet with ten men a side operating the handles of the pump. The 20 men operated the pump for 20 minutes and were then replaced by another 20 volunteers while the firemen manned the hoses and escape. Firemen were paid 2/6d. for the first hour and one shilling an hour for subsequent hours they attended a fire. These sums were paid by the parish. The volunteer pumpers got the same rate of pay and it is stated that the insurance companies provided beer for their men when they were in operation.




In 1902, on January 1st, the St. Helier Fire Brigade was housed at the Town Hall and remained there until after World War I; the engine was housed in part of the building next to what is now a jewellers' shop. The first appliance was a horse drawn manual and during that first year 23 fire calls were dealt with. In 1905 in July, the manual was replaced by a Shand Mason steamer named Lord St. Helier and bought by the parish.


In 1912 a contract was signed between the parish and Mr. F. J. Laurens, a well known carting contractor of the time whose premises were known as the Don Stables, for the hire of horses for the use of the fire brigade. If used in St. Helier the contractor was paid 15/- per run for his horses but if anywhere else in the Island the fee was £2. If horses were called out but not hitched up by reason of a stop call, a fee of 5/- was payable. The steamer's working pressure was 120 lbs. per square inch and this pressure was raised in seven to twenty minutes. It was usual to light the boiler fire 11 miles from the scene of the fire and the engine was capable of delivering 250 gallons of water per minute. That was if water was readily available, in the country districts this was not always the case and many a time, right up to very recent years, the unfortunate men had to use liquid manure cisterns. The results can be imagined. The steamer made a gallant sight as the horses cantered along, the brass of the engine's funnel and the firemen's helmets gleaming and, as often as not, sparks streaming from the funnel and from the horses' hooves as they clattered over the paving stones of the town streets.

Mr. Eady continued as Chief Officer until 1915 when he was succeeded by Mr. Gale who was in charge until 1924 being succeeded by Mr. `Joe' Remphry.

One of the very early calls of the 1901 brigade was to a hotel fire at Greve de Lecq; the firemen arrived at the bay which is 71 miles from the Royal Square within 45 minutes. The following quote from The Evening Post is preserved in fire service records. 'This morning's turn out was practically the first that the newly formed St. Helier Fire Brigade has had to respond to and the smartness with which they mustered and performed their duties make it evident that we have at least in St. Helier an efficient fire brigade'.





The year 1923 saw a reorganisation; the room at the Town Hall was required for other purposes and motor vehicles having been acquired, the brigade moved to what had been the Town Arsenal in Nelson Street behind what is now the Odeon Cinema. Here under 'Joe' Remphry the vehicle strength grew to a Dennis 20 h.p. 350 gallon per minute pump and a Chevrolet tender and trailer pump; a Merryweather pump with wheeled escape was added in 1933. Between 1924 and 1936 there were several serious fires, notably Les Riches in Colomberie and Normans, Commercial Buildings in the '20s and St. Aubin's Railway Station in 1936. In 1938 the St. Helier Brigade were called out to the first air disaster at the airport where a Jersey Airways plane had crashed near the airfield with the loss of all its passengers and crew.

In 1938, the States of Jersey took over the service from the Parish and the firemen were equipped with another Dennis 500 gallon per minute appliance and also six trailer pumps, and an auxiliary fire service was formed in view of the threat of war. The brigade, however, continued to function with Chief Officer Remphry in charge with W. J. `Toby' Lock as his Second Officer. They had many tasks during the war years many of them serious, such as the fire at St. Ouen's Manor which destroyed one wing of the building, another in New Street which destroyed Messrs. A. De Gruchy's restaurant, that at the Palace Hotel and many others in places occupied by German troops whose carelessness, where fire risks were concerned, became proverbial.

What Might G.K. Chesterton say about scrapping the minimum wage?

Jersey’s minimum wage has sparked fresh debate after Economic Development Minister Gerald Voisin publicly questioned whether it should remain in place. In a letter to the editor, he argued that the current £13.59 hourly rate is holding back businesses, fuelling inflation, and limiting opportunities for people to take on additional work. His comments follow similar calls from columnist Douglas Kruger of Value Jersey, who labelled the wage floor a political showpiece. Voisin previously endorsed Value Jersey during June’s election.

What Might G.K. Chesterton say about scrapping the minimum wage?

It is a curious thing, how modern reformers will stride into the marketplace like prophets, waving their arms and declaring that the ancient and ordinary protections of the poor are suddenly the engines of national ruin. One might imagine, listening to such pronouncements, that the minimum wage were not a modest fence around the labourer’s dignity, but a monstrous idol demanding sacrifices of prosperity. Yet the truth is simpler, and far more human. The wage floor is not a chain around the ankle of enterprise; it is a reminder that civilisation begins with the recognition that a man’s labour is not a trinket to be bartered at the lowest possible price, but a participation in the common good.

The notion that abolishing the minimum wage would unleash some golden age of thrift and industry is one of those bright, brittle ideas that shatter the moment they touch the earth. It imagines the economy as a machine, humming along in perfect efficiency, if only we would remove the “obstructions” of fairness. But economies are not machines; they are parades of people, each with a face, a family, and a hope. To argue that wages must fall so that prices may rise more gently is to suggest that the poor should be made poorer so that the rich may be less inconvenienced. It is the sort of logic that would have made Dickens reach for his pen.

And as for the claim that the minimum wage “denies people second jobs”, it is a marvel of modern rhetoric: the idea that the cure for hardship is not a living wage, but the liberty to work oneself into exhaustion. The medieval serf, at least, was spared the indignity of being told that his bondage was a privilege. A society that congratulates itself for offering its citizens the freedom to toil endlessly is not a society that has discovered liberty; it is one that has forgotten leisure, charity, and the Sabbath.

The minimum wage may not be perfect. No human institution is. But to abolish it in the name of economic purity is to mistake the purpose of an economy altogether. The object of production is not profit, but people. And any civilisation that forgets this will soon find that it has produced everything except happiness.

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 5

Looking around Guernsey 1972 – Part 5

Castle Cornet

STANDING like a lone sentinel overlooking the harbour mouth is Castle Cornet, an ancient fortress that has played an important and exciting part in Guernsey's turbulent history. Built, according to some authorities, in the reign of King Stephen, Castle Cornet has been the scene of numerous hard-fought battles, and on several occasions during the continuous strife with France, its steps have echoed to the tread of the invading French army.

During the Civil War in the reign of Charles I the island supported Cromwell, but the Royalist Governor, Sir Peter Osborne, withdrew with a handful of the King's men to Castle Cornet, which they held for the King for nine years. Indeed, the Castle was the last Royalist stronghold to surrender to the forces of Parliament (December 15th; 1651).

In 1940, the Germans took over Castle Cornet, although it was hardly adaptable to the needs of modern warfare. As an example of military architecture it is remarkable because it has borne the influences of succeeding armies from Norman times right up to the fortifications installed by the Nazis.

The Castle was the property of the War Office until 1948, when it was presented to the States by the British Government. It is maintained as an ancient monument and is full of romance and historic charm.

Thousands of people visit it each year, and many take advantage of the conducted tour which begins every day at 10.45 a.m. and ends about 11.30 a.m. Actual hours of opening are:— weekdays (except Saturday afternoons) — 10.30 a.m. to 12.30 p.m. and 2.30 p.m. to 6.00 p.m., and Sundays — 10.30 a.m. to 12.30 p.m.

The Castle also contains the Royal Guernsey Militia Museum, the Maritime Museum, the Armoury — showing former uniforms, models and weapons —and an Occupation Museum. More peaceful is a collection of water colours by the 19th-century local artist, Major Peter Le Lievre, a Guernsey Militiaman who has charmingly depicted island scenes and people of over a century ago.

Women visitors, particularly, enjoy the gardens at Castle Cornet, which are very fine in late spring and summer and are looked after by the head keeper and his assistants.

Victor Hugo's House

HAUTEVILLE HOUSE, the home in exile of the famous 19th-century French writer Victor Hugo, is one of the most interesting houses in Guernsey, and every year thousands of British and French people make their way up the steep Hauteville road on the south side of St. Peter Port to visit it.

Hugo lived in Guernsey from 1855 until 1870, when the Second Empire fell. His home now belongs to the City of Paris, and has been preserved as a memorial. Here, you can see all his personal belongings and furniture, just as Hugo left them.

From the high window of his study you can look out over the sea as he did, and on a fine day, pick out the coast line of his native land. Standing in his study, Hugo penned his famous book, The Toilers of the Sea, written about and dedicated to the sturdy island folk among whom he had made his home and also gave much for the poor children of Guernsey and it is as much for his charitable work as his writings that he was affectionately revered in the island.

His statue stands in Candie Gardens, and shows him striding forth in flowing cloak — just as he used to do on his marathon walks around Guernsey. In his last year of exile, the poet planted an oak tree at Hauteville, predicting that by the time it was full grown there would be a united Europe.

Hugo's oak has become a symbol of European unity, and sprigs from it tended in a Guernsey nursery have been planted in many Continental countries. In 1970, delegates from several European centres came to Guernsey to celebrate the centenary of the oak tree's planting, and take part in a ceremony held below Hugo's statue.

Candie Gardens lie just above St. Peter Port. These miniature botanic gardens contain a variety of sub-tropical plants, trees and shrubs grown in the open — including a lemon tree bearing fruit that frequently ripens.

Guernsey's colourful past



FOR so small an island, Guernsey is rich in evidence of a colourful past in the form of ancient dolmens, castles and forts. It is a quality that has come to be recognised nowadays as historical depth, and many visitors are fascinated by its abundance in the island. Although the States of Guernsey has a very limited budget in comparison to the UK government they are doing what they can to preserve and restore the most significant of these ancient monuments.

 

There are quite a number of dolmens — tombs of prehistoric tribes — in Guernsey. Probably the most interesting is the 3,000-year-old Delius Dolmen near the yacht marina in the Vale. It has been described as one of the finest examples of a passage grave in Western Europe. Electric light has been laid on there, so you will be able to see the marvellously preserved prehistoric rock carving known as "The Guardian of the Tomb".

Also interesting are the La Varde dolmen at the Pembroke end of L'Ancresse Common, and Le Creux as Faies at L'Eree. But Le Catioroc dolmen, standing on a mound overlooking Perelle Bay, has the weirdest history of all. The west coast is still considered "witches' country" by many local people, and Le Catioroc was one of the chief meeting places for the Guernsey witches' "sabbat". At this Friday-night orgy they hurled insults at the Chapel of the Holy Virgin on Lihou island, chanting, "Que Hou Hou Marie Lihou". According to local antiquarian Mr. J. Stevens Cox, "Hou" is the name of an ancient Breton god.

At one time witches appear to have got a good grip on Guernsey; island folk-lore is full of them, while the Royal Court holds records of actual witch trials that have taken place.

A pagan but more harmless lady, affectionately known as "La Grand'Mere du Chimquiere", stands at the gate of St. Martin's Church. An authority from the British Museum dates the sculpture at around 700 B.C. Poor Grand'Mere still bears a scar near her skirted shin-bones where a former church warden, affronted at the presence of a heretic so near to the church, tried unsuccessfully to hack her down.

One of the island's most ancient fortresses is Ivy Castle, near Le Bouet, said to be a Norman stronghold older than any in England, because it was built before the Conquest by William the Conqueror's father, Robert the Devil. The real name of the fortress is "Le Chateau des Marais", and Guernsey's Ancient Monuments Committee are working on its restoration, which may take some years. The size and layout of Ivy Castle, with its inner and outer baileys and its moat, could really be appreciated best from the air. From the outer circle of defence wall, sturdy Guernseymen of old are said to have hurled arrows, stones and other missiles at marauding pirates creeping towards them over the marshlands of the Vale.

 

Vale Castle at St. Sampson's is also very old, but its origins are lost in time. From afar, it gives an illusion of the strong fortification it was at one time, but you will see as you approach that it is really a ruin. Round about 1805, a Russian garrison was stationed at Vale Castle. Gentle to children and kindly enough when sober, they turned into wild ruffians under the influence of liquor and no woman was said to be safe from them. They terrorised St. Sampson's to such an extent that one Guernsey family actually emigrated to America because of them!

At key points in Guernsey you will see old fortifications that are links in a chain of defence covering centuries. Fort Pezerie, Rocquaine Castle (also known as Fort Grey and "The Cup and Saucer") Fort Saumarez — all have a place in the island's history, as do the many Martello towers.

Fort George, which has now been developed as a luxury housing estate for wealthy settlers, was a British garrison from 1780 until the outbreak of World War II, and English redcoats once swam in Soldiers' Bay.

Feudalism survives in Guernsey today in its fiefs — parcels of land owned and ruled over by seigneurs or lords of the manor. The seigneur still has special privileges, such as conge, which entitles him to two per cent of the selling price of any property sold within his fief as long as it does not change hands more than once a year.

Some of the ancient fiefs have seigneurs who are lords of the manor by right of purchase, but the most splendid example of a hereditary seigneurie is perhaps Sausmarez Manor in St. Martin's — a stately home that has belonged to the de Sausmarez family for over 600 years. It is open to the public in the summer and is well worth a visit. You will see here the old Tudor Court House, where members of the fief and their seigneur still hold feudal court once a year.

Several Guernsey churches are very old and St. Saviour's is the most untouched by the centuries, and stands at the roadside almost exactly as it was when it was built in 1394. The Vicar of St. Saviour's has launched a scheme to restore St. Appoline, which is to be rededicated afterwards as a Chapel of Christian Unity. Restoration of what a UK expert _ has said are fine examples of mediaeval frescos will probably be one of the most costly items, and may take several years to achieve.

Hitler's Legacy

IN 1940, Hitler invaded the Channel Islands, which the Germans occupied for five dreary years. To turn Guernsey into an island fortress, vast quantities of concrete and steel were poured into it and thousands of slave workers were brought from all over Europe.

It is surprising how few signs there are now in this peaceful holiday island of Nazi Germany, considering there was scarcely an acre of open space that was not used as a gun emplacement, strongpoint, observation post or ammunition store. The concrete fortifications you will see on the cliffs — particularly along the west coast — have been left because they would have been too costly to demolish, but a number of structures have been filled in, covered over or blocked to make the cliffs and commons safer and more sightly. Some of Hitler's relics such as tunnels and bunkers have been turned to peaceful uses —for storage, cow-sheds, garages and even converted into houses!

The vast underground hospital at St. Andrew's —the largest German structure in the Channel Islands —was reopened years ago as a tourist attraction. Another spectacular fortification was the "Mirus" battery near the west coast.

The Germans mounted 12-inch guns here on huge circular emplacements that you can still see. Each gun was camouflaged by a dummy cottage that traversed with it, and a network of underground quarters and store-rooms adjoined the sites.

The Occupation Museum at the Forest contains hundreds of interesting relics, set out in such a way that visitors are given a fascinating glimpse into life in Guernsey under the German jackboot.