Journal articles: 'West Side Presbyterian Church' – Grafiati (2024)

Abstract:

In the seventeenth century the Church in Scotland was for the most part engaged in working out an ecclesiastical polity acceptable to itself and to the civil authorities. Hence matters of Church government and of Church/state relations occupied much of the attention of leading theologians such as Samuel Rutherford (1600–61) and George Gillespie (1613–49). Yet there were others who, while deeply involved in the conflicts within the life of the Church, also devoted their attention to the study of the Scriptures and to contemporary theological debates. Prominent among them, on the Episcopal side, was John Forbes (1593–1648) of Corse, the leading member of that group of distinguished scholars know as the ‘Aberdeen Doctors’. Forbes was internationally celebrated for his Institutiones Historico-Theologicae de Doctrina Christiana, published in Holland in 1645. On the Presbyterian side, James Durham (1622–58) was at the same time beginning to make a name for himself as an outstanding exponent of the Scottish Calvinist ethic and would undoubtedly have gone on to enhance a rapidly growing reputation had not his life been cut short by death at the early age of 36. Of his works which were subsequently published his extensive commentary on the Book of Revelation isjustly one of the most important. Between 1658 and 1799 it went through no fewer than seven editions, one of which was printed in Amsterdam in 1660.

Abstract:

The church of St Bartholomew the Great in West Smithfield is not generally thought of as a building of major importance, probably because the plan of its presbytery seems to suggest that it was a rather outmoded imitation of Norwich Cathedral. The first part of this paper examines the basis for such an assumption and offers an explanation for the similarities between the presbyteries of the two buildings. Affiliations between the two institutions are placed in the wider context of the aspirations of the London episcopate in the decades either side of II00. Smithfield emerges as an extraordinary building, highly untypical of contemporary Augustinian architecture. The twelfth-century foundation narrative of Smithfield implies that, while in building, the church struck onlookers as astonishingly innovative. Taken at face value, this is puzzling, since most of the elements of its design had been common architectural currency for a generation or more. This apparently paradoxical situation is explored in the second part of the paper and the basis for Smithfield's perceived modernity while under construction very tentatively reconstructed.

Abstract:

Historians on both sides of the Atlantic have failed to appreciate the significance of Stuarts Town, Scotland's short-lived colony in Port Royal, South Carolina. This article challenges the current view that Stuarts Town was primarily a business venture, focusing, instead, on the religious impulses that lay just beneath the surface of the Carolina Company. These concerns came to the fore as presbyterian persecution intensified in 1683 and the colony was reimagined as a safe haven for the true church, where the saving remnant of God's people could escape the terrible judgments befalling Scotland and where the gospel would be secure. Its purpose was collective, corporate, social and historical. On the ground in Carolina, however, colonisers behaved more like imperialists than religious refugees. Like Scotland, the Anglo-Spanish borderland was a violent and unstable place that bred fear of displacement and enslavement, but unlike Scotland it lacked a centralised power, giving the Scots an opening to make their bid for empire. They moved aggressively into this power vacuum, seeking in particular to capitalise on the perceived weakness of Spanish Florida to extend their reach into coastal Georgia, the south-eastern interior and as far west as New Mexico. Their actions created great anxiety in the region and, although the collapse of the Stuart regime finally put an end to their hopes, their short-lived colony transformed the borderlands, reorienting English, Spanish and Indian relations, sparking the coalescence of the Yamasee tribe and the Creek confederacy, and giving new life to the Indian slave trade that eventually shattered indigenous societies in the American south-east.

Abstract:

This paper explores the religious dimension to popular protest in the early eighteenth century, highlighting in particular the continued influence of what has been called the Covenanting tradition – the defence of Presbyterian church government, popular sovereignty and the resistance of Anglican imperialism – in southwest and west central Scotland. Religiously inspired ideas of equality and economic equity in God's world, combined with the desire to resist the encroachment of Anglican hierarchy, drove ordinary Presbyterians to rebel. There is evidence to suggest that the reaction of some protesters to socio-economic conditions was coloured by their theological worldview. The phenomenon at work in southwest Scotland might best be described as ‘Presbyterian moral economy’. The paper suggests that lowland Presbyterian culture coloured popular protest to a degree not hitherto recognised. Presbyterian moral economy was a robust and continuous – but unduly neglected – strand in the history of Scottish radicalism.

Abstract:

The Presbyterian Review (1831–48) was one of the most important sources for Evangelical thought within the Church of Scotland before the Disruption of 1843, and for Free Church opinion after the schism. However, its views concerning slavery have yet to be subjected to critical evaluation by historians. Initially, it reflected the radicalism of the Evangelical leader, Andrew Thomson, especially in its demand for the immediate, uncompensated abolition of West Indian slavery. It also used slavery as part of its polemics against High Church Anglicans and Tractarians over the legacy of William Wilberforce and in its disputes with the Scottish Voluntaries. Subsequently, during the ‘Send back the money’ controversy, its position moved closer to the moderation of Thomas Chalmers.

Abstract:

This article looks at the gender dimension of religious missions administered by the Presbyterian Church in the inland Australia as represented in Beth Beckett’s life memoir written in 1947-1955. It is aimed at obtaining general ideas on the involvement of women, as the wives of missionaries, Focusing on the experience of Beth Beckett, it argues that her position as a wife of a missionary is problematic: on the one hand she did transgress the traditional idea of staying home wife by choosing to travel along with her husband, but at the same time, she was still bound by the domestic side of the job.

Abstract:

Towards the end of 1886 four missionaries set foot on Cameroonian soil in the harbor of Douala. They were representatives of the Switzerland based Basel Mission (BM) who had arrived to take over from the pioneers of Christian mission work in Cameroon, the British Baptists, two years after this part of west-central Africa had been brought under German colonial rule in 1884. Their challenge was founded on the key objectives of consolidating and expanding the web of christian communities which had been established along the Atlantic coast north of the Wouri estuary.Today, just over 110 years later, traces of the Basel Mission's enterprise are widely spread over the Anglophone South West and North West Provinces of Cameroon. These remnants of the past have been partly reshaped to suit the specific patterns of church activities and administration among their African target groups; partly they have been effaced through the erosive impact of time. But only partly, for numerous episodes and aspects of this chapter on religious and social history are well documented both in substantial collections of records and in several publications.

Abstract:

The church discussed in the paper is situated in Avgia, on the outskirts of Batumi. It is an early Christian period hall-type church with northern and southern wings. The ground plan of the whole structure resembles the well-known layout of the croixlibre. The whole building is 23.85 m long and 19.0 m wide – including the arms. It has a projecting semi-circular apse whose radius is 6.05 m. The main space of the church is divided into three parts. It consists of a transverse hall, which may have operated as a narthex, a hall, and an altar apse. The floor of the structure was covered with pinkish lime mortar, a mixture of small pebbles and ceramic powder. The only central entrance to the church was located on the west side. The northern annex had an entrance in the north-western corner, and the southern one – in the south-eastern corner. The church seems to have been built of rubble stone. The construction style, layout, and archaeological evidence from the site narrow down its chronology to the 5th and 6th centuries AD.

Abstract:

Abstract The ruined Cistercian church of Vaucelles is known only by a few preserved fragments and a plan of the choir reproduced by Villard of Honnecourt. Historical sources provide three key dates: 1190 (start of construction), 1215 (entry into the new church), 1235 (date of the dedication). From the nineteenth century until now, it was considered that the foundations were laid in 1190 and that the construction started on the west side of the church. In 1216, the nave would have been completed, and the choir would have been built between 1216 and 1235. Consultation of the historical sources and examination of the historiographic record changes this established chronology of the site. In fact, the construction proceeded from east to west. The choir reproduced in 1216 or shortly before by Villard de Honnecourt presents the building as it then appeared, with the eastern part of the building totally completed.

Abstract:

In the Church of Saint Stephen in Duljevo, not far from Budva (Pastrovici) an interesting composition of the founders (ktetores) has been preserved. In accordance with an early Serbian tradition, it was painted on the southern wall in the western bay of the naos (drawing 1), and it is possible that it extended over the southern part of the western wall that was demolished very long ago. The Duljevo composition of the founders now depicts the images of the patron saint of the church, Saint Stephen, the First Martyr, painted on the southern side of the south-west pilaster, and the presentations of the two rulers to the west of him (drawing 2). The patron saint of the church who was the protector of the Serbian medieval state and its rulers, is represented in a deacon's sticharion, with a censer in his hands, blessing the founders. The ruler in his prime approaches the First Martyr, presenting him with a model of the church (drawing 2, figs. 1, 2)...

Abstract:

The article deals with cultural values that represents the wooden church architecture. Author focuses on the examples of the church in the Polish and Ukrainian region of Carpathian mountains. The abundance of wood as a building material in the region, as well as the landform and the localization, resulted that the local architecture Orthodox Church has become a unique and highly characteristic. The author of the article, presents the wooden churches in the Poland and Ukraine inscribed on the UNESCO World Heritage Site which took place on 21 June 2013, at the 37 session. On that list is currently 16 Orthodox churches of the Carpathian region: 8 temples on the Polish side and 8 from the Ukrainian side. The churches of the Carpathian region inscribed on the UNESCO World Heritage are a testament to the interpenetration of Christian culture characteristic of the East and the West showing the relationship between the Polish and Ukrainian community.

Abstract:

In his inaugural lecture as Professor of World Christianity at the University of Edinburgh, Professor Stanley discusses three individuals connected to Edinburgh who have major symbolic or actual significance for the development of world Christianity over the last 150 years. Tiyo Soga (1829–71) studied in Edinburgh for the ministry of the United Presbyterian Church, and became the first black South African to be ordained into the Christian ministry. His Edinburgh theological training helped to form his keen sense of the dignity and divine destiny of the African race. Yun Chi'ho (1865–1945) was the sole Korean delegate at the World Missionary Conference held in Edinburgh in 1910. His political career illustrates the ambiguities of the connection that developed between Christianity and Korean nationalism under Japanese colonial rule. John Alexander Dowie (1847–1907) was a native of Edinburgh and a student of the University of Edinburgh who went on to found a utopian Christian community near Chicago – ‘Zion City’. This community and Dowie's teachings on the healing power of Christ were formative in the origins of Pentecostal varieties of Christianity in both southern and West Africa.

Abstract:

The ministerial career of the presbyterian divine Oliver Heywood, spanning as it did the years from 1650, when as a young man still technically too young for ordination he first accepted the call of the congregation at Coley chapelry in the parish of Halifax, until 1702 when on 4 May he died there, a patriarchal figure respected and admired by fellow ministers and congregation alike, was considered by contemporaries and has subsequently been thought of by historians as an exemplary study of the pastoral tradition within old Dissent. His career illustrates how one man could lie at the centre of a network of nonconformist divines, patrons and adherents scattered throughout West Yorkshire, South Lancashire and Cheshire and also demonstrates the ambivalent and shifting relationship between Dissent and the Established Church in the latter half of the seventeenth century. These insights into both the internal and external relationships of Dissenters depend mainly on the corpus of Heywood’s writings, not his published works but his autobiographical notes, diaries and memoranda books published just over a century ago, and it is these writings which form the basis of this paper. To begin with though we can turn to the diary of the antiquary Ralph Thoresby who attended Hey wood’s funeral on the 7 May 1702 and recorded the event as follows: rode with Mr Peter’s to North Owram to the funeral of good old Mr O. Heywood. He was afterwards interred with great lamentations in the parish church of Halifax. [I] was surprised at the following arvill, or treat of cold possets, stewed prunes, and cheese, prepared for the company, which had several conformist and non-conformist ministers and old acquaintances.

Abstract:

The most important contribution made by Archbishop James Ussher to the ecclesiastical developments of the Interregnum and Restoration periods was his short tract The Reduction of Episcopacy Unto the Form of Synodical Government. Printed only after his death in 1656, its combination of ministerial synods with episcopal rule was seen as a basis for presbyterian-episcopal reconciliation over the next three decades. The tract was printed in five editions during the later 1650s, and came out in two more editions in 1679, when the Popish Plot and the calling of a new Parliament revived hopes that dissenters could be comprehended within the Church of England. It was printed once more in 1689, in Edinburgh, when “comprehension” was again being hotly debated in both England and Scotland. By that time Ussher's name had come to symbolize such “limited” or “primitive” episcopacy, and indeed it has continued to do so among twentieth-century historians.The fame of the Reduction rests upon its content and authorship. Although the tract was only one of many such compromises offered during the Interregnum, it was the most radical to come from the royalist and Anglican side during that period. Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of all Ireland, Ussher was admired and respected by radical puritans and major Laudian spokesmen such as Henry Hammond and Bishop John Bramhall. The power of Ussher's name in this context was shown in 1685, when the nonconformist divine and politician Richard Baxter was on trial for allegedly making a printed attack against the king and the bishops. When Baxter's attorney, Sir Henry Pollexfen, sought to introduce as evidence one of Baxter's own printed compromises between episcopal and presbyterian government, Lord Chief Justice George Jeffreys replied, “I will see none of his books; it is for primitive Episcopacy, I will warrant you — a bishop in every parish.” In replying “Nay, my lord, it is the same with Archbishop Usher's,” Pollexfen indicated both the radical nature of the Reduction and the legitimacy that Ussher's name lent to other compromises of this kind.

Abstract:

St Philip Neri, founder of the Roman Oratory, died in 1595, just in time to see the completion, after twenty years, of the church of Santa Maria in Vallicella (known as the Chiesa Nuova)— except for the facade (finished c. 1607). Even before his canonization in 1622 the church was a place of pilgrimage. The community he founded inhabited a mass of miscellaneous buildings east of the church, decrepit, cramped, and acquired piecemeal over time when funds allowed. The musical ‘oratories’ — concerts with a sermon in the middle — also attracted many visitors, and the eponymous hall in which these events took place was inadequate. The community's rule allowed them to accept donations but not to beg or canvass for them. Nevertheless, by 1624 they were able to contemplate building a new sacristy on the west of the church and they were also buying up adjacent properties on that side. Initially most of the block was already built on, but by 1650 they owned practically all of it, and the shape of a new complex (Figs 1 and 2) was discernible from partly or wholly completed new structures.

Abstract:

The excavation report covers eight months of fieldwork at the site of Ghazali, which resulted in the clearing of the entire monastery and the discovery of three annexes located on the north and west of the complex. The spiritual part of the monastery included two churches located in the southeastern corner of the complex, a household compound on the west side and a refectory and dormitory in between. Conservation work focused on the reconstruction and restoration of water storage installations in Room Y, as well as north of the North Church. Excavation outside the monastic walls brought the discovery of an iron smelting area with several well-preserved furnaces. Exploration of the monks’cemetery uncovered regular box superstructures and an intriguing variety of substructures from simple vertical pit tombs to elaborate vaulted chambers.

Abstract:

At the start of the 1920s the Korean Christian community in Hamgyeong Province and Manchuria had little control over the financial and educational policies of the Canadian Presbyterian missionaries. By the end of the decade the Presbyteries determined how the home funds would be spent on evangelical work and Korean church leaders sat on a Joint Board with the Canadians to aid in the management of the mission. The Canadian decision to share power with the Koreans was made out of necessity. Throughout the 1920s, students, elders, ministers and a large segment of the laity vigorously, sometimes violently, advocated for a transformation of mission policies. The Canadians became extremely fearful and concluded that to save the mission they would have to reform their methods. In the literature published on the mission, the ‘positive side’ of the story, namely the Canadian ability to empathise with the Koreans and their denouncements of the Japanese colonial regime in 1919 as well as 1920, has been emphasised. This article focuses on the less seemly nature of the Canadian–Korean relationship. It will examine the temporal factors that contributed to the Korean acceptance of missionary authority before 1919, their rejection of it in the 1920s and the attempts of the Canadians to bring order back to the mission compounds. The ultimate purpose of this study is to demonstrate that the Korean Christians were active agents who through their protests during the 1920s came to assume a prominent position within the mission.

Abstract:

The subject of this article is the parliamentary discussion of 1938 concerning the religious dispute in the south-eastern borderlands of the Second Polish Republic. The disputes concerned, among other things, the political role of the Greek Catholic Church, which was strongly involved in the Ukrainian national movement. In 1938 a revindication action took place in the Chełm region, as a result of which the Polish authorities liquidated over one hundred Orthodox churches. These actions were the subject of a stormy debate in the Parliament between Polish and Ukrainian MPs. The arguments of the Polish side concerned, above all, the protection of the security of the Polish state threatened by intervention from both the East (USSR) and the West (Germany).

Abstract:

The paper is focused on the issue of the original content and structure of a heavily damaged iconographic whole in the narthex of the Mileseva monastery church. A careful examination of the surviving material and contemporary analogies seeks to elucidate the unknowns and dilemmas surrounding the adopted solutions. The analysis of the content of the frescoes on the side walls should clarify the role of the Last Supper and the Washing of the Feet within the small group of scenes whose underlying theme was the Passion of Christ. The findings concerning the relationship between these scenes and a seemingly inexplicable combination of solutions on the west wall corroborate the assumption that the whole was conceived as a system of counterparts. Some observations substantiate the recently advanced hypothesis that the now gone east wall of the narthex featured, above the door to the naos, a Crucifixion scene as an integral and especially emphasized component of the cycle.

Abstract:

FOR THE PHOTOGRAPHS BELONGING TO THE ARTICLE SEE SUPPLEMENTARY FILES > There are three parts to the interior space of ancient Ethiopian churches: a sanctuary (Mäqdäs) which is expanded into the “Holy Place” (Qǝddǝst) and the place of the assembly (Qǝne maḥlet). Four rooms stand at the corners of a cross-in-square interior: two service rooms on either side of a narthex-like entrance-room, westwards and, more important for the present discussion, two eastern service rooms which flank the sanctuary. These are called the pastophoria. After early input from Syria-Palestine, the Ethiopian basilicas took on an Aksumite character. Their development continued in a loose relationship with changes on the Egyptian scene, notably with a double phenomenon: the evolution of the rite and place of preparation of the bread and wine for Mass (the prothesis), and the demand for more altars at a time when churches could not be multiplied in Egypt. A study of architectural changes in the churches, alongside a comparison of liturgical practices and clues found in iconography and Coptic and Syriac literature, can bear witness to how the liturgy of the Ethiopian Church developed. Such investigation is all the more important because the absence of written documentation until the 13th century has left the church buildings as almost the only evidence available for study. The present study concentrates on the evolution and eventual disappearance of the pastophoria. The nature and location of the altars provides further evidence for dating. It should be noted that Ethiopia does not entirely abide by the Coptic models, essentially because what provoked change in Egypt did not exist in Ethiopia. Many questions still remain to be answered, including: When and where did the large monolithic altar of the permanent Coptic altar type first appear? Why are the West-Syriac and Ethiopian Churches today the only ones to celebrate Mass in a synchronized manner? We hope to address these and other questions at a later date.

Abstract:

<p><strong><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3">The church of Hagios Nikolaos at Sofronis gorge, Laconia</font></span></strong><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3"> </font></span><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3"><span> </span></font></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3">At the southwest slopes of mount Parnon, on t</font></span><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3">he lower part of the Tzitzina gorge, lays the church of Hagios Nikolaos, the catholicon of an old monastery, today in ruins. Close to the church there is a spring of clear water, known to the locals as the Sofronis spring; the gorge itself, from that level until the point that it reaches the Kelefina river, some kilometers lower, is known by the name “Sofronis gorge”. The catholicon is a cross-in-square church of the variant with shorter west arm, with a narthex and an exonarthex at the west part of the nave. The west arm of the cross and the lateral corner bays are much shorter than the corresponding east parts, which makes the west corner bays look like blind arches. Above the central square bay of the nave lays a peculiar dome, whose drum is cylindrical inside, while outside it has a rectangular shape ending in triangular gables at its east and west side.<span> </span></font></span><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3"><span> </span></font></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3">The esonathex was initially cross-vaulted, completely unified with the main church. Its central bay was covered by a longitudinal barrel vault at the same level as the arch of the west cross arm of the nave. The west sides of its corner bays are articulated by two blind arches, of which the north one might have been used as a burial arcosolium. A small niche is formed at the east wall of its south corner bay, either for liturgical function or to be used for the service of the holy water. The exonarthex has a complicated structural history. Initially was timber-roofed, while in a later phase it was covered by a transverse barrel vault, for whose support blind arches were constructed at its west side, now in ruins.<span> </span></font></span><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3"><span> </span>The external surfaces of the church are plain, without any kind of articulation, as was the rule in monuments of southern Greece. The walls were constructed by roughly hewn stones with plenty of brick fragments in the joints. At least one level of wooden ties strengthens the walls in the springing line of the vaults. The cross arms of the nave were covered by saddle tile roofs, as was the rule in cross-in-square churches of the byzantine periphery. The east corner bays where roofed at a lower level with lean-to roofs with north and south direction respectively. The west corner bays on the other hand, were so much thinner that it was rather impossible to have independent roofing. In that case, the roofs of the lateral compartments of the esonarthex gave externally the impression of west corner bays. This peculiar arrangement, emphasizing the unification between the nave and the esonathex, is very rarely attested among the known examples of cross-in-square churches with shorter west arm, relating the church at the Sofronis Gorge with a small group of relevant monuments (Fraggavilla, Klesa-Porti).</font></span><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3"><span> </span></font></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3">The form of the dome of the church in question must not be confused with the similarly shaped raised central bays in transverse barrel vaults. Thought there are a few similarities with a small number of byzantine and post byzantine domes, it seems that the dome of Hagios Nikolaos at Sofronis Gorge is unique in the ecclesiastical architecture of Byzantium, most likely the result of an improvisation of a local group of masons.</font></span><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3"><span> </span></font></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3">Hagios Nikolaos was initially decorated with frescoes, fragmentarily preserved. Three different phases can be distinguished due to stylistic and iconographic criteria. The first one is very difficult to be studied because of its poor condition of presentation. The second one can be dated to the late thirteenth century, while the last one might be placed in the fifteenth century.</font></span><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3"><span> </span></font></span></p><p><span style="font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'"><font size="3">It is difficult to conclude to an exact dating for the church of Hagios Nikolaos, because of the lack of documentary and epigraphic evidence. Based on its morphological and typological features a rather broad dating between the eleventh and twelfth centuries seems possible for the monument in examined. </font></span><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt"><span> </span><span style="line-height: 115%; font-family: 'Century Gothic','sans-serif'; font-size: 11pt">Hagios Nikolaos at the Sofronis Gorge, though not an impressive building, provides <span> </span>valuable input to the study of the ecclesiastical architecture in Laconia during the Middle Byzantine Era, a period whose surviving monuments in this part of the Peloponnese are very scarce. Hagios Nikolaos is valuable for another reason as well: it seems to be the oldest monument at the Sofronis Gorge and its adjacent area, where a great number of monastic foundations are gathered, still inadequately studied.<span> </span></span></span></p>

Abstract:

The katholikon of the Hosios Loukas monastery, built around the first quarter of the eleventh century, has a narthex with a mosaic decoration on its west side. The Incredulity of Thomas is included amongst the scenes of the Passion. This paper examines the iconographic, liturgical, and dogmatic roles of the Incredulity within the context of the overall program and the liminal space of the narthex. This monumental representation evidences how depictions of the Incredulity engaged with changing beliefs concerning the senses and faith. In particular, I focus on the implications of the believer?s bi-directional movement through the narthex on entering and exiting the church. Iconographically, the representation of a door behind Christ and His wound are understood as symbolic conformation of His divine nature and a marker of the path believers should follow to attain salvation. As a confirmation of Christ?s dual nature, the Incredulity of Thomas is read in relation to funerary and Eucharistic contexts as relating to the narthex of Hosios Loukas.

Abstract:

It is known that the Church of the Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary at Silba was demolished in 1828 so as to provide the necessary building material for the completion of the new parish church which inherited the dedication from the old one. As we learn from the archival records, the demolition was authorized by the Archbishop of Zadar Josip Nowak who stipulated that the Franciscan Church of Our Lady of Carmel would function as the local parish church while the new one was being built. All that remains from the old church today is the bell tower which continued to be used by the new parish church. It is obvious from the schematic ground plan and the dimensions of the demolished church, recorded in the now lost document from the parish church archive, that it was a single-nave longitudinal structure with a rectangular sacristy to the east, two shallow chapels extending from the lateral walls and a porch of the lopica type (resembling a loggia) at the front which abutted onto the corner of the bell tower with its own south corner. Apart from the high altar, placed against the back wall, the church had three pairs of side altars. The analysis of the canonical visitations carried out during the second quarter of the seventeenth century demonstrates that the church, recorded for the first time in 1579, was a modest building in which the oil for the anointment of the sick was being kept because the local parish church of that time, dedicated to St Mark, was too far from the village. The church was provided with five side altars put up by the more distinguished individuals and members of the lay fraternities the most prominent of which was that of Our Lady of the Rosary after which the church was called by eighteenth-century locals. Based on the analysis of the 1670 visitation of Archbishop Evangelisto Parzaghi who described the renovation during which certain altars changed their places, the article argues that the church was completed just before this visit. The bell tower was mentioned as a campanile for the first time in 1678.By means of comparative analysis, it can be established that the Church of the Nativity of the Virgin at Silba belonged to the same architectural type as a large group of simple yet spacious churches which were built in rural communities along the east Adriatic coast by local masters during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. The activity of such masters on the island of Silba is corroborated by contemporary birth, marriage and death records as well as a number of monuments such as a tombstone in the Church of St Mark and the door lintel in the house of master builder Franić Lorencin (1660), both of which depict building and carving tools. The analysis of the land registry maps and topographical drawings of 1824 and 1833 shows that the church’s south wall, to the east of the chapel of Our Lady of the Rosary, was laid in a different direction compared to that of the rest of the wall, indicating that this portion belonged to an earlier layer of the building which, judging from everything, seems to have been medieval. Therefore, the wall was widened and extended towards the west during the rebuilding documented in the visitation of 1670. This possibility, which a future excavation of the site ought to be confirm, is strengthened by the frequency of such alterations as can be seen on the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century churches on the island of Ugljan and in particular on the Church of St Lawrence at Lukoran, built in 1632, which is the best example of that architectural type.Another feature of these churches is the lopica-type porch which stands out as an architectural element typical of Istria and the Quarnero gulf to which, geographically speaking, the island of Silba gravitates. The lopica porch of the Church of the Nativity at Silba had a particularly elongated plan and featured two symmetrical sets of three supports and an axial main entrance into the porch, that is, the church. It is unlikely that the porch was added prior to the late seventeenth century because during that time, Silba was exposed to the raids of the Turkish pirates who threatened it directly. It is certain that the bell tower was used for defensive purposes and the addition of a porch would have diminished its importance as a fortification structure and hampered the visual communication with the entrance to the church.The examination of the architecture of the bell tower revealed two different building phases: an earlier one which included the body of the bell tower and a later one which saw the addition of the pyramidal structure together with a shallow square drum. In its original form, the bell tower had a compact body featuring a round-headed opening at the centre of each side of the two topmost storeys. Their stylistically undefined morphology corresponds to modest bell towers which were built in this area from the late sixteenth to the eighteenth century. The original pyramidal top had to be dismantled in 1858 due to wear and tear and it was replaced by the present one which has oval openings at the bottom of each side of the drum. This structure is almost identical to the top of the bell tower of the Church of Our Lady of the Rosary at Preko on the island of Ugljan which was built in 1844.Based on the archival records, the article also establishes that the substantially repainted image of the Virgin and Child with SS Mark and Matthew, today at the high altar of the parish church, was originally larger. It was the object of ex-voto veneration and numerous offerings had been placed in its glass case. The painting was cropped so that it could be inserted into the niche of the marble altar piece designed by Ćiril M. Iveković (1898) which meant the loss of the two evangelists. According to the preserved contract and drawing, the lower part of the altar was set up in 1860 by Giovanni dalla Zonca, an altar maker from Vodnjan, and it featured the still preserved wooden statues of SS Peter and Paul which are dated to the mid-seventeenth century on the basis of their stylistic features. Therefore, it can be concluded that painting and the statues were taken from the high altar of the demolished church.

Abstract:

AbstractThe fortifications of the Hellenistic and Roman city of Tocra are over 2 km long (including the sea-wall) and comprise a curtain wall up to 2 m wide flanked by 31 rectangular towers. Three main structural phases were noted in the survey carried out in 1966 by David Smith: (1) Hellenistic walls of isodomic ashlar, (2) later Hellenistic work of isodomic ashlar with bevelled edges, associated with the indented trace along the south rampart, and (3) an extensive rebuild of plain ashlar blocks including the towers and reconstruction to the East and West Gates, dateable, on the basis of Procopius, to the reign of Justinian. The general significance of the fortifications at Tocra is considered in the second part: these include the Hellenistic indented trace along the south side, later reinforced by towers in the sixth century AD. Also of wider importance was the use of an outer wall or proteichisma, and the pentagonal, pointed towers at the two main gates. Both these elements were unusual in Byzantine North Africa and they are discussed as part of the more general repertory of Byzantine fortifications. The unusual tower adjacent to the West Church is considered in the context of literary accounts. The article concludes by considering how the architecture and magnitude of the fortifications can allow a reassessment of the wider role of the city in the sixth and seventh century defences of Cyrenaica.

Abstract:

Christianity stands out among the three great Abrahamic religions in its willingness to make extremely precise dogmatic statements about God. The Christians who make these statements have generally regarded them as universally and absolutely true, since they are divinely revealed, or divinely guaranteed interpretations of revealed texts. Of course from the beginning there has not been universal agreement (to put it mildly) among Christians about what statements should be so regarded and how they should be worded: and the seriousness with which this need for dogmatic precision has been taken is shown by the way in which the inevitable disputes did not only involve theologians but the general body of Christians, and have led to divisions of churches, long continuing and flourishing mutual hatreds, and an overwhelming amount of theoretical and, where opportunity offered (i.e. where a Church party could get a secular power on its side), practical intolerance. Two areas of Church history which seem to me to provide particularly clear evidence of the incompatible verbal precisions demanded in dogmatic statements and the serious consequences of these demands are the Christological controversies of the fifth and sixth centuries and the Filioque dispute between East and West (though there is plenty of choice, and others may have other preferences). In both of these, theologians with a real and deep sense of the mystery of God often seem to an outside observer, in spite of their passionate assertions that this is not at all what they are doing and the rhetorical reverence of their language, to be arguing as if the God-Man or the Trinity were small finite objects which they had pinned down firmly in their theological laboratories and were examining under the microscope.

Abstract:

Work commenced in August 1994 on a new archaeological rescue project to survey, excavate and protect the remains of a Classical and Byzantine site at Çiftlik, near Sinop on the Turkish coast of the Black Sea (Pl. XXIX (a)). The work was a collaborative project including staff from the Sinop Museum and the British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara, and staff and students from the University of Warwick. The British Institute of Archaeology at Ankara has adopted this as a new “in-house” project, run in collaboration with Mr. İsmail Tatlıcan, Director of the Sinop Museum.The remains at Çiftlik lie at the mouth of a valley on the west side of the great bay in the Black Sea which runs south of the peninsula on the isthmus on which the city of Sinop stands. The remains of two buildings were studied in 1994. These buildings were originally constructed on silty soil consisting of winter wash material which was deposited at the valley bottom over a long period of time prior to the Classical occupation of the site. The project is very much concerned with rescue, since the coastline in this area is being seriously eroded by the sea. At least 1·5 metres of the church (the south building) has been eroded since 1990, and the low shelf in the water beside what survives has underwater remains from various Classical and Byzantine buildings.

Abstract:

Background: Sierra Leone situated in west Africa. It lies between Guinea and Liberia. The country has a population of about seven million people. The country is divided into four regions, they are as follows-western area with Freetown being the capital city, southern province with Bo being the headquarter, northern province with Makeni being the headquarter and eastern province with Kenema being the headquarter. The country is divided into twelve district. Kissy is situated in the eastern part of Freetown. The population of Kissy is about four hundred and fifty thousand people. There are five public hospitals and small health centers. United Methodist Church Hospital is located at the heart of Kissy. Education on supportive care is very important in all hospitals and health centers so that health care workers can apply it when necessary. Supportive care are given to improve the quality of life of patients who have serious or life threatening disease. The goal of supportive care is prevention, treats as early as possible the symptoms of the disease, side effects caused by treatment of a disease, psychological, social and spiritual problems related to a disease or its treatment also called comfort care, palliative care and symptom management. Aim: 1. To raise public education on supportive care. 2. To help the participants understand the importance of supportive care to patients with life threatening disease. Methods: This study was based on interviewing forty health care workers comprises of the following people nurses, caregiver, social workers, community health officers, chaplain and volunteers from the three institutions and community. United Methodist church Nursing School, Kissy Nicole Terrace Health Center Kissy, Kissy Health Center and Kissy Mess-Mess: nurses (3); social workers (2); care givers (2); and community health officers (3). Nicole Terrace Health Center: nurses (3); social workers (2); care givers (2); and community health officers (3). Kissy Health Center: nurses (3); social workers (2); care givers (2); and community health officers (3). Kissy Mess-Mess: volunteers (5) and chaplains (5). Results: During my interview with the different categories of people in the different health institutions and community, I discussed with them supportive care its importance and the impact it creates in the life of a patient with life threatening disease. It was a one-to-one interview and information received was recorded. According to my evaluation, I observed that, none of them have knowledge about supportive care and the impact it creates in the life of patients with life threatening disease. The findings of my research indicate that all the people in the different institutions and community have no knowledge about supportive care. Conclusion: Since supportive care helps to improve the quality of life of patients who have serious life threatening disease, education on the issue of empowering the following people involved in providing supportive care, namely, nurses, care givers/volunteers, chaplain and social workers, will help to prolong the lives of patients with life threatening diseases.

Abstract:

<p>Ilias Anagnostakis and Anna Lambropoulou</p><p>An instance of the implementation of the Byzantine institution of asylum in the Peloponnese: the Slavs seek sanctuary in the Church of St Andrew of Patrai</p><p>The events which took place in the Peloponnese in the early ninth century (c. 800) are recorded in later sources, mostly of the tenth century. Following the establishment of the theme system of territorial administration and the securing of ecclesiastical order in the region, the emperor Nikephoros I, in implementing his new fiscal and economic policy, took steps to increase the number of inhabitants by systematically encouraging the settlement of new population groups from outside the area. It was within this general context and during this same period that the rebellion of the Slavs in Achaia, as described by Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus, needs to be viewed. Clearly, also, the phenomenon needs to be seen within the context of the specific social climate of the region where radical change was taking place and significant breaks with the past were occurring. During the repression of the rebellion the Slavs sought sanctuary in the church of the Apostle Andrew. As a result of this move, however, the rebels were given special treatment as they were viewed as having repented their actions. This was an occurrence whose more general implications are worthy of further study. Looked at from the broader ecclesiastical and political perspective, there are certain characteristic features to be noted in the attitudes towards asylum and the priority ascribed to ecclesiastical over civil law in Constantinople at the end of the eighth and the beginning of the ninth centuries. At the beginning of the ninth century, during the reign of Nikephoros I and while Tarasios was on the patriarchal throne (784-806), the flight of the defeated Slavs to the Church of St Andrew and the relative leniency that was shown them by the state suggest that here we are dealing with an instance of the workings of the institution of sanctuary in Byzantium. While the sources bring in a host of hagiographie and miraculous elements -the standard baggage of accounts of Christianisation and repentance-he flight of the Slavs to the church of the patron saint of the city constitutes, in our opinion, in instance of mass asylum. Moreover, it is interesting to observe that the respective terminology which was used in Porphyrogenitus' account and was in all likelihood included in the sigillion of Nikephoros I relies, in our view, directly on Byzantine legislative reforms concerning sanctuary.</p><p>This is the first recorded instance of mass asylum and resort to church sanctuary in the middle Byzantine period in the Peloponnese. An effort was made both on the part of the church and the state to find a compromise solution: the former sought recognition of the institution of sanctuary while the latter was concerned to maintain the authority of its judicial and penal organs. The Slavs, who had sought sanctuary in the church, while normally liable to the punishment reserved for insurrection, were in the end granted special treatment. A compromise was found: despite the Slavs' attempt to rebel against the Byzantine authorities, the institution of asylum was fully implemented with the imposition of a number of restrictions and sanctions against the Slav population. The economic side of this treatment, which was generally a feature of the institution of ecclesiastical asylum both in Byzantium and the medieval West, has been well investigated. Indeed, monasticism and land ownership in the region of Bithynia are thought to have developed thanks to the institution of monastic asylum and the geographical boundaries of asylum, and this appears to be the case in the Peloponnese, too, where we see privileges and sigillia being granted for new monasteries and metropoleis in the ninth century. It is particularly interesting to note that the limits of 'rural asylum', i.e. the legal delimitation of the concepts of asylum and imperial donations, are lumped together with the estates of the church or monastery. The transfer of the exploitation of cultivable land to the workers of the monastery or church very often led to the development of settlements in the area. Seen in this light, the introduction of the institution of asylum and its legal delimitation in the case of the ecclesiastical estates of Achaia are directly related to the settlements of the early ninth century. It is probable that in contrast to the case of Syria and Bithynia asylum was not the catalyst behind the gradual settlement of the region of Achaia. However, and more importantly, it did offer solutions to the problems arising from the settlements. In the case of Patrai groups of unruly and discontented peasant populations developed an allegiance to the metropolis and were subsequently integrated to the point that they became entitled to protection from every epinoia adikos ('unjust design').</p><p>Subsequent to the Patrai episode - as far as the evidence allows us to construe- the Empire turned its military operations to the unsubdued, mountainous and more southerly regions of the Peloponnese. By contrast, the Slavs of Achaia were granted sigillia guaranteeing protection from any unapproved measures or epinoia adikos of the metropolitan. The flight of the Slavs to the Church of St Andrew following the miraculous intervention of the Apostle Andrew and the repression of the revolt, as well as the special treatment that they then received at the hands of the Byzantine authorities on account of their seeking sanctuary in the church, can be seen to constitute a form of asylum that is entirely consistent with the political and social climate and with the concept of asylum of the age of Nikephoros I.</p><p> Further investigation of the sigillia and their authenticity and reliability as sources may help to improve our understanding of the implementation and development of the institution of asylum in Byzantium during the reign of Nikephoros I.</p><p> </p>

Abstract:

AbstractTheology in Greece today is the outcome of a long and complex historical process in which many different, and even contradictory, trends and theological proclivities have converged and continue to converge, thereby defining its shape and agenda. The present article tries to provide, in four sections, both a descriptive and critical account of this complex and fascinating history.Among these trends, a decisive role is attributed in the first section of the paper to the so-called ‘generation of the 1960s’ (including among others pre-eminent Greek theologians such as Metropolitan of Pergamon John D. Zizioulas, Christos Yannaras, Nikos Nissiotis, Fr John Romanides, Panagiotis Nellas), a Greek theological movement for renewal inspired mainly by the theology of the Russian diaspora and the call to ‘return to the Fathers’, which was instrumental in shaping contemporary Orthodox theology both in Greece and outside the Greek-speaking world.In the second section are given the reactions to and criticism of the ‘theology of 1960s’. There were strong disputes and rejection on the one hand by conservative Greek academic and ecclesiastical circles, and on the other hand from the opposite progressive side (mainly the professors of the Theology School of Thessaloniki University during the 1990s), which accused this theological movement of conservatism and anti-Westernism.The emergence of the agenda initiated by the new theological generation (of 2000) is discussed in the main and longer (third) section. This new theological agenda and its principal characteristics come from points of disagreement with the theologians of the generation of the 1960s, and from a renewed and more inclusive understanding of Orthodox theology which goes beyond the problématique, the language and the agenda of the 1960s. Among the topics raised and discussed by the new trends of Greek theology are: the rediscovery of eschatology and its dynamic interpretation, ecclesiological issues, such as the centrality of the episcopal office, and the critique of the dominant place of monasticism in the life of the church, the movement of liturgical renewal, the revalorisation of mission, the rediscovery of ethics and the dilemma of ethics versus ontology, the renewed interest in political theology, the overcoming of anti-Westernism and of the West–East divide as a central interpretative key, a more constructive relationship between Orthodoxy and modernity, the critical approach of the ‘return to the Fathers’ movement, the reconsideration of the devaluation of biblical studies, the emergence of an Orthodox feminist theology and the debate on women's ordination, the radical critique of religious nationalism, and the devolution into Byzantinism and ecclesiastical culturalism.In the fourth section the article names the settings and institutions that are hosting the new theological trends in Greek Orthodoxy, mainly mentioning the leading Greek Orthodox theological quarterly Synaxi, the official scholarly journal of the Church of Greece, Theologia, the Biblical Foundation of Artos Zoes and its Bulletin of Biblical Studies and, finally, the Volos Academy for Theological Studies. An overall group vision and esprit de corps which could integrate the individual efforts and provide an identity, clearly missing from the above-mentioned picture, are demanded from the two theological schools of Athens and Thessaloniki.The article concludes by briefly reviewing the conservative and fundamentalist reactions towards this new theological agenda, and by highlighting the urgent need for contemporary Greek theology to face the new, dynamic and particularly challenging global context, and to continue to reflect and to act towards Christian unity, as well as move to reconciliation between Christian East and West, Eastern and Western Europe.

Abstract:

A Rooted Man and a Sacred PoetBy Viggo MortensenA Review of A.M. Allchin: N.F.S. Grundtvig. An Introduction to his Life and Work. With an afterword by Nicholas Lossky. 338 pp. Writings published by the Grundtvig Society, Århus University Press, 1997.Canon Arthur Macdonald Allchin’s services to Grundtvig research are wellknown to the readers of Grundtvig Studier, so I shall not attempt to enumerate them. But he has now presented us and the world with a brilliant synthesis of his studies of Grundtvig, a comprehensive, thorough and fundamental introduction to Grundtvig, designed for the English-speaking world. Fortunately, the rest of us are free to read as well.It has always been a topic of discussion in Denmark whether Grundtvig can be translated, whether he can be understood by anyone except Danes who have imbibed him with their mother’s milk, so to speak. Allchin is an eloquent proof that it can be done. Grundtvig can be translated and he can be made comprehensible to people who do not belong in Danish culture only, and Allchin spells out a recipe for how it can be done. What is required is for one to enter Grundtvig’s universe, but to enter it as who one is, rooted in one’s own tradition. That is what makes Allchin’s book so exciting and innovative - that he poses questions to Grundtvig’s familiar work from the vantage point of the tradition he comes from, thus opening it up in new and surprising ways.The terms of the headline, »a rooted man« and »a sacred poet« are used about Grundtvig in the book, but they may in many ways be said to describe Allchin, too. He, too, is rooted in a tradition, the Anglican tradition, but also to a large extent the tradition taken over from the Church Fathers as it lives on in the Orthodox Church. Calling him a sacred poet may be going too far.Allchin does not write poetry, but he translates Grundtvig’s prose and poetry empathetically, even poetically, and writes a beautiful and easily understood English.Allchin combines the empathy with the distance necessary to make a renewed and renewing reading so rewarding: »Necessarily things are seen in a different perspective when they are seen from further away. It may be useful for those whose acquaintance with Grundtvig is much closer, to catch a glimpse of his figure as seen from a greater distance« (p. 5). Indeed, it is not only useful, it is inspiring and capable of opening our eyes to new aspects of Grundtvig.The book falls into three main sections. In the first section an overview of Grundtvig’s life and work is given. It does not claim to be complete which is why Allchin only speaks about »Glimpses of a Life«, the main emphasis being on the decisive moments of Grundtvig’s journey to himself. In five chapters, Grundtvig’s way from birth to death is depicted. The five chapters cover: Childhood to Ordination 1783-1811; Conflict and Vision 1811-29; New Directions, Inner and Outer 1829-39; Unexpected Fulfilment 1839-58; and Last Impressions 1858-72. As it will have appeared, Allchin does not follow the traditional division, centred around the familiar years. On the contrary, he is critical of the attempts to focus everything on such »matchless discoveries«; rather than that he tends to emphasize the continuity in the person’s life as well as in his writings. Thus, about Thaning’s attempt to make 1832 the absolute pivotal year it is said: »to see this change as an about turn is mistaken« (p. 61).In the second main section of the book Allchin identifies five main themes in Grundtvig’s work: Discovering the Church; The Historic Ministry; Trinity in Unity; The Earth made in God’s Image; A simple, cheerful, active Life on Earth. It does not quite do Allchin justice to say that he deals with such subjects as the Church, the Office, the Holy Trinity, and Creation theology.His own subtitles, mentioned above, are much more adequate indications of the content of the section, since they suggest the slight but significant differences of meaning that Allchin masters, and which are immensely enlightening.It also becomes clear that it is Grundtvig as a theologian that is the centre of interest, though this does not mean that his work as educator of the people, politician, (history) scholar, and poet is neglected. It adds a wholeness to the presentation which I find valuable.The third and longest section of the book, The Celebration of Faith, gives a comprehensive introduction to Grundtvig’s understanding of Christianity, as it finds expression in his sermons and hymns. The intention here is to let Grundtvig speak for himself. This is achieved through translations of many of his hymns and long extracts from his sermons. Allchin says himself that if there is anything original about his book, it depends on the extensive use of the sermons to illustrate Grundtvig’s understanding of Christianity. After an introduction, Eternity in Time, the exposition is arranged in the pattern of the church year: Advent, Christmas, Annunciation, Easter and Whitsun.In the section about the Annunciation there is a detailed description of the role played by the Virgin Mary and women as a whole in Grundtvig’s understanding of Christianity. He finishes the section by quoting exhaustively from the Catholic theologian Charles Moeller and his views on the Virgin Mary, bearing the impress of the Second Vatican Council, and he concludes that in all probability Grundtvig would not have found it necessary to disagree with such a Reformist Catholic view. Finally there are two sections about The Sign of the Cross and The Ministry of Angels. The book ends with an epilogue, where Allchin sums up in 7 points what modem features he sees in Gmndtvig.Against the fragmented individualism of modem times, he sets Gmndtvig’s sense of cooperation and interdependence. In a world plagued with nationalism, Gmndtvig is seen as an example of one who takes national identity seriously without lapsing into national chauvinism. As one who values differences, Grundtvig appeals to a time that cherishes special traditions.Furthermore Gmndtvig is one of the very greatest ecumenical prophets of the 19th century. In conclusion Allchin translates »Alle mine Kilder« (All my springs shall be in you), »Øjne I var lykkelige« (Eyes you were blessed indeed) and »Lyksaligt det Folk, som har Øre for Klang« (How blest are that people who have an ear for the sound). Thus, in a sense, these hymns become the conclusion of the Gmndtvig introduction. The point has been reached when they can be sung with understanding.While reading Allchin’s book it has been my experience that it is from his interpretation of the best known passages and poems that I have learned most. The familiar stanzas which one has sung hundreds of times are those which one is quite suddenly able to see new aspects in. When, for example, Allchin interprets »Langt højere Bjerge« (Far Higher Mountains), involving Biblical notions of the year of jubilee, it became a new and enlightening experience for me. But the Biblical reference is characteristic. A Biblical theologian is at work here.Or when he interprets »Et jævnt og muntert virksomt Liv paa Jord« (A Simple Cheerful Active Life on Earth), bringing Holger Kjær’s memorial article for Ingeborg Appel into the interpretation. In less than no time we are told indirectly that the most precise understanding of what a simple, cheerful, active life on earth is is to be found in Benedict of Nursia’s monastic mle.That, says Allchin, leads us to the question »where we are to place the Gmndtvigian movement in the whole spectmm of Christian movements of revival which are characteristic of Protestantism« (p. 172). Then - in a comparison with revival movements of a Pietistic and Evangelical nature – Allchin proceeds to give a description of a Grundtvigianism which is culturally open, but nevertheless has close affinities with a medieval, classical, Western monastic tradition: a theocentric humanism. »It is one particular way of knitting together the clashing archetypes of male and female, human and divine, in a renunciation of evil and an embracing of all which is good and on the side of life, a way of making real in the frailties and imperfections of flesh and blood a deeply theocentric humanism« (p. 173).Now, there is a magnificent English sentence. And there are many of them. Occasionally some of the English translations make the reader prick up his ears, such as when Danish »gudelige forsamlinger« becomes »meetings of the godly«. I learnt a few new words, too (»niggardliness« and »esemplastic«) the meaning of which I had to look up; but that is only to be expected from a man of learning like Allchin. But otherwise the book is written in an easily understood and beautiful English. This is also true of the large number of translations, about which Allchin himself says that he has been »tantalised and at times tormented« by the problems connected with translating Grundtvig, particularly, of course, his poetry. Naturally Allchin is fully aware that translation always involves interpretation. When for example he translates Danish »forklaret« into »transfigured«, that choice pulls Grundtvig theologically in the direction that Allchin himself inclines towards. This gives the reader occasion to reflect. It is Allchin’s hope that his work on translating Grundtvig will be followed up by others. »To translate Grundtvig in any adequate way would be the work of not one person but of many, not of one effort but of many. I hope that this preliminary study may set in train a process of Grundtvig assimilation and affirmation« (p. 310)Besides being an introduction to Grundtvig, the book also becomes an introduction to past and contemporary Danish theology and culture. But contemporary Danish art, golden age painting etc. are also brought in and interpreted.As a matter of course, Allchin draws on the whole of the great Anglo-Saxon tradition: Blake, Constable, Eliot, etc., indeed, there are even quite frequent references to Allchin’s own Welsh tradition. In his use of previous secondary literature, Allchin is very generous, quoting it frequently, often concurring with it, and sometimes bringing in half forgotten contributions to the literature on Grundtvig, such as Edvard Lehmann’s book from 1929. However, he may also be quite sharp at times. Martin Marty, for example, must endure being told that he has not understood Grundtvig’s use of the term folkelig.Towards the end of the book, Allchin discusses the reductionist tactics of the Reformers. Anything that is not absolutely necessary can be done away with. Thus, what remains is Faith alone, Grace alone, Christ alone. The result was a radical Christ monism, which ended up with undermining everything that it had originally been the intention to defend. But, says Allchin, Grundtvig goes the opposite way. He does not question justification by faith alone, but he interprets it inclusively. The world in all its plenitude is created in order that joy may grow. There is an extravagance and an exuberance in the divine activity. In a theology that wants to take this seriously, themes like wonder, growth and joy must be crucial.Thus, connections are also established back to the great church tradition. It is well-known how Grundtvig received decisive inspiration from the Fathers of the Eastern Church. Allchin’s contribution is to show that it grows out of a need by Grundtvig himself, and he demonstrates how it manifests itself concretely in Grundtvig’s writings. »Perhaps he had a deep personal need to draw on the wisdom and insight of earlier ages, on the qualities which he finds in the sacred poetry of the Anglo-Saxons, in the liturgical hymns of the Byzantine Church, in the monastic theology of the early medieval West. He needs these resources for his own life, and he is able to transpose them into his world of the nineteenth century, which if it is no longer our world is yet a world in which we can still feel at home. He can be for us a vital link, a point of connection with these older worlds whose riches he had deciphered and transcribed with such love and labour« (p. 60).Thus the book gives us a discussion - more detailed than seen before – of Grundtvig’s relationship to the Apostolic Succession, the sacramental character of the Church and Ordination, and the phenomenon transfiguration which is expounded, partly by bringing in Jakob Knudsen. On the background of the often observed emphasis laid by Grundtvig on the descent into Hell and the transfiguration, his closeness to the orthodox form of Christianity is established. Though Grundtvig does not directly use the word »theosis« or deification, the heart of the matter is there, the matter that has been given emphasis first and foremost in the bilateral talks between the Finnish Lutheran Church and the Russian Orthodox Church. But Grundtvig’s contribution is also seen in the context of other contemporaries and reforming efforts, Khomiakov in Russia, Johann Adam Möhler in Germany, and Keble, Pusey and Newman in England. It is one of Allchin’s major regrets that it did not come to an understanding between the leaders of the Oxford Movement and Grundtvig. If an actual meeting and a fruitful dialogue had materialized, it might have exerted some influence also on the ecumenical situation of today.Allchin shows how the question of the unity of the Church and its universality as God’s Church on earth acquired extreme importance to Grundtvig. »The question of rediscovering Christian unity became a matter of life and death« (p. 108). It is clear that in Allchin’s opinion there has been too little attention on this aspect of Grundtvig. Among other things he attributes it to a tendency in the Danish Church to cut itself off from the rest of the Christian world, because it thinks of itself as so special. And this in a sense is the case, says Allchin. »Where else, at the end of the twentieth century, is there a Church which is willing that a large part of its administration should be carried on by a government department? Where else is there a state which is still willing to take so much responsibility for the administration of the Church’s life?« (p. 68). As will be seen: Allchin is a highly sympathetic, but far from uncritical observer of Danish affairs.When Allchin sees Grundtvig as an ecumenical theologian, it is because he keeps crossing borders between Protestantism and Catholicism, between eastern and western Christianity. His view of Christianity is thus »highly unitive« (p. 310). Grundtvig did pioneer work to break through the stagnation brought on by the church schisms of the Reformation. »If we can see his efforts in that way, then the unfinished business of 1843 might still give rise to fruitful consequences one hundred and fifty years later. That would be a matter of some significance for the growth of the Christian faith into the twentyfirst century, and not only in England and Denmark« (p. 126).In Nicholas Lossky’s Afterword it is likewise Grundtvig’s effort as a bridge builder between the different church groupings that is emphasized. Grundtvig’s theology is seen as a »truly patristic approach to the Christian mystery« (p. 316). Thus Grundtvig becomes a true all-church, universal, »catholic« theologian, for »Catholicity is by definition unity in diversity or diversity in unity« (p. 317).With views like those presented here, Allchin has not only introduced Grundtvig and seen him in relation to present-day issues, but has also fruitfully challenged a Danish Grundtvig tradition and Grundtvigianism. It would be a pity if no one were to take up that challenge.

Abstract:

Emilio de Fabris's completion of the west front of Santa Maria del Fiore is the best-known of the architectural interventions carried out during the nineteenth century in the Piazza del Duomo and Piazza di San Giovanni in Florence. But this initiative was preceded by an earlier one that was more radical in character, insofar as it transformed the area around the Campanile and Duomo. A proposal of November 1823 by the architect Gaetano Baccani resulted in the demolition of a large part of the late medieval cathedral canonry and the creation of an extensive new piazza on the south side of Santa Maria del Fiore. This intervention introduced two issues that were to become fundamental to the notion of urban patrimony. On the one hand, it prompted consideration of the relationship between a historic monument and its ambience; on the other, it brought into focus the tension that was likely to exist between conservation and the creation of a modern urban environment. The present study publishes Baccani's formal submission to the Deputazione Secolare sopra l'Opera di Santa Maria del Fiore and draws on other documents preserved in the Archivio dell'Opera to construct a detailed history of the project. The study also introduces other literary and visual materials to establish the nature of Baccani's "systematization" of the Piazza del Duomo. Baccani's project is linked retrospectively to a Napoleonic plan for the modernization of Florence, but it is discussed also as a harbinger of later programs of urban renewal in Florence and in other Italian cities. The paper outlines the history of the canonry compound and places Baccani's reorganization of it in the context of the development of a new relationship between church and state in Florence. The piazza likewise is considered in relation to the transformation of Florence into a modern, orderly city, well-suited to the growing tourist industry. From Baccani's proposal to the Deputazione Secolare it is apparent that he wished it to be believed that his project was in keeping with the intentions of the original architects of the Duomo. The present study considers Baccani's project in this light, while also assessing the extent to which his plans were rooted in his own time. In particular, Baccani's conception of the area around the Duomo is discussed in relation to other urbanistic projects that were planned in Florence, Milan, and Rome during the Napoleonic period. Finally, Baccani's scheme is considered in relation to recent studies of the area around the Duomo by Piero Sanpaolesi, Margaret Haines, and Marvin Trachtenberg. The paper establishes that Baccani's intervention fundamentally changed the manner in which Santa Maria del Fiore and the Campanile could be seen, revealing an "ideal" view of the two buildings in juxtaposition. Baccani's vision is discussed in relation to a widespread nineteenth-century wish to consecrate the individual monument. The study concludes by introducing a number of unfamiliar images of the Campanile and Duomo and proposes that they lent authority to Baccani's concept of a "best" general view of these monuments.

Abstract:

The renovation of Adriatic towns under Venetian rule included all major urban settlements on the islands in the Quarnero Gulf. The size of Osor, the Roman centre of the Cres-Lošinj group of islands, radically decreased during this period. The scholarship holds that the town of Cres started to grow in the second half of the fifteenth century while Osor fell into disrepair. Apart from the new Renaissance Cathedral, other late Gothic and Renaissance buildings in Osor have never been thoroughly studied, partly because their state of preservation is modest and party because of the deep-seated opinionthat the fifteenth century was only an epilogue to Osor’s great past. As a consequence, no basic analysis of local architecture has ever been done and the urban layout of historic Osor is not very well known. The causes of Osor’s demise, on the other hand, are well known. The population was decimated by illness and the town itself was destroyed by wars in the fourteenth century. Furthermore, maritime navigation changed from coastal to that accustomed to the open sea and Osor lost the strategic importance it held when it came to sailing along the Adriatic. The relocation of the local Count to Cres, frequently underlined as one of the key moments in the history of Osor’s decline and dated to 1450, does not seem to be as fateful as the reduced numberof its inhabitants and the loss of naval and trading significance. The relocation created a dual government of sorts and a bimunicipal county was established. The historical importance of Osor as a traditional seat of power was paramount to Venice and the town maintained the prestige it had acquired during the Roman period as a town which controlled a large territory.In the mid-fifteenth century Osor was a building site: architectural structures were maintained, repaired and built anew. In the fourteenth century, a Gothic church of St Gaudentius was constructed on the main street and in the first half of the fifteenth century the Town Hall was built on the site of the ancient Roman curia. Until now, it was held that the reason for the construction of thenew cathedral was the bisection of Osor which occurred in the mid-fifteenth century when the new fortification walls – with a reduced catchment area –were erected and so excluded the old cathedral from the perimeter. However, the decision to reduce the circumference of the new walls was made only in the last quarter of the fifteenth century, that is, after the foundations for the new cathedral had been laid. This means that the plans drawn up in the second half of the fifteenth century covered a larger area than previouslt thought and that they were done during the pontificate of Bishop Antun Palčić who wasoriginally from Pag and who witnessed first-hand the building of the new town of Pag. A decree of 1581 records the construction of the town walls at Cres and Osor. The new fortification walls of Cres were being built throughout the sixteenth century and so it is likely that the transversal wall at Osor was constructed at the same time as the new walls at Cres, during thesixteenth century. The building of the new wall was not an ambitious feat of fortification construction but a simple encircling of the remodelled town centre. The new wall was just a consequence of urban reorganization and its directionwas determined by the pre-existing defence buildings which were utilised and incorporated in the new addition. In the late fifteenth century, the main town square was fully developed and surrounded by the most importantpublic and religious buildings. The Town Hall stood on the south-east corner and the new cathedral was built on the square’s south side. The Episcopal Palace extended along the entire west flank of the square. The Palace’s long andnarrow east wing, facing the square, connected the two main wings of the complex. Despite its modest role as nothing more than a link, the east front was the widest part of the Palace and closed the square’s west side, respecting the new, small-scale urban layout of Osor. The north-east corner of the complex is decorated with an engaged colonette topped by a leaf capital. Its counterpart can be found on a building at the opposite side of the square, which was subsequently heavily rebuilt. These corresponding engaged colonettes indicate that the architects wanted to create a meaningful urban space. The north side of the square no longer exists in its original shape. In the mid-fifteenth century, this area was occupied by religious buildings traces of which can be seen in the present-day modest houses. These traces are mostly elements of Gothic decoration and so it can be concluded that this side of the square featured Gothic structures. The analysis of the architecture on the main square demonstrates that it there were consecutive building phases and that the Cathedral was the last building to be built. There was no unifying stylistic concept; the buildings on the square were either Gothic or Renaissance. This does not reduce the importance of this feat of public building because the Episcopal Palace and Osor Cathedral were built at the same time, by the same master builders, for the same patron, the difference being that the former in the Gothic and the latter in the Renaissance style. This, in my opinion, means that the value of the main square at Osor should not be assessed throughstylistic unity but by considering the harmonious spatial relationships between its structures, the attention given to their design, their role as public buildings and the balance achieved by adapting the newly built structures tothe pre-existing ones. It is well known that the late fifteenth century was the time when traditional Gothic decoration was used alongside new Renaissance forms and so the stylistic inconsistency apparent in Osor’s main squarewas done in the spirit of time. The remodelling of the town centre lasted for the whole century and the town was also well maintained in the period that followed. Archival records tell us that a grain store was built inthe late fifteenth century but nothing is known about its location or appearance.Despite the efforts and large-scale building campaigns of public and religious architecture, the migration of able-bodied people looking for work continued and Osor was gradually transformed into an occasional dwelling place of the nobility and the clergy – a town of the Church and aristocracy. Today, Osor is a town with low-density architecture. The legacy of medieval town buildingcan be seen only in the row of houses that face the main street. They are huddled together and arranged around communal courtyards, which is a characteristic of local medieval town planning on the island of Cres. The mostprominent residential building is the palazzetto of the Draža family, an old noble family of Osor. The location of the Draža house and its spatial relationship with the surrounding, more modest houses, implies that it embodied the medieval concept of densely built town blocks dominated by a single aristocratic building. Other aristocratic houses at Osor are more isolated and surrounded by green spaces. These large green areas were once occupied by Roman and medieval houses and insulae. Following the late middle ages, the decaying architectural structures were not repaired butused to create gardens: their perimeter walls were neatly re-arranged and became the dividing walls between different gardens while the spaces they contained were filled with a layer of soil, as archaeological test pits have shown. Apart from large gardens and courtyards, the residential character of Osor as an aristocratic resort is attested by the Latin inscriptions on the building façades but also by the written records about noble familieswhich possessed estates in both Cres and Osor during the period that followed the formation of the bimunicipal county in the fifteenth century.All these events created a set of specific characteristics in Osor during the late fifteenth and the sixteenth century. Its importance as the seat of a commune and a bishop was reflected in the main town square which was planned in the spirit of the Renaissance and according to the redesign of towns under the Venetian rule. The medieval legacy is still evident in the buildings on the main street which are densely huddled around communal courtyards and which centre around dominant aristocratic houses. In contract to them, large gardens and the aforementioned historic circumstances indicate that Osor was a residential resort of the local nobility. From the fifteenth century onward, the most frequently recorded features of Osor were its decay and mala aria (bad air). Nevertheless, as late as 1771, Alberto Fortis described it as the only town on the island of Cres to have kept the legacy of its noble past. In addition to the aforementioned Gothic and Renaissance elements of architecturaldecoration, many more were rebuilt into later houses. They are as frequent as the Roman and early medieval spolia and were reused in the same manner. Their existence witnesses that Osor had had another important historic phase in its long life.

Abstract:

he renovation of Adriatic towns under Venetian rule included all major urban settlements on the islands in the Quarnero Gulf. The size of Osor, the Roman centre of the Cres-Lošinj group of islands, radically decreased during this period. The scholarship holds that the town of Cres started to grow in the second half of the fifteenth century while Osor fell into disrepair. Apart from the new Renaissance Cathedral, other late Gothic and Renaissance buildings in Osor have never been thoroughly studied, partly because their state of preservation is modest and party because of the deep-seated opinion that the fifteenth century was only an epilogue to Osor’s great past. As a consequence, no basic analysis of local architecture has ever been done and the urban layout of historic Osor is not very well known. The causes of Osor’s demise, on the other hand, are well known. The population was decimated by illness and the town itself was destroyed by wars in the fourteenth century. Furthermore, maritime navigation changed from coastal to that accustomed to the open sea and Osor lost the strategic importance it held when it came to sailing along the Adriatic. The relocation of the local Count to Cres, frequently underlined as one of the key moments in the history of Osor’s decline and dated to 1450, does not seem to be as fateful as the reduced number of its inhabitants and the loss of naval and trading significance. The relocation created a dual government of sorts and a bimunicipal county was established. The historical importance of Osor as a traditional seat of power was paramount to Venice and the town maintained the prestige it had acquired during the Roman period as a town which controlled a large territory. In the mid-fifteenth century Osor was a building site: architectural structures were maintained, repaired and built anew. In the fourteenth century, a Gothic church of St Gaudentius was constructed on the main street and in the first half of the fifteenth century the Town Hall was built on the site of the ancient Roman curia. Until now, it was held that the reason for the construction of the new cathedral was the bisection of Osor which occurred in the mid-fifteenth century when the new fortification walls – with a reduced catchment area –were erected and so excluded the old cathedral from the perimeter. However, the decision to reduce the circumference of the new walls was made only in the last quarter of the fifteenth century, that is, after the foundations for the new cathedral had been laid. This means that the plans drawn up in the second half of the fifteenth century covered a larger area than previouslt thought and that they were done during the pontificate of Bishop Antun Palčić who was originally from Pag and who witnessed first-hand the building of the new town of Pag. A decree of 1581 records the construction of the town walls at Cres and Osor. The new fortification walls of Cres were being built throughout the sixteenth century and so it is likely that the transversal wall at Osor was constructed at the same time as the new walls at Cres, during the sixteenth century. The building of the new wall was not an ambitious feat of fortification construction but a simple encircling of the remodelled town centre. The new wall was just a consequence of urban reorganization and its direction was determined by the pre-existing defence buildings which were utilised and incorporated in the new addition. In the late fifteenth century, the main town square was fully developed and surrounded by the most important public and religious buildings. The Town Hall stood on the south-east corner and the new cathedral was built on the square’s south side. The Episcopal Palace extended along the entire west flank of the square. The Palace’s long and narrow east wing, facing the square, connected the two main wings of the complex. Despite its modest role as nothing more than a link, the east front was the widest part of the Palace and closed the square’s west side, respecting the new, small-scale urban layout of Osor. The north-east corner of the complex is decorated with an engaged colonette topped by a leaf capital. Its counterpart can be found on a building at the opposite side of the square, which was subsequently heavily rebuilt. These corresponding engaged colonettes indicate that the architects wanted to create a meaningful urban space. The north side of the square no longer exists in its original shape. In the mid-fifteenth century, this area was occupied by religious buildings traces of which can be seen in the present-day modest houses. These traces are mostly elements of Gothic decoration and so it can be concluded that this side of the square featured Gothic structures. The analysis of the architecture on the main square demonstrates that it there were consecutive building phases and that the Cathedral was the last building to be built. There was no unifying stylistic concept; the buildings on the square were either Gothic or Renaissance. This does not reduce the importance of this feat of public building because the Episcopal Palace and Osor Cathedral were built at the same time, by the same master builders, for the same patron, the difference being that the former in the Gothic and the latter in the Renaissance style. This, in my opinion, means that the value of the main square at Osor should not be assessed through stylistic unity but by considering the harmonious spatial relationships between its structures, the attention given to their design, their role as public buildings and the balance achieved by adapting the newly built structures to the pre-existing ones. It is well known that the late fifteenth century was the time when traditional Gothic decoration was used alongside new Renaissance forms and so the stylistic inconsistency apparent in Osor’s main square was done in the spirit of time. The remodelling of the town centre lasted for the whole century and the town was also well maintained in the period that followed. Archival records tell us that a grain store was built in the late fifteenth century but nothing is known about its location or appearance. Despite the efforts and large-scale building campaigns of public and religious architecture, the migration of able-bodied people looking for work continued and Osor was gradually transformed into an occasional dwelling place of the nobility and the clergy – a town of the Church and aristocracy. Today, Osor is a town with low-density architecture. The legacy of medieval town building can be seen only in the row of houses that face the main street. They are huddled together and arranged around communal courtyards, which is a characteristic of local medieval town planning on the island of Cres. The most prominent residential building is the palazzetto of the Draža family, an old noble family of Osor. The location of the Draža house and its spatial relationship with the surrounding, more modest houses, implies that it embodied the medieval concept of densely built town blocks dominated by a single aristocratic building. Other aristocratic houses at Osor are more isolated and surrounded by green spaces. These large green areas were once occupied by Roman and medieval houses and insulae. Following the late middle ages, the decaying architectural structures were not repaired but used to create gardens: their perimeter walls were neatly re-arranged and became the dividing walls between different gardens while the spaces they contained were filled with a layer of soil, as archaeological test pits have shown. Apart from large gardens and courtyards, the residential character of Osor as an aristocratic resort is attested by the Latin inscriptions on the building façades but also by the written records about noble families which possessed estates in both Cres and Osor during the period that followed the formation of the bimunicipal county in the fifteenth century. All these events created a set of specific characteristics in Osor during the late fifteenth and the sixteenth century. Its importance as the seat of a commune and a bishop was reflected in the main town square which was planned in the spirit of the Renaissance and according to the redesign of towns under the Venetian rule. The medieval legacy is still evident in the buildings on the main street which are densely huddled around communal courtyards and which centre around dominant aristocratic houses. In contract to them, large gardens and the aforementioned historic circumstances indicate that Osor was a residential resort of the local nobility. From the fifteenth century onward, the most frequently recorded features of Osor were its decay and mala aria (bad air). Nevertheless, as late as 1771, Alberto Fortis described it as the only town on the island of Cres to have kept the legacy of its noble past. In addition to the aforementioned Gothic and Renaissance elements of architectural decoration, many more were rebuilt into later houses. They are as frequent as the Roman and early medieval spolia and were reused in the same manner. Their existence witnesses that Osor had had another important historic phase in its long life.

Abstract:

Dzirkaļi Hillfort is situated at Dzirkaļi, Kūku parish in Krustpils region. The Hillfort was first mentioned in records in 1925; in 1928, Ernests Brastiņš published a more comprehensive description and survey of the Hillfort (Fig. 1). Due to handmade pottery sherds with smooth and plastered surface accidentally found in the outcrops of the cultural layer, the population of the Hillfort could be dated with the I millennium AD. Dzirkaļi Hillfort in its highday might have been a centre of the region. Less than 100 years ago, there were fields of Dzirkaļi village both on the plateau of the Hillfort and at its foot. Legends are known about Dzirkaļi Hillfort as a site of a sunken castle and buried treasure, which is haunted by ghosts. Dzirkaļi Hillfort had been fixed up on a branch of a hill that sharply ends against swampy lowland. The northern slope of the Hillfort, which overlooks the swampy lowland and is 14 m high, had been additionally fortified with a terrace, but on the southern side more profound fortification work was carried out in olden times; here the hill had been marked off with a deeply dug-up rampart and barred with a 1.5 m high wall built by people, which is separated by another ditch from the artificially smoothed and slanting plateau of the Hillfort. On both sides of the Hillfort, terraces had been built to make the slopes even steeper. At the northern and eastern foot of the Hillfort appropriate cultural layer of settlement corresponding to the Hillfort has been found, but to west of the Hillfort, Baznīckalns (“Church Hill”) is situated, where a sanctuary of the inhabitants of the Hillfort might have been. At the northwestern foot of the Hillfort, Naudas avots (“Money Spring”) had been situated, which might have served as the source of water for the inhabitants and has been mentioned in legends. Several ancient burial sites are known to be situated near the Hillfort, as well as features of ancient fields, places of roads, sites of separate buildings and other evidence of olden times (Fig. 2–5). In 2014, the first systematic archaeological excavations were carried out in the Hillfort, guided by Juris Urtāns, an archaeologist and the owner of the Hillfort (Fig. 6). The northeastern side of the Hillfort plateau was chosen as investigation site. On exploring the excavation site (3×8 m), it turned out that the upper layer in the depth of 0.30–0.40 m had been mixed by ploughing the plateau of the Hillfort. Subsoil nearer the centre of the plateau was uncovered in the depth of 0.55 m, nearer the edge of the plateau – 0.95 m deep. No marked evidence of structures was discovered, except for a couple of dints in the subsoil – possibly places were posts had been. The cultural layer is comparatively even; only fist-sized and smaller stones were found in it. At the end of the site, towards the edge of the plateau, the former cultural layer was covered by about 20 cm thick layer of sand. The whole dug-up cultural layer was sifted through sieves, and a great quantity of pottery sherds (811 fragments have been listed) were recovered. Few antiquities have been found and they are not very distinctive: a tip of an iron knife, tiny bronze rings, possibly, a fragment of iron arrowhead, ground stones, and flint chips. Pottery, which is represented mostly by tiny fragments, recovered as a result of sifting, basically belongs to handmade smooth, plastered, pinched and scratched pottery; however, fragments of early wheel pottery have been found as well (Fig. 7; defined by Baiba Dumpe). This fact allows to expand and specify the previously assumed dating of Dzirkaļi Hillfort and to conclude that population of Dzirkaļi Hillfort can be dated with the I millennium AD; however, handmade scratched pottery and wheel pottery permit that the Hillfort had been populated also BC and at the very beginning of the II millennium AD. In 2014, a hillock (7–8 m across, height 0.6 m) about 300 m southeast from the Hillfort was archaeologically investigated under Elīna Guščika’s guidance (Fig. 8). The hillock resembled ancient burial mound, but, when it was dug up, no evidence of ancient burial was discovered, although several signs characterising the tradition of barrows were stated. Radiocarbon dating of coal found in the hillock allowed concluding that fire had burned there during the early period of the existence of the Hillfort – the last centuries before our era. After investigation, the hillock was restored to its original visual state. From the eastern side leading to the Hillfort there is a road cut into the relief, which, judging by the tall trees grown on it, has not been used at least for the last fifty years. This road marks itself about 300 m from the Hillfort. At first the road is hardly discernible on the gently sloping side, but when the slope gets steeper, especially at the break of the slope, the road has cut itself about half a metre into the side of the hill and is approximately three or four metres wide. This testifies that the road had been used by carts and probably also by sledges. The notch of the road can be traced as far as about 100 metres. On the most pronounced point of relief break, parallel to the cart road, another site of road was observed, 10–15 m in length, which might be identified as a path for riders or horses. This is a ditch-like deepening, less than one metre deep, with a pronounced wedge-like section. During the last years a number of such riders’ or groove paths have been discovered in Latvia, but their investigation has hardly been started. Regarding the case of Dzirkaļi, it can be said with assurance that the riders’ holloway leads to the Hillfort, therefore it could be associated with the Hillfort and the period when the castle existed.

Abstract:

Recent conservation and restoration work on the icon of the Virgin and Child which stood on the altar in the Church of St. Nicholas at Prijeko in Dubrovnik has enabled a new interpretation of this paining. The icon, painted on a panel made of poplar wood, features a centrally-placed Virgin holding the Child in her arms painted on a gold background between the two smaller figures of St. Peter and St. John the Baptist. The figures are painted in the manner of the fifteenth- and sixteenth-century Dubrovnik style, and represent a later intervention which significantly changed the original appearance and composition of the older icon by adding the two saints and touching up the Virgin’s clothes with Renaissance ornaments, all of which was performed by the well-known Dubrovnik painter Nikola Božidarević. It can be assumed that the icon originally featured a standing or seated Virgin and Child. The Virgin is depicted with her head slightly lowered and pointing to the Christ Child whom she is holding on her right side. The chubby boy is not seated on his mother’s lap but is reclining on his right side and leaningforward while his face is turned towards the spectator. He is dressed in a red sleeveless tunic with a simple neck-line which is embroidered with gold thread. The Child is leaning himself on the Virgin’s right hand which is holding him. He is firmly grasping her thumb with one hand and her index finger with the other in a very intimate nursing gesture while she, true to the Hodegitria scheme, is pointing at him with her left hand, which is raised to the level of her breasts. Such an almost-realistic depiction of Christ as a small child with tiny eyes, mouth and nose, drastically departs from the model which portrays him with the mature face of an adult, as was customary in icon painting. The Virgin is wearing a luxurious gold cloak which was repainted with large Renaissance-style flowers. Her head is covered with a traditional maphorion which forms a wide ring around it and is encircled by a nimbus which was bored into thegold background. Her skin tone is pink and lit diffusely, and was painted with almost no green shadows, which is typical of Byzantine painting. The Virgin’s face is striking and markedly oval. It is characterized by a silhouetted, long, thin nose which is connected to the eyebrows. The ridge of the nose is emphasized with a double edge and gently lit whilethe almond-shaped eyes with dark circles are set below the inky arches of the eyebrows. The Virgin’s cheeks are smooth and rosy while her lips are red. The plasticity of her round chin is emphasized by a crease below the lower lip and its shadow. The Virgin’s eyes, nose and mouth are outlined with a thick red line. Her hands are light pink in colour and haveelongated fingers and pronounced, round muscles on the wrists. The fingers are separated and the nails are outlined with precision. The deep, resounding hues of the colour red and the gilding, together with the pale pink skin tone of her face, create an impression of monumentality. The type of the reclining Christ Child has been identified in Byzantine iconography as the Anapeson. Its theological background lies in the emphasis of Christ’s dual nature: although the Christ Child is asleep, the Christ as God is always keeping watch over humans. The image was inspired by a phrase from Genesis 49: 9 about a sleeping lion to whom Christ is compared: the lion sleeps with his eyes open. The Anapeson is drowsy and awake at the same time, and therefore his eyes are not completely shut. Such a paradox is a theological anticipation of his “sleep” in the tomb and represents an allegory of his death and Resurrection. The position, gesture and clothes of the Anapeson in Byzantine art are not always the same. Most frequently, the ChristChild is not depicted lying in his mother’s arms but on an oval bed or pillow, resting his head on his hand, while the Virgin is kneeling by his side. Therefore, the Anapeson from Dubrovnik is unique thanks to the conspicuously humanized relationship between the figures which is particularly evident in Christ’s explicitly intimate gesture of grasping the fingers of his mother’s hand: his right hand is literally “inserting” itself in the space between the Virgin’s thumb and index finger. At the same time, the baring of his arms provided the painter with an opportunity to depict the pale tones of a child’s tender skin. The problem of the iconography of the Anapeson in the medieval painting at Dubrovnik is further complicated by a painting which was greatly venerated in Župa Dubrovačka as Santa Maria del Breno. It has not been preserved but an illustration of it was published in Gumppenberg’sfamous Atlas Marianus which shows the Virgin seated on a high-backed throne and holding the sleeping and reclining Child. The position of this Anapeson Christ does not correspond fully to the icon from the Church of St. Nicholas because the Child is lying on its back and his naked body is covered with the swaddling fabric. The icon of the Virgin and Child from Prijeko claims a special place in the corpus of Romanesque icons on the Adriatic through its monumentality and intimate character. The details of the striking and lively Virgin’s face, dominated by the pronounced and gently curved Cimabuesque nose joined to the shallow arches of her eyebrows, link her with the Benedictine Virgin at Zadar. Furthermore, based on the manner of painting characterized by the use of intense red for the shadows in the nose and eye area, together with the characteristic shape of the elongated, narrow eyes, this Virgin and Child should be brought into connection with the painter who is known as the Master of the Benedictine Virgin. The so-called Benedictine Virgin is an icon, now at the Benedictine Convent at Zadar, which depicts the Virgin seated on a throne with a red, ceremonial, imperial cushion, in a solemn scheme of the Kyriotissa, the heavenly queen holding the Christ Child on her lap. The throne is wooden and has a round back topped with wooden finials which can also be seen in the Byzantine Kahn Virgin and the Mellon Madonna, as well as in later Veneto-Cretan painting. The throne is set under a shallow ciborium arch which is rendered in relief and supportedby twisted colonettes and so the painting itself is sunk into the surface of the panel. A very similar scheme with a triumphal arch can be seen on Byzantine ivory diptychs with shallow ciborium arches and twisted colonettes. In its composition, the icon from Prijeko is a combination ofthe Kyr i ot i ss a and the Hodegitria, because the Virgin as the heavenly queen does not hold the Christ Child frontally before her but on her right-hand side while pointing at him as the road to salvation. He is seated on his mother’s arm and is supporting himself by pressing his crossed legsagainst her thigh which symbolizes his future Passion. He is wearing a formal classical costume with a red cloak over his shoulder. He is depicted in half profile which opens up the frontal view of the red clavus on his navy blue chiton.He is blessing with the two fingers of his right hand and at the same time reaching for the unusual flower rendered in pastiglia which the Virgin is raising in her left hand and offering to him. At the same time, she is holding the lower part of Christ’s body tightly with her right hand.Various scholars have dated the icon of the Benedictine Virgin to the early fourteenth century. While Gothic features are particularly evident in the costumes of the donors, the elements such as the modelling of the throne and the presence of the ceremonial cushion belong to the Byzantine style of the thirteenth century. The back of the icon of the Benedictine Virgin features the figure of St. Peter set within a border consisting of a lively and colourful vegetal scroll which could be understood as either Romanesque or Byzantine. However, St. Peter’s identifying titulus is written in Latin while that of the Virgin is in Greek. The figure of St. Peter was painted according to the Byzantine tradition: his striking and severe face is rendered linearly in a rigid composition, which is complemented by his classical contrapposto against a green-gray parapet wall, while the background is of dark green-blue colour. Equally Byzantine is themanner of depicting the drapery with flat, shallow folds filled with white lines at the bottom of the garment while, at the same time, the curved undulating hem of the cloak which falls down St. Peter’s right side is Gothic. The overall appearance of St. Peter is perhaps even more Byzantine than that of the Virgin. Such elements, together with the typically Byzantine costumes, speak clearly of a skilful artist who uses hybrid visual language consisting of Byzantine painting and elements of the Romanesque and Gothic. Of particular interest are the wide nimbuses surrounding the heads of the Virgin and Child (St. Peter has a flat one) which are rendered in relief and filled with a neat sequence of shallow blind archesexecuted in the pastiglia technique which, according to M. Frinta, originated in Cyprus. The Venetian and Byzantine elements of the Benedictine Virgin have already been pointed out in the scholarship. Apart from importing art works and artists such as painters and mosaic makers directly from Byzantium into Venice, what was the extent and nature of the Byzantineinfluence on Venetian artistic achievements in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries? We know that the art of Venice and the West alike were affected by the Fourth Crusade and the sack of Constantinople in 1204, and by the newly founded Latin Empire which lasted until 1261.The Venetians played a particularly significant political and administrative role in this Empire and the contemporary hybrid artistic style of the eastern Mediterranean, called Crusader Art and marked by the strong involvement of the Knights Templar, must have been disseminated through the established routes. In addition to Cyprus, Apulia and Sicily which served as stops for the artists and art works en route to Venice and Tuscany, another station must have been Dalmatia where eastern and western influences intermingled and complemented each other.However, it is interesting that the icon of the Benedictine Virgin, apart from negligible variations, imitates almost completely the iconographic scheme of the Madonna di Ripalta at Cerignola on the Italian side of the Adriatic, which has been dated to the early thirteenth century and whose provenance has been sought in the area between southern Italy (Campania) and Cyprus. Far more Byzantine is another Apulian icon, that of a fourteenth-century enthroned Virgin from the basilica of St. Nicholas at Bari with which the Benedictine Virgin from Zadar shares certain features such as the composition and posture of the figures, the depictionof donors and Christ’s costume. A similar scheme, which indicates a common source, can be seen on a series of icons of the enthroned Virgin from Tuscany. The icon of the Virgin and Child from Prijeko is very important for local Romanesque painting of the late thirteenth and early fourteenth century because it expands the oeuvre of the Master of the Benedictine Virgin. Anicon which is now at Toronto, in the University of Toronto Art Centre Malcove Collection, has also been attributed to this master. This small two-sided icon which might have been a diptych panel, as can be judged from its typology, depicts the Virgin with the Anapeson in the upper register while below is the scene from the martyrdom of St. Lawrence. The Virgin is flanked by the figures of saints: to the left is the figure of St. Francis while the saint on the right-hand side has been lost due to damage sustained to the icon. The busts of SS Peter and Paul are at the top.The physiognomies of the Virgin and Child correspond to those of the Benedictine Virgin and the Prijeko icon. The Anapeson, unlike the one at Dubrovnik, is wrapped in a rich, red cloak decorated with lumeggiature, which covers his entire body except the left fist and shin. On the basis of the upper register of this icon, it can be concluded that the Master of the Benedictine Virgin is equally adept at applying the repertoire and style of Byzantine and Western painting alike; the lower register of the icon with its descriptive depiction of the martyrdom of St.Lawrence is completely Byzantine in that it portrays the Roman emperor attending the saint’s torture as a crowned Byzantine ruler. Such unquestionable stylistic ambivalence – the presence of the elements from both Byzantine and Italian painting – can also be seen on the icons of theBenedictine and Prijeko Virgin and they point to a painter who works in a “combined style.” Perhaps he should be sought among the artists who are mentioned as pictores greci in Dubrovnik, Kotor and Zadar. The links between Dalmatian icons and Apulia and Tuscany have already been noted, but the analysis of these paintings should also contain the hitherto ignored segment of Sicilian and eastern Mediterranean Byzantinism, including Cyprus as the centre of Crusader Art. The question of the provenance of the Master of the Benedictine Virgin remains open although the icon of the Virgin and Child from Prijeko points to the possibility that he may have been active in Dalmatia.However, stylistic expressions of the two icons from Zadar and Dubrovnik, together with the one which is today at Toronto, clearly demonstrate the coalescing of cults and forms which arrived to the Adriatic shores fromfurther afield, well beyond the Adriatic, and which were influenced by the significant, hitherto unrecognized, role of the eastern Mediterranean.

Abstract:

Recently a monograph appeared dealing with Roman epigraphical monuments from the West-Serbian town of Cacak and its neighbourhood (S. Ferjancic / G. Jeremic / A. Gojgic, Roman Epigraphic Monuments from Cacak and its Vicinity Cacak 2008, Engl. Summary pp. 103-107). Authored by one specialist in Roman history and epigraphy and two archaeologists, the book is rather thin and does not provide much new data, apart from the identification of the equestrian officer Tiberius Claudius Gallus with Severus' senator - which was taken from my PhD thesis without citing it - and from two inscriptions, ? 20 and ? 21, forming the subject of the present paper. Published here for the first time, they both contain important information which the co-authors failed to notice. The consuls of 227 A.D. in an inscription from Cacak The ? 21 (fig. 1) was found in the site of Gradina on the mountain Jelica, S. of Cacak. It is engraved on a whitish limestone monument, apparently an ara, the middle and lower parts of which are preserved after it has been reshaped to be used as building material. The four-line inscription was read by the editors as follows: [- - -] Aur(elius) F[- - - v(otum)] l(ibens) p(osuit) Mal+[- - -]et Al[- - - co(n)s(ulibus)] Idibus [- - -]. Unable to identify the pair of consuls mentioned in lines two and three, the authors interpret the inscription as a funerary one: [- - -]Aur(elius or -elio) F[- - - vix(it) ann(is)] L P. Mal+[- - -]et Al[- - - f(ecerunt) ? die ?] Idibus [- - -]. In fact, they misread the final cluster of the line two, by having mistaken for L the long right serif of M (in ligature with A) together with a trace of a subsequent letter, which proves to be an X. The alignment of the letters at the beginning of the lines suggests that the left side of the inscription is entirely preserved. The inscription reads as folows: ] \ Aur(elius) F+[ -] \ l(ibens) p(osuit) Max[imo] \ et Al[bino co(n)s(ulibus)] \ Idibus [ -]. M. Laelius Maximus Aemilianus (PIR2 L56) - probably son of Marcus Laelius Maximus (PIR2 L55), one of the leading senators under Septimius Severus - and M. Nummius Senecio Albinus (PIR2 N235) were the eponymous consuls of 227. The pair is attested in several inscriptions, e.g. CIL VIII 18831 from Numidia which resembles this one in recording the exact date: Bacaci Aug(usto) \ sac(rum) \ Albino et Ma\ximo co(n)s(ulibus) \ Kal(endis) Mai(is) [3] Si\ttius Novellus \ et Q. Galerius Mu\stianus magg(istri) \ [Thib(ilitanorum?)]. Here Albinus' name precedes that of Maximus, which is usually the case. Nevertheless, a parallel with Maximus named before Albinus is provided by an inscription from Dacia (ILD 774, near Cluj): Deae Ne\mesi sac\rum Aur(elius) Ru[f]inus \ be(ne)f(iciarius) co(n)s(ularis) \ leg(ionis) XIII Gem(inae) \ Sever(ianae) v(otum) l(ibens) p(osuit) Maximo et Albi\[no] co(n)s(ulibus). Consequently, ? 21 is a votive inscription, largely restorable and precisely datable. The Collegium curatorum of the Cohors II Delmatarum in an inscription from Cacak Forty years ago within the Ascension Church yard in Cacak the lower part of a Roman limestone monument has been accidentally unearthed, bearing an inscription, three last lines of which are partially preserved (? 20 of the catalogue, (fig. 2), wherein only the mention of a cohort was recognized by the editors, who read: ]\[- - -]ALB[- - -| -]GIATI +[- - -|- - -co]h(ortis) eiusde(m) [- - -|- - - The elegant, shaded letters are lined up one below the other, which suggests that the text was arranged following the principle of centering. Above the L in the first line there is a trace of an O or a Q, unnoticed by the editors. So, there are 4 lines partially preserved. The space left between the lines 2 and 3 being larger than that between 1-2 and 3-4 respectively, the two last lines seem to constitute a separate entry. The genitive case cohortis eiusdem implies a preceding designation of the dedicant(s), and what we have before is a nominative plural ending in ?giati followed by a word of which only the first letter, C or O, is still discernible. As the most probable, if not the only possible, we propose the following restoration of the last two lines (fig. 8): [colle]giati c[urat(ores)]|[co]h(ortis) eiusde[m] possibly with a p(osuerunt) or d(edicaverunt) in the end. Despite its fragmentariness, the present inscription bears an important testimony to the existence, within the Roman army, of professional associations (collegia militaria) independent of regular military structures. The evidence for them is based solely on epigraphic sources; some hundred inscriptions contradict the paragraph of the Digesta (47.22) forbidding the soldiers to organize corporate associations in the camps. The cohort in question is doubtless the cohors II Aurelia Delmatarum milliaria equitata, which is known to have been stationed permanently, from the seventies of the second century A.D. to the fifties of the third century, in the eastern part of Dalmatia around the modern city of Cacak. It was a mixed infantry and cavalry unit, and the rank of curator (curator equitum singularium, curator alae, curator cohortis) is attested exclusively in the mounted units of the Roman army. It was higher than the simple eques; in the auxiliary troops, the curators may have been charged with special tactical or economic-administrative tasks. The lower officers (principales) and the soldiers with special tasks were allowed to form private associations fostering loyalty to the Emperor. All Roman collegia including the military ones, had their religious purpose and their official meeting room (schola) was also a sanctuary of their patron deity. It might be a part of the headquarters building, as in the case of the Castra Nova equitum singularium in Rome, where, beneath the Basilica of St John Lateran an Ionic capitel was uncovered with inscription on it dated with AD 197 recording the dedication of the schola curatorum to Minerva Augusta (AE 1935 156 = AE 1968, 8b).

Abstract:

On 2 July, the 216th General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) Assembly——the denomination's highest policy-making body, which meets annually——passed the ““Resolution on Israel and Palestine (2004),”” one paragraph of which called upon the church to ““initiate the process”” of selective divestment of stock in corporations within its $$8 billion portfolio that profit from the Israeli occupation. The decision, which in practical terms means only that the church's Committee on Mission Responsibility Through Investment (MRTI) will begin studying the issue, caused great concern among American Jewish organizations as a possible precedent among mainstream Protestant churches, especially in light of the key role of divestment in the strategy used by U.S. churches in the struggle against South African apartheid in the 1970s and 1980. The 216th General Assembly also voted to condemn Israel's construction of the ““security wall”” in the West Bank and to disavow Christian Zionism as a legitimate theological stance. The following letter deploring the Presbyterian Church's initiative was sent to Rev. Clifton Kirpatrick, head of the General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church, by fourteen congressional representatives led by Howard L. Berman (D-CA). The other signatories are Gary Ackerman (D-NY), Roy Blount (R-MO), Eric Cantor (R-VA), Tom Feeney (R-FL), Barney Frank (D-MA), Steny Hoyer (D-MD), Mark Steven Kirk (R-IL), John Lewis (D-GA), John Linder (R-GA), Deborah Pryce (R-OH), Linda Sanchez (D-CA), Lamar Smith (R-TX), and Henry Waxman (D-CA). Their letter is available at www.pcusa.org.

Abstract:

This essay proposes that despite an ingrained awareness in the Uniting Reformed Church and the other members of the Dutch Reformed Church family that church division was born from socio-political and theological factors, the orientation of all parties to the unification process was to prioritise the theological conviction side and downplay the socio-political, allowing it to function surreptitiously and essentially undermining the possibilities for greater progress. This essay will highlight the discourse of church assemblies indicating the trends and arguments relating to unification. It will secondly draw on the reflections of the Afro-American philosopher Cornel West to cast light on the tasks of any church unification process that strive to enhance both reconciliation and transformation. In the light of the theoretical framework of West, it will proceed to posit certain tasks that the unification process must address in order to make any sustained progress.

Abstract:

Poland in 1988 was on the edge of economic, social and political collapse. The two antagonistic entities – the communist party and the government on one side and the Solidarity movement on the other - were each too weak to overcome the crisis by itself. Undertaking negotiations appeared to be the last chance to solve the crisis peacefully. There was a number of external circumstances and opportunities that supported undertaking the Talks, including Michail Gorbachev's perestroika in the East, Ronald Reagan's anti-communist policies in the West, the support of the Catholic Church and the support of the vast majority of Polish society. The whole Round Table story can be viewed as a transformation from a zero-sum game to a cooperative non zero-sum game with the solution close to a Pareto optimal solution. The processes included, among others: concentration on problems rather than people; building a mutual trust; creating the idea of the common good; and partitioning negotiations into many teams thereby creating a decision-making structure that was both hierarchical and flexible. After thirty years, both democracy and the rule of law are at stake again in Poland. Unfortunately, however, it does not seem that today’s socio-political situation is capable of fostering negotiation methods for solving the nation’s problems.

Abstract:

When the National Trust was established in 1895 its founders, Canon Rawnsley, Sir Robert Hunter and Octavia Hill, were, as Cannadine notes, “primarily concerned with preserving open spaces of outstanding natural beauty which were threatened with development or spoliation.” This was because, like Ruskin, Morris and “many of their contemporaries, they believed that the essence of Englishness was to be found in the fields and hedgerows, not in the suburbs and slums” (Cannadine 227). It was important to protect these sites of beauty and historical interest from development not only for what they were but for what they purportedly represented—an irreplaceable repository of the nation’s “spiritual values”, and thus a vital antidote to the “base materialism” of the day. G.M. Trevelyan, who I am quoting here, noted in two pieces written on behalf of the Trust in the 1920s and 30s, that the “inexorable rise of bricks and mortar” and the “full development of motor traffic” were laying waste to the English countryside. In the face of this assault on England’s heartland, the National Trust provided “an ark of refuge” safeguarding the nation’s cherished physical heritage and preserving its human cargo from the rising waters of materialism and despair (qtd. in Cannadine 231-2).Despite the extension of the road network and increasing private ownership of cars (up from 200,000 registrations in 1918 to “well over one million” in 1930), physical distance and economic hardship denied the majority of the urban population access to the countryside (Taylor 217). For the urban working classes recently or distantly displaced from the land, the dream of a return to rural roots was never more than a fantasy. Ford Madox Ford observed that “the poor and working classes of the towns never really go back” (Ford 58).Through the later nineteenth century the rural nostalgia once most prevalent among the working classes was increasingly noted as a feature of middle class sensibility. Better educated, with more leisure time and money at their disposal, these sentimental ruralists furnished a ready market for a new consumer phenomenon—the commodification of the English countryside and the packaging of the values it notionally embodied. As Valentine Cunningham observes, this was not always an edifying spectacle. By the late 1920s, “the terrible sounds of ‘Ye Olde England’ can already be heard, just off-stage, knocking together its thatched wayside stall where plastic pixies, reproduction beer-mugs, relics of Shakespeare and corn-dollies would soon be on sale” (Cunningham 229). Alongside the standard tourist tat, and the fiction and poetry that romanticised the rural world, a new kind of travel writing emerged around the turn of the century. Through an analysis of early-twentieth century notions of Englishness, this paper considers how the north struggled to find a place in H.V. Morton’s In Search of England (1927).In Haunts of Ancient Peace (1901), the Poet Laureate, Alfred Austin, described a journey through “Old England” as a cultural pilgrimage in quest of surviving vestiges of the nation’s essential identity, “or so much of it as is left” (Austin 18). Austin’s was an early example of what had, by the 1920s and 30s become a “boom market … in books about the national character, traditions and antiquities, usually to be found in the country” (Wiener 73). Longmans began its “English Heritage” series in 1929, introduced by the Prime Minister, Stanley Baldwin, with volumes on “English humour, folk song and dance, the public school, the parish church, [and] wild life”. A year later Batsford launched its series of books on “English Life” with volumes featuring “the countryside, Old English household life, inns, villages, and cottages” (Wiener 73). There was an outpouring of books with an overtly conservationist agenda celebrating journeys through or periods of residence in the countryside, many of them written by “soldiers like Henry Williamson and Edmund Blunden, who returned from the First War determined to preserve the rural England they’d known” (Cunningham 229; Blunden, Face, England; Roberts, Pilgrim, Gone ; Williamson). In turn, these books engendered an efflorescence of critical analyses of the construction of England (Hamilton; Haddow; Keith; Cavaliero; Gervais; Giles and Middleton; Westall and Gardiner).By the 1920s it was clear that a great many people thought they knew what England was, where it might be found, and if threatened, which parts of it needed to be rescued in order to safeguard the survival of its essential identity. By the same point, there were large numbers who felt, in Patrick Wright’s words, that “Some areas of the nation had been lost forever and in these no one should expect to find the traditional nation at all” (Wright 87).A key guide to the nation’s sacred sites in this period, an inventory of their relics, and an illustration of how its lost regions might be rescued for or erased from its cultural map, was provided in H.V. Morton’s In Search of England (1927). Initially published as a series of articles in the Daily Express in 1926, In Search of England went through nine editions in the two and a half years after its appearance in book form in 1927. With sales in excess of a million copies, as John Brannigan notes, the book went through a further twenty editions by 1943, and has remained continuously in print since (Brannigan).In his introduction Morton proposes In Search of England is simply “the record of a motor-car journey round England … written without deliberation by the roadside, on farmyard walls, in cathedrals, in little churchyards, on the washstands of country inns, and in many another inconvenient place” (Morton vii). As C.R. Perry notes, “This is a happy image, but also a misleading one” (Perry 434) for there was nothing arbitrary about Morton’s progress. Even a cursory glance at the map of his journey confirms, the England that Morton went in search of was overwhelmingly rural or coastal, and embodied in the historic villages and ancient towns of the Midlands or South.Morton’s biographer, Michael Bartholomew suggests that the “nodal points” of Morton’s journey are the “cathedral cities” (Bartholomew 105).Despite claims to the contrary, his book was written with deliberation and according to a specific cultural objective. Morton’s purpose was not to discover his homeland but to confirm a vision that he and millions of others cherished. He was not in search of England so much as reassuring himself and his readers that in spite of the depredations of the factory and the motor vehicle, it was still out there. These aims determined Morton’s journey; how long he spent in differing parts, what he recorded, and how he presented landscapes, buildings, people and material culture.Morton’s determination to celebrate England as rural and ancient needed to negotiate the journey north into an industrial landscape better known for its manufacturing cities, mining and mill towns, and the densely packed streets of the poor and working classes. Unable to either avoid or ignore this north, Morton needed to settle upon a strategy of passing through it without disturbing his vision of the rural idyll. Narratively, Morton’s touring through the south and west of the country is conducted at a gentle pace. In my 1930 edition of the text, it takes 185 of the book’s 280 pages to bring him from London via the South Coast, Cornwall, the Cotswolds and the Welsh marches, to Chester. The instant Morton crosses the Lancashire border, his bull-nosed Morris accelerates through the extensive northern counties in a mere thirty pages: Warrington to Carlisle (with a side trip to Gretna Green), Carlisle to Durham, and Durham to Lincoln. The final sixty-five pages return to the more leisurely pace of the south and west through Norfolk and the East Midlands, before the journey is completed in an unnamed village somewhere between Stratford upon Avon and Warwick. Morton spends 89 per cent of the text in the South and Midlands (66 per cent and 23 per cent respectively) with only 11 per cent given over to his time in the north.If, as Genette has pointed out, narrative deceleration results in the descriptive pause, it is no coincidence that this is the recurring set piece of Morton’s treatment of the south and west as opposed to the north. His explorations take dwelling moments on river banks and hill tops, in cathedral closes and castle ruins to honour the genius loci and imagine earlier times. On Plymouth Hoe he sees, in his mind’s eye, Sir Walter Raleigh’s fleet set sail to take on the Armada; at Tintagel it is Arthur, wild and Celtic, scaling the cliffs, spear in hand; at Buckler’s Hard amid the rotting slipways he imagines the “stout oak-built ships which helped to found the British Empire”, setting out on their journeys of conquest (Morton 39). At the other extreme, Genette observes, that narrative acceleration produces ellipsis, where details are omitted in order to render a more compact and striking expression. It is the principle of ellipsis, of selective omission, which compresses the geography of Morton’s journey through the north with the effect of shaping reader experiences. Morton hurries past the north’s industrial areas—shuddering at the sight of smoke or chimneys and averting his gaze from factory and slum.As he crosses the border from Cheshire into Lancashire, Morton reflects that “the traveller enters Industrial England”—not that you would know it from his account (Morton 185). Heading north towards the Lake District, he steers a determined path between “red smoke stacks” rising on one side and an “ominous grey haze” on the other, holding to a narrow corridor of rural land where, to his relief, he observes men “raking hay in a field within gunshot of factory chimneys” (Morton 185-6). These redolent, though isolated, farmhands are of greater cultural moment than the citadels of industry towering on either side of them. While the chimneys might symbolise the nation’s economic potency, the farmhands embody the survival of its essential cultural and moral qualities. In an allusion to the Israelites’ passage through the Red Sea from the Book of Exodus, the land that the workers tend holds back the polluted tide of industry, furnishing relief from the factory and the slum, granting Morton safe passage through the perils of modernity and into the Promised Land–or at least the Lake District. In Morton’s view this green belt is not only more essentially English than trade and industry, it is also expresses a nobler and more authentic Englishness.The “great industrial new-rich cities of northern England—vast and mighty as they are,” Morton observes, “fall into perspective as mere black specks against the mighty background of history and the great green expanse of fine country which is the real North of England” (Morton 208). Thus, the rural land between Manchester and Liverpool expands into a sea of green as the great cities shrink on the horizon, and the north is returned to its origins.What Morton cannot speed past or ignore, what he is compelled or chooses to confront, he transforms, through the agency of history, into something that he and England can bear to own. Tempted into Wigan by its reputation as a comic nowhere-land, a place whose name conjured a thousand music hall gags, Morton confesses that he had expected to find there another kind of cliché, “the apex of the world’s pyramid of gloom … dreary streets and stagnant canals and white-faced Wigonians dragging their weary steps along dull streets haunted by the horror of the place in which they are condemned to live” (Morton 187).In the process of naming what he dreads, Morton does not describe Wigan: he exorcises his deepest fears about what it might hold and offers an incantation intended to hold them at bay. He “discovers” Wigan is not the industrial slum but “a place which still bears all the signs of an old-fashioned country town” (Morton 188). Morton makes no effort to describe Wigan as it is, any more than he describes the north as a whole: he simply overlays them with a vision of them as they should be—he invents the Wigan and the north that he and England need.Having surveyed parks and gardens, historical monuments and the half-timbered mock-Tudor High Street, Morton returns to his car and the road where, with an audible sigh of relief, he finds: “Within five minutes of notorious Wigan we were in the depth of the country,” and that “on either side were fields in which men were making hay” (Morton 189).In little more than three pages he passes from one set of haymakers, south of town, to another on its north. The green world has all but smoothed over the industrial eyesore, and the reader, carefully chaperoned by Morton, can pass on to the Lake District having barely glimpsed the realities of industry and urbanism, reassured that if this is the worst that the north has to show then the rural heartland and the essential identity it sustains are safe. Paradoxically, instead of invalidating his account, Morton’s self-evident exclusions and omissions seem only to have fuelled its popularity.For readers of the Daily Express in the months leading up to and immediately after the General Strike of 1926, the myth of England that Morton proffered, of an unspoilt village where old values and traditional hierarchies still held true, was preferable to the violently polarised urban battlefields that the strike had revealed. As the century progressed and the nation suffered depression, war, and a steady decline in its international standing, as industry, suburban sprawl and the irresistible spread of motorways and traffic blighted the land, Morton’s England offered an imagined refuge, a real England that somehow, magically resisted the march of time.Yet if it was Morton’s triumph to provide England with a vision of its ideal spiritual home, it was his tragedy that this portrait of it hastened the devastation of the cultural survivals he celebrated and sought to preserve: “Even as the sense of idyll and peace was maintained, the forces pulling in another direction had to be acknowledged” (Taylor 74).In his introduction to the 1930 edition of In Search of England Morton approvingly acknowledged that a new enthusiasm for the nation’s history and heritage was abroad and that “never before have so many people been searching for England.” In the next sentence he goes on to laud the “remarkable system of motor-coach services which now penetrates every part of the country [and] has thrown open to ordinary people regions which even after the coming of the railways were remote and inaccessible” (Morton vii).Astonishingly, as the waiting charabancs roared their engines and the village greens of England enjoyed the last hours of their tranquillity, Morton somehow failed to make the obvious connection between these unique cultural and social phenomena or take any measure of their potential consequences. His “motoring pastoral” did more than alert the barbarians to the existence of the nation’s hidden treasures, as David Matless notes it provided them with a route map, itinerary and behavioural guide for their pillages (Matless 64; Peach; Batsford).Yet while cultural preservationists wrung their hands in horror at the advent of the day-tripper slouching towards Barnstaple, for Morton this was never a cause for concern. The nature of his journey and the form of its representation demonstrate that the England he worshipped was more an imaginary than a physical space, an ideal whose precise location no chart could fix and no touring party defile. ReferencesAustin, Alfred. Haunts of Ancient Peace. London: Macmillan, 1902.Bartholomew, Michael. In Search of H.V. Morton. London: Methuen, 2004.Batsford, Harry. How to See the Country. London: B.T. Batsford, 1940.Blunden, Edmund. The Face of England: In a Series of Occasional Sketches. London: Longmans, 1932.———. English Villages. London: Collins, 1942.Brannigan, John. “‘England Am I …’ Eugenics, Devolution and Virginia Woolf’s Between the Acts.” The Palgrave Macmillan Literature of an Independent England: Revisions of England, Englishness and English Literature. Eds. Claire Westall and Michael Gardiner. Houndmills: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013.Cannadine, David. In Churchill’s Shadow: Confronting the Past in Modern Britain. London: Penguin, 2002.Cavaliero, Glen. The Rural Tradition in the English Novel 1900-1939. Totowa, NJ: Rowman and Littlefield, 1977.Cunningham, Valentine. British Writers of the Thirties. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988.Ford, Ford Madox. The Heart of the Country: A Survey of a Modern Land. London: Alston Rivers, 1906.Gervais, David. Literary Englands. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993.Giles, J., and T. Middleton, eds. Writing Englishness. London: Routledge, 1995.Haddow, Elizabeth. “The Novel of English Country Life, 1900-1930.” Dissertation. London: University of London, 1957.Hamilton, Robert. W.H. Hudson: The Vision of Earth. New York: Kennikat Press, 1946.Keith, W.J. Richard Jefferies: A Critical Study. Toronto: Toronto University Press, 1965.Lewis, Roy, and Angus Maude. The English Middle Classes. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1949.Matless, David. Landscape and Englishness. London: Reaktion Books, 1998.Morris, Margaret. The General Strike. Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1976.Morton, H.V. In Search of England. London: Methuen, 1927.Peach, H. Let Us Tidy Up. Leicester: The Dryad Press, 1930.Perry, C.R. “In Search of H.V. Morton: Travel Writing and Cultural Values in the First Age of British Democracy.” Twentieth Century British History 10.4 (1999): 431-56.Roberts, Cecil. Pilgrim Cottage. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1933.———. Gone Rustic. London: Hodder and Stoughton, 1934.Taylor, A.J.P. England 1914-1945. The Oxford History of England XV. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975.Taylor, John. War Photography: Realism in the British Press. London: Routledge, 1991.Wiener, Martin. English Culture and the Decline of the Industrial Spirit, 1850-1980. 2nd ed. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004.Williamson, Henry. The Village Book. London: Jonathan Cape, 1930.Wright, Patrick. A Journey through Ruins: A Keyhole Portrait of British Postwar Life and Culture. London: Flamingo, 1992.

Abstract:

As I round the corner from Church Street onto Vesey, I am abruptly met with the façade of St. Paul’s Chapel and by the sudden memory of two things, both of which have not yet happened. I think about how, in a couple of decades, the area surrounding me will be burnt to the ground. I also recall how, just after the turn of the twenty-first century, the area will again crumble onto itself. It is 1759, and I—via my avatar—am wandering through downtown New York City in the videogame space of Assassin’s Creed: Rogue (AC:R). These spatial and temporal memories stem from the fact that I have previously (that is, earlier in my life) played an AC game set in New York City during the War for Independence (later in history), wherein the city’s lower west side burns at the hands of the British. Years before that (in my biographical timeline, though much later in history) I watched from twenty-something blocks north of here as flames erupted from the twin towers of the World Trade Center. Complicating the situation further, Michel de Certeau strolls with me in spirit, pondering observations he will make from almost this exact location (though roughly 1,100 feet higher up) 220 years from now, around the time I am being born. Perhaps the oddest aspect of this convoluted and temporally layered experience is the fact that I am not actually at the corner of Church and Vesey in 1759 at all, but rather on a couch, in Virginia, now. This particular type of sudden arrival at a space is only possible when it is not planned. Prior to the moment described above, I had finished a “mission” in the game that involved my coming to the city, so I decided I would just walk around a bit in the newly discovered digital New York of 1759. I wanted to take it in. I wanted to wander. Truly Being-in-a-place means attending to the interconnected Being-ness and Being-with-ness of all of the things that make up that place (Heidegger; Haraway). Conversely, to travel to or through a place entails a type of focused directionality toward a place that you are not currently Being in. Wandering, however, demands eschewing both, neither driven by an incessant goal, nor stuck in place by introspective ruminations. Instead, wandering is perhaps best described as a sort of mobile openness. A wanderer is not quite Benjamin’s flâneur, characterised by an “idle yet assertive negotiation of the street” (Coates 28), but also, I would argue, not quite de Certeau’s “Wandersmünner, whose bodies follow the thicks and thins of an urban ‘text’ they write without being able to read it” (de Certeau 93). Wandering requires a concerted effort at non-intentionality. That description may seem to fold in on itself, to be sure, but as the spaces around us are increasingly “canalized” (Rabinow and Foucault) and designed with specific trajectories and narratives in mind, inaction leads to the unconscious enacting of an externally derived intention; whereas any attempt to subvert that design is itself a wholly intentional act. This is why wandering is so difficult. It requires shedding layers. It takes practice, like meditation.In what follows, I will explore the possibility of revelatory moments enabled by the shedding of these layers of intention through my own experience in digital space (maybe the most designed and canalized spaces we inhabit). I come to recognise, as I disavow the designed narrative of game space, that it takes on other meanings, becomes another space. I find myself Being-there in a way that transcends the digital as we understand it, experiencing space that reaches into the past and future, into memory and fiction. Indeed, wandering is liminal, betwixt fixed points, spaces, and times, and the text you are reading will wander in this fashion—between the digital and the physical, between memory and experience, and among multiple pasts and the present—to arrive at a multilayered subjective sense of space, a palimpsest of placemaking.Before charging fully into digital time travel, however, we must attend to the business of context. In this case, this means addressing why I am talking about videogame space in Certaudian terms. Beginning as early as 1995, videogame theorists have employed de Certeau’s notion of “spatial stories” in their assertions that games allow players to construct the game’s narrative by travelling through and “colonizing” the space (Fuller and Jenkins). Most of the scholarship involving de Certeau and videogames, however, has been relegated to the concepts of “map/tour” in looking at digital embodiment within game space as experiential representatives of the place/space binary. Maps verbalise spatial experience in place terms, such as “it’s at the corner of this and that street”, whereas tours express the same in terms of movement through space, as in “turn right at the red house”. Videogames complicate this because “mapping is combined with touring when moving through the game-space” (Lammes).In Games as Inhabited Spaces, Bernadette Flynn moves beyond the map/tour dichotomy to argue that spatial theories can approach videogaming in a way no other viewpoint can, because neither narrative nor mechanics of play can speak to the “space” of a game. Thus, Flynn’s work is “focused on completely reconceiving gameplay as fundamentally configured with spatial practice” (59) through de Certeau’s concepts of “strategic” and “tactical” spatial use. Flynn explains:The ability to forge personal directions from a closed simulation links to de Certeau’s notion of tactics, where users can create their own trajectories from the formal organizations of space. For de Certeau, tactics are related to how people individualise trajectories of movement to create meaning and transformations of space. Strategies on the other hand, are more akin to the game designer’s particular matrix of formal structures, arrangements of time and space which operate to control and constrain gameplay. (59)Flynn takes much of her reading of de Certeau from Lev Manovich, who argues that a game designer “uses strategies to impose a particular matrix of space, time, experience, and meaning on his viewers; they, in turn, use ‘tactics’ to create their own trajectories […] within this matrix” (267). Manovich believes de Certeau’s theories offer a salient model for thinking about “the ways in which computer users navigate through computer spaces they did not design” (267). In Flynn’s and Manovich’s estimation, simply moving through digital space is a tactic, a subversion of its strategic and linear design.The views of game space as tactical have historically (and paradoxically) treated the subject of videogames from a strategic perspective, as a configurable space to be “navigated through”, as a way of attaining a certain goal. Dan Golding takes up this problem, distancing our engagement from the design and calling for a de Certeaudian treatment of videogame space “from below”, where “the spatial diegesis of the videogame is affordance based and constituted by the skills of the player”, including those accrued outside the game space (Golding 118). Similarly, Darshana Jayemanne adds a temporal element with the idea that these spatial constructions are happening alongside a “complexity” and “proliferation of temporal schemes” (Jayemanne 1, 4; see also Nikolchina). Building from Golding and Jayemanne, I illustrate here a space wherein the player, not the game, is at the fulcrum of both spatial and temporal complexity, by adding the notion that—along with skill and experience—players bring space and time with them into the game.Viewed with the above understanding of strategies, tactics, skill, and temporality, the act of wandering in a videogame seems inherently subversive: on one hand, by undergoing a destination-less exploration of game space, I am rejecting the game’s spatial narrative trajectory; on the other, I am eschewing both skill accrual and temporal insistence to attempt a sense of pure Being-in-the-game. Such rebellious freedom, however, is part of the design of this particular game space. AC:R is a “sand box” game, which means it involves a large environment that can be traversed in a non-linear fashion, allowing, supposedly, for more freedom and exploration. Indeed, much of the gameplay involves slowly making more space available for investigation in an outward—rather than unidirectional—course. A player opens up these new spaces by “synchronising a viewpoint”, which can only be done by climbing to the top of specific landmarks. One of the fundamental elements of the AC franchise is an acrobatic, free-running, parkour style of engagement with a player’s surroundings, “where practitioners weave through urban environments, hopping over barricades, debris, and other obstacles” (Laviolette 242), climbing walls and traversing rooftops in a way unthinkable (and probably illegal) in our everyday lives. People scaling buildings in major metropolitan areas outside of videogame space tend to get arrested, if they survive the climb. Possibly, these renegade climbers are seeking what de Certeau describes as the “voluptuous pleasure […] of ‘seeing the whole,’ of looking down on, totalizing the most immoderate of human texts” (92)—what he experienced, looking down from the top of the World Trade Center in the late 1970s.***On digital ground level, back in 1759, I look up to the top of St. Paul’s bell tower and crave that pleasure, so I climb. As I make my way up, Non-Player Characters (NPCs)—the townspeople and trader avatars who make up the interactive human scenery of the game—shout things such as “You’ll hurt yourself” and “I say! What on earth is he doing?” This is the game’s way of convincing me that I am enacting agency and writing my own spatial story. I seem to be deploying “tricky and stubborn procedures that elude discipline without being outside the field in which it is exercised” (de Certeau 96), when I am actually following the program the way I am supposed to. If I were not meant to climb the tower, I simply would not be able to. The fact that game developers go to the extent of recording dialogue to shout at me when I do this proves that they expect my transgression. This is part of the game’s “semi-social system”: a collection of in-game social norms that—to an extent—reflect the cultural understandings of outside non-digital society (Atkinson and Willis). These norms are enforced through social pressures and expectations in the game such that “these relative imperatives and influences, appearing to present players with ‘unlimited’ choices, [frame] them within the parameters of synthetic worlds whose social structure and assumptions are distinctly skewed in particular ways” (408). By using these semi-social systems, games communicate to players that performing a particular act is seen as wrong or scandalous by the in-game society (and therefore subversive), even when the action is necessary for the continuation of the spatial story.When I reach the top of the bell tower, I am able to “synchronise the viewpoint”—that is, unlock the map of this area of the city. Previously, I did not have access to an overhead view of the area, but now that I have indulged in de Certeau’s pleasure of “seeing the whole”, I can see not only the tactical view from the street, but also the strategic bird’s-eye view from above. From the top, looking out over the city—now The City, a conceivable whole rather than a collection of streets—it is difficult to picture the neighbourhood engulfed in flames. The stair-step Dutch-inspired rooflines still recall the very recent change from New Amsterdam to New York, but in thirty years’ time, they will all be torched and rebuilt, replaced with colonial Tudor boxes. I imagine myself as an eighteenth-century de Certeau, surveying pre-ruination New York City. I wonder how his thoughts would have changed if his viewpoint were coloured with knowledge of the future. Standing atop the very symbol of global power and wealth—a duo-lith that would exist for less than three decades—would his pleasure have been less “voluptuous”? While de Certeau considers the viewer from above like Icarus, whose “elevation transfigures him into a voyeur” (92), I identify more with Daedalus, preoccupied with impending disaster. I swan-dive from the tower into a hay cart, returning to the bustle of the street below.As I wander amongst the people of digital 1759 New York, the game continuously makes phatic advances at me. I bump into others on the street and they drop boxes they are carrying, or stumble to the side. Partial overheard conversations going on between townspeople—“… what with all these new taxes …”, “… but we’ve got a fine regiment here …”—both underscore the historical context of the game and imply that this is a world that exists even when I am not there. These characters and their conversations are as much a part of the strategic makeup of the city as the buildings are. They are the text, not the writers nor the readers. I am the only writer of this text, but I am merely transcribing a pre-programmed narrative. So, I am not an author, but rather a stenographer. For this short moment, though, I am allowed by the game to believe that I am making the choice not to transcribe; there are missions to complete, and I am ignoring them. I am taking in the city, forgetting—just as the design intends—that I am the only one here, the only person in the entire world, indeed, the person for whom this world exists.While wandering, I also experience conflicts and mergers between what Maurice Halbwachs has called historical, autobiographical, and collective memory types: respectively, these are memories created according to historical record, through one’s own life experience, and by the way a society tends to culturally frame and recall “important” events. De Certeau describes a memorable place as a “palimpsest, [where] subjectivity is already linked to the absence that structures it as existence” (109). Wandering through AC:R’s virtual representation of 1759 downtown New York, I am experiencing this palimpsest in multiple layers, activating my Halbwachsian memories and influencing one another in the creation of my subjectivity. This is the “absence” de Certeau speaks of. My visions of Revolutionary New York ablaze tug at me from beneath a veneer of peaceful Dutch architecture: two warring historical memory constructs. Simultaneously, this old world is painted on top of my autobiographical memories as a New Yorker for thirteen years, loudly ordering corned beef with Russian dressing at the deli that will be on this corner. Somewhere sandwiched between these layers hides a portrait of September 11th, 2001, painted either by collective memory or autobiographical memory, or, more likely, a collage of both. A plane entering a building. Fire. Seen by my eyes, and then re-seen countless times through the same televised imagery that the rest of the world outside our small downtown village saw it. Which images are from media, and which from memory?Above, as if presiding over the scene, Michel de Certeau hangs in the air at the collision site, suspended a 1000 feet above the North Pool of the 9/11 Memorial, rapt in “voluptuous pleasure”. And below, amid the colonists in their tricorns and waistcoats, people in grey ash-covered suits—ambulatory statues; golems—slowly and silently march ever uptown-wards. Dutch and Tudor town homes stretch skyward and transform into art-deco and glass monoliths. These multiform strata, like so many superimposed transparent maps, ground me in the idea of New York, creating the “fragmentary and inward-turning histories” (de Certeau 108) that give place to my subjectivity, allowing me to Be-there—even though, technically, I am not.My conscious decision to ignore the game’s narrative and wander has made this moment possible. While I understand that this is entirely part of the intended gameplay, I also know that the design cannot possibly account for the particular way in which I experience the space. And this is the fundamental point I am asserting here: that—along with the strategies and temporal complexities of the design and the tactics and skills of those on the ground—we bring into digital space our own temporal and experiential constructions that allow us to Be-in-the-game in ways not anticipated by its strategic design. Non-digital virtuality—in the tangled forms of autobiographical, historic, and collective memory—reaches into digital space, transforming the experience. Further, this changed game-experience becomes a part of my autobiographical “prosthetic memory” that I carry with me (Landsberg). When I visit New York in the future, and I inevitably find myself abruptly met with the façade of St Paul’s Chapel as I round the corner of Church Street and Vesey, I will be brought back to this moment. Will I continue to wander, or will I—if just for a second—entertain the urge to climb?***After the recent near destruction by fire of Notre-Dame, a different game in the AC franchise was offered as a free download, because it is set in revolutionary Paris and includes a very detailed and interactive version of the cathedral. Perhaps right now, on sundry couches in various geographical locations, people are wandering there: strolling along the Siene, re-experiencing time they once spent there; overhearing tense conversations about regime change along the Champs-Élysées that sound disturbingly familiar; or scaling the bell tower of the Notre-Dame Cathedral itself—site of revolution, desecration, destruction, and future rebuilding—to reach the pleasure of seeing the strategic whole at the top. 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Abstract:

Whatever a work of art may be, the artist certainly cannot dare to be simple. (Rebecca West) Van Gogh's Sunflowers is [not] considered worthy of inclusion in a new selection of the world's finest art. The compilers of the Folio Society's lavish and expensive Book of the 100 Greatest Paintings believe that some works are so overexposed and have been reproduced so often that they can no longer be viewed with a fresh eye. The Independent, 24.8.2001. Sometimes the day just falls down on you. One day they'll measure the weight of a day. One day science will be able to measure the density of 24 hours. And then I can claim the burden of getting through a day as part of my fitness programme. She imagined filling in her exercise diary. Lifted three fallen days from shoulders. Pumped up biceps, triceps, amassed muscle gain in legs. Strengthened heart tissue. Deepened lung capacity. She shouldn't joke about it. But of course she did. Sometimes it was how she coped. She'd tried not joking, joking, paying attention, ignoring, running away from, facing head on, talking, not talking, sharing, selfishly selflessly, hopefully hopelessly, alone and in company. Of course some methods of dealing with it were more fun than others. She used to have sex a lot when she felt most depressed. What she'd liked most about the sex was the feeling of being what she called underneath, somewhere darker, more primal. Crawling around on the inside of things. That was how she eventually looked at it. As if it was a special sort of art she had created, woven through the threads of her brain cells and tendrils of her nerve endings. Sometimes profoundly scary, sometimes just a cheap thrill. Why can't you just be happy? she'd heard people ask. People who cared and those who didn't particularly. As if she had willed it upon herself and could just as easily will herself out of it. I choose. Or I do not choose, she might say. Either way it remains because I have understood it ultimately is not a matter of choice. I will be happy when happiness comes around again. Just the same as the sunshine comes out after the rain clouds disappear. It is a cycle and I am part of its nature. And I haven't yet learnt to control the weather. Of course shamans could do it. Certain sorts of yogis. Witches. Tap into energy flows and seismic quivers. Even then it was not a matter of controlling shifts in temperature but rather surrendering to it. Making them not just observers of natural phenomena. But participants. Adding their own energy to the natural energy. Bringing about change through focus and attention rather than resistance and will. It would be hard to stay that sensitive in the city. Too hard with all the relentless metal, the swabs of smoke and smog blinding the eyes, the clang and grrrs of the smashing traffic, all the urban thoughts circling your brain like gangs out for some kicks. She made herself scarce when the days fell like this one. Right on top of her like a mountain of collapsing ash. Even though the others had what always seemed a grudging respect for it. As if she limped. Or was blind in one eye. They sensed its genetic implications. And almost admired the way she wore it like a piece of dark, sombre clothing. Instead of letting it wear her. Still These dark days. These black moods. Like a monstrous pet She had to walk Endlessly through the city streets Until it had walked off Its rage. She closed her eyes. Somewhere in the distance she could faintly detect the scent of a certain sort of coffee, which she craved. She opened her eyes and headed up King St, peering into cafes as she passed, twitching her nostrils like a sniffer dog, nosing out the secret stash of illicit nectar that would, of course, be the momentary answer to all her problems. She walked past Café Bleu. Too stark, too gloomy. Past El Bache. Too fluorescent, too sugary. Straight past CITRUS. Too friendly, too trendy. Criss-crossed King St to Macro Whole Foods. Too positive, too pure. Back over the other side to the Marleborough Hotel. Oh no, too desperate before midday. Turned left, walked down past the hospital, briefly thought about their cafeteria. But no, way too hopeless and pessimistic. Back onto City Road, past the Uni. Way too cool and know it all. Across Broadway, past IKU. Same problem as Macro, and almost up to Badde Manors. Eek! Way, way too hip. She got herself back down almost to Paramatta Road and stopped. She briefly wondered whether she should go back to Essential Energies and see the Clairvoyant. But she was sick at the idea of handing over forty bucks for someone to tell her that everything, even depression, eventually had to pass. She may as well go up to a complete stranger on the street and ask them: Tell me what to do, please tell me what to do. In certain cultures she was sure this would work. Older, more spiritual ethnicities, which had long ago given up the idea that human beings could control everything that happened in life. They'd even laugh at the concept. They might say something ancient and wise and comforting. Something about death and rebirth and transformation and illness being a sign of health and everything the other way round. But here, pioneer's children, building, growing, planning, committing, grasping, holding on, they'd tell her to pull herself together and get on with it. If you'd just tell me what IT was, maybe I'd be able to get on with it. She might answer them if she was in the mood for a conversation. But of course she wasn't going to accost anyone. Not today. Not in Glebe. Not just down the road from Gleebooks. Too literary, too secure. She bought some Turkish bread from the Lebanese place next door, intending to feed the ducks in City Park, but slipped back inside Essential Energies, with the bread tucked under her arm, just to stand for a few moments near the oil burner. The scents were Orange, Marjoram and Lavender, a soothing combination, the sign said, to calm the troubled mind and open the third eye. Jesus, she thought to herself, suddenly laughing out loud, on days like this I'm lucky if I can keep one good eye open. Let alone two. Without realizing it, she'd been making a racket. Aware of the shop assistant staring disapprovingly at her, she backed out the door, chattering to herself like a madwoman, fleetingly remembering how being in a church always seemed to create the same sense of misadventure as being in a New Age Shop. Too clean, too quiet, too affluent, too aromatic. Back on Paramatta Road she felt like crying. Some days that was all she felt like doing, tears gathering inside her, not like great thunderstorms about to explode, but grey sheets of drizzle with their slow, maddening incessant drip drip drip on the brain. She remembered Emerald Green telling her that depression would be the Super Disease of the Millennium. Sometimes she wondered how she would last that long. If you chart your course through it, you'll mark the map for others, Emerald had told her. Maybe the true pioneers of tomorrow are those with the courage to go out alone into the most forbidding terrain and return intact. It sounded encouraging when Emerald said it, but it never helped when she was standing at crossroads such as these wondering which way to go. Walk down Broadway into Chinatown. Wolf down a Laksa for lunch. Burn her mouth and body back to life. Halfway down Broadway she stopped as she always did, at the Broadway Framers. They'd taken down the Whitely that had been in the window for ages, and replaced it with the usual assortment of famous and popular prints, framed unnecessarily, she'd always thought, in ostentatious gold. Matisse's Blue Nude, Picasso's Harlequin from his Rose period and Van Gogh's Sunflowers. When she was younger and more easily impressed, her post modernist friends had told her painting was dead and that figurative art was bogus. They seemed so sure of everything, she'd never been sure of anything and so she'd been almost ashamed to admit that one of her favourite pictures was Sunflowers. She'd never analyzed why she liked it. If pressed to give an intelligent answer it would have been something along the lines of the visceral textures of the flowers, still so apparently immediate even in the hundreds of flat prints that had crowded the waiting rooms of her life since she was a little girl. It would have had something to do with the extravagance with which the stems were stuffed into the case, the overloaded slightly bedraggled, lushness of nature crammed by the artist into the humble little pot on which he'd scrawled his name. It could have been the energy of the brush strokes, which seem to thrust the flowers towards you with such force, as if Vincent is saying to you personally: LOOK LOOK. Have you ever seen anything so beautiful? He was just doing his job, Painter Bob had said, the job that artists do. To make us look at things that mostly we're too distracted, too busy, too depressed to see. The stars in the sky at night. Swirling clouds. The sloping downwards of a face and all the stories which that particular angle tells. She thought of Van Gogh whenever she saw that picture. On his lonely road to pure painting, too crazy, to stubborn to do anything else. Painter Bob had said he'd been a shaman, a channel through which his subjects passed in order to be delivered onto paper so that … we, the rest of the world, us, the rest of history, decade after decade of casual and not so casual observers of art, could see, feel, absorb through the nerve endings in our eyes the essence of what is was, not just to see the sunflowers but to be the sunflowers. Yellow, she thought. And amber. Orange. Bits of gold. They've always made me feel so happy. It couldn't be that simple, she thought. To have the courage to cross the gap that separates the subject from the object. To become the thing which you see. To empathize. To inhabit. To break down the disconnection between matter. Plump, healthy flowers, slightly past their prime. Still, she thought, they'd cost a packet at the florists. She liked sunflowers. Despite their larger than life, exotic qualities they'd always seemed to her to be completely and utterly ordinary. ..in the end only someone who suffered deeply could see the radiance in such simple things Painter Bob was right. He was after all an expert in such things. Sometimes she felt as if she didn't know much about anything at all. Here she was looking at reproductions through plate glass windows, while above her the sun was almost coming out. Feeling hopeful, she put on her sunglasses. Citation reference for this article MLA Style Neil, Linda. "Sunflowers " M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5.2 (2002). [your date of access] < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/sunflower.php>. Chicago Style Neil, Linda, "Sunflowers " M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5, no. 2 (2002), < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/sunflower.php> ([your date of access]). APA Style Neil, Linda. (2002) Sunflowers . M/C: A Journal of Media and Culture 5(2). < http://www.media-culture.org.au/0205/sunflower.php> ([your date of access]).

Abstract:

This essay combines life writing with meditations on the significance of walking as integral to the ritual practice of pilgrimage, where the individual improves her soul or health through the act of walking to a shrine containing healing relics of a saint. Braiding together insights from medieval literature, contemporary ecocriticism, and memory studies, I reflect on my own pilgrimage practice as it impacts the land itself. Canterbury, England serves as the central shrine for four pilgrimages over decades: 1966, 1994, 1997, and 2003.The act of memory was not invented in the Anthropocene. Rather, the nonhuman world has taught humans how to remember. From ice-core samples retaining the history of Europe’s weather to rocks embedded with fossilized extinct species, nonhuman actors literally petrifying or freezing the past—from geologic sites to frozen water—become exposed through the process of anthropocentric discovery and human interference. The very act of human uncovery and analysis threatens to eliminate the nonhuman actor which has hospitably shared its own experience. How can humans script nonhuman memory?As for the history of memory studies itself, a new phase is arguably beginning, shifting from “the transnational, transcultural, or global to the planetary; from recorded to deep history; from the human to the nonhuman” (Craps et al. 3). Memory studies for the Anthropocene can “focus on the terrestrialized significance of (the historicized) forms of remembrance but also on the positioning of who is remembering and, ultimately, which ‘Anthropocene’ is remembered” (Craps et al. 5). In this era of the “self-conscious Anthropocene” (Craps et al. 6), narrative itself can focus on “the place of nonhuman beings in human stories of origins, identity, and futures point to a possible opening for the methods of memory studies” (Craps et al. 8). The nonhuman on the paths of this essay range from the dirt on the path to the rock used to build the sacred shrine, the ultimate goal. How they intersect with human actors reveals how the “human subject is no longer the one forming the world, but does indeed constitute itself through its relation to and dependence on the object world” (Marcussen 14, qtd. in Rodriguez 378). Incorporating “nonhuman species as objects, if not subjects, of memory [...] memory critics could begin by extending their objects to include the memory of nonhuman species,” linking both humans and nonhumans in “an expanded multispecies frame of remembrance” (Craps et al. 9). My narrative—from diaries recording sacred journey to a novel structured by pilgrimage—propels motion, but also secures in memory events from the past, including memories of those nonhuman beings I interact with.Childhood PilgrimageThe little girl with brown curls sat crying softly, whimpering, by the side of the road in lush grass. The mother with her soft brown bangs and an underflip to her hair told the story of a little girl, sitting by the side of the road in lush grass.The story book girl had forgotten her Black Watch plaid raincoat at the picnic spot where she had lunched with her parents and two older brothers. Ponchos spread out, the family had eaten their fresh yeasty rolls, hard cheese, apples, and macaroons. The tin clink of the canteen hit their teeth as they gulped metallic water, still icy cold from the taps of the ancient inn that morning. The father cut slices of Edam with his Swiss army knife, parsing them out to each child to make his or her own little sandwich. The father then lay back for his daily nap, while the boys played chess. The portable wooden chess set had inlaid squares, each piece no taller than a fingernail paring. The girl read a Junior Puffin book, while the mother silently perused Agatha Christie. The boy who lost at chess had to play his younger sister, a fitting punishment for the less able player. She cheerfully played with either brother. Once the father awakened, they packed up their gear into their rucksacks, and continued the pilgrimage to Canterbury.Only the little Black Watch plaid raincoat was left behind.The real mother told the real girl that the story book family continued to walk, forgetting the raincoat until it began to rain. The men pulled on their ponchos and the mother her raincoat, when the little girl discovered her raincoat missing. The story book men walked two miles back while the story book mother and girl sat under the dripping canopy of leaves provided by a welcoming tree.And there, the real mother continued, the storybook girl cried and whimpered, until a magic taxi cab in which the father and boys sat suddenly appeared out of the mist to drive the little girl and her mother to their hotel.The real girl’s eyes shone. “Did that actually happen?” she asked, perking up in expectation.“Oh, yes,” said the real mother, kissing her on the brow. The girl’s tears dried. Only the plops of rain made her face moist. The little girl, now filled with hope, cuddled with her mother as they huddled together.Without warning, out of the mist, drove up a real magic taxi cab in which the real men sat. For magic taxi cabs really exist, even in the tangible world—especially in England. At the very least, in the England of little Susie’s imagination.Narrative and PilgrimageMy mother’s tale suggests how this story echoes in yet another pilgrimage story, maintaining a long tradition of pilgrimage stories embedded within frame tales as far back as the Middle Ages.The Christian pilgrim’s walk parallels Christ’s own pilgrimage to Emmaus. The blisters we suffer echo faintly the lash Christ endured. The social relations of the pilgrim are “diachronic” (Alworth 98), linking figures (Christ) from the past to the now (us, or, during the Middle Ages, William Langland’s Piers Plowman or Chaucer’s band who set out from Southwark). We embody the frame of the vera icon, the true image, thus “conjur[ing] a site of simultaneity or a plane of immanence where the actors of the past [...] meet those of the future” (Alworth 99). Our quotidian walk frames the true essence or meaning of our ambulatory travail.In 1966, my parents took my two older brothers and me on the Pilgrims’ Way—not the route from London to Canterbury that Chaucer’s pilgrims would have taken starting south of London in Southwark, rather the ancient trek from Winchester to Canterbury, famously chronicled in The Old Road by Hilaire Belloc. The route follows along the south side of the Downs, where the muddy path was dried by what sun there was. My parents first undertook the walk in the early 1950s. Slides from that pilgrimage depict my mother, voluptuous in her cashmere twinset and tweed skirt, as my father crosses a stile. My parents, inspired by Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales, decided to walk along the traditional Pilgrims’ Way to Canterbury. Story intersects with material traversal over earth on dirt-laden paths.By the time we children came along, the memories of that earlier pilgrimage resonated with my parents, inspiring them to take us on the same journey. We all carried our own rucksacks and walked five or six miles a day. Concerning our pilgrimage when I was seven, my mother wrote in her diary:As good pilgrims should, we’ve been telling tales along the way. Yesterday Jimmy told the whole (detailed) story of That Darn Cat, a Disney movie. Today I told about Stevenson’s Travels with a Donkey, which first inspired me to think of walking trips and everyone noted the resemblance between Stevenson’s lovable, but balky, donkey and our sweet Sue. (We hadn’t planned to tell tales, but they just happened along the way.)I don’t know how sweet I was; perhaps I was “balky” because the road was so hard. Landscape certainly shaped my experience.As I wrote about the pilgrimage in my diary then, “We went to another Hotel and walked. We went and had lunch at the Boggly [booglie] place. We went to a nother hotel called The Swan with fether Quits [quilts]. We went to the Queens head. We went to the Gest house. We went to aother Hotle called Srping wells and my tooth came out. We saw some taekeys [turkeys].” The repetition suggests how pilgrimage combines various aspects of life, from the emotional to the physical, the quotidian (walking and especially resting—in hotels with quilts) with the extraordinary (newly sprung tooth or the appearance of turkeys). “[W]ayfaring abilities depend on an emotional connection to the environment” (Easterlin 261), whether that environment is modified by humans or even manmade, inhabited by human or nonhuman actors. How can one model an “ecological relationship between humans and nonhumans” in narrative (Rodriguez 368)? Rodriguez proposes a “model of reading as encounter [...] encountering fictional story worlds as potential models” (Rodriguez 368), just as my mother did with the Magic Taxi Cab story.Taxis proliferate in my childhood pilgrimage. My mother writes in 1966 in her diary of journeying along the Pilgrims’ Way to St. Martha’s on the Hill. “Susie was moaning and groaning under her pack and at one desperate uphill moment gasped out, ‘Let’s take a taxi!’ – our highborn lady as we call her. But we finally made it.” “Martha’s”, as I later learned, is a corruption of “Martyrs”, a natural linguistic decay that developed over the medieval period. Just as the vernacular textures pilgrimage poems in the fourteeth century, the common tongue in all its glorious variety seeps into even the quotidian modern pilgrim’s journey.Part of the delight of pilgrimage lies in the characters one meets and the languages they speak. In 1994, the only time my husband and I cheated on a strictly ambulatory sacred journey occurred when we opted to ride a bus for ten miles where walking would have been dangerous. When I ask the bus driver if a stop were ours, he replied, “I'll give you a shout, love.” As though in a P. G. Wodehouse novel, when our stop finally came, he cried out, “Cheerio, love” to me and “Cheerio, mate” to Jim.Language changes. Which is a good thing. If it didn’t, it would be dead, like those martyrs of old. Like Latin itself. Disentangling pilgrimage from language proves impossible. The healthy ecopoetics of languages meshes with the sustainable vibrancy of the land we traverse.“Nettles of remorse…”: Derek Walcott, The Bounty Once my father had to carry me past a particularly tough patch of nettles. As my mother tells it, we “went through orchards and along narrow woodland path with face-high nettles. Susie put a scarf over her face and I wore a poncho though it was sunny and we survived almost unscathed.” Certain moments get preserved by the camera. At age seven in a field outside of Wye, I am captured in my father’s slides surrounded by grain. At age thirty-five, I am captured in film by my husband in the same spot, in the identical pose, though now quite a bit taller than the grain. Three years later, as a mother, I in turn snap him with a backpack containing baby Sarah, grumpily gazing off over the fields.When I was seven, we took off from Detling. My mother writes, “set off along old Pilgrims’ Way. Road is paved now, but much the same as fifteen years ago. Saw sheep, lambs, and enjoyed lovely scenery. Sudden shower sent us all to a lunch spot under trees near Thurnham Court, where we huddled under ponchos and ate happily, watching the weather move across the valley. When the sun came to us, we continued on our way which was lovely, past sheep, etc., but all on hard paved road, alas. Susie was a good little walker, but moaned from time to time.”I seem to whimper and groan a lot on pilgrimage. One thing is clear: the physical aspects of walking for days affected my phenomenological response to our pilgrimage which we’d undertaken both as historical ritual, touristic nature hike, and what Wendell Berry calls a “secular pilgrimage” (402), where the walker seeks “the world of the Creation” (403) in a “return to the wilderness in order to be restored” (416). The materiality of my experience was key to how I perceived this journey as a spiritual, somatic, and emotional event. The link between pilgrimage and memory, between pilgrimage poetics and memorial methods, occupies my thoughts on pilgrimage. As Nancy Easterlin’s work on “cognitive ecocriticism” (“Cognitive” 257) contends, environmental knowledge is intimately tied in with memory (“Cognitive” 260). She writes: “The advantage of extensive environmental knowledge most surely precipitates the evolution of memory, necessary to sustain vast knowledge” (“Cognitive” 260). Even today I can recall snatches of moments from that trip when I was a child, including the telling of tales.Landscape not only changes the writer, but writing transforms the landscape and our interaction with it. As Valerie Allen suggests, “If the subject acts upon the environment, so does the environment upon the subject” (“When Things Break” 82). Indeed, we can understand the “road as a strategic point of interaction between human and environment” (Allen and Evans 26; see also Oram)—even, or especially, when that interaction causes pain and inflames blisters. My relationship with moleskin on my blasted and blistered toes made me intimately conscious of my body with every step taken on the pilgrimage route.As an adult, my boots on the way from Winchester to Canterbury pinched and squeezed, packed dirt acting upon them and, in turn, my feet. After taking the train home and upon arrival in London, we walked through Bloomsbury to our flat on Russell Square, passing by what I saw as a new, less religious, but no less beckoning shrine: The London Foot Hospital at Fitzroy Square.Now, sadly, it is closed. Where do pilgrims go for sole—and soul—care?Slow Walking as WayfindingAll pilgrimages come to an end, just as, in 1966, my mother writes of our our arrival at last in Canterbury:On into Canterbury past nice grassy cricket field, where we sat and ate chocolate bars while we watched white-flannelled cricketers at play. Past town gates to our Queen’s Head Inn, where we have the smallest, slantingest room in the world. Everything is askew and we’re planning to use our extra pillows to brace our feet so we won’t slide out of bed. Children have nice big room with 3 beds and are busy playing store with pounds and shillings [that’s very hard mathematics!]. After dinner, walked over to cathedral, where evensong was just ending. Walked back to hotel and into bed where we are now.Up to early breakfast, dashed to cathedral and looked up, up, up. After our sins were forgiven, we picked up our rucksacks and headed into London by train.This experience in 1966 varies slightly from the one in 1994. Jim and I walk through a long walkway of tall, slim trees arching over us, a green, lush and silent cloister, finally gaining our first view of Canterbury with me in a similar photo to one taken almost thirty years before. We make our way into the city through the West Gate, first passing by St. Dunstan’s Church where Henry II had put on penitential garb and later Sir Thomas More’s head was buried. Canterbury is like Coney Island in the Middle Ages and still is: men with dreadlocks and slinky didjeridoos, fire tossers, mobs of people, tourists. We go to Mercery Lane as all good pilgrims should and under the gate festooned with the green statue of Christ, arriving just in time for evensong.Imagining a medieval woman arriving here and listening to the service, I pray to God my gratefulness for us having arrived safely. I can understand the fifteenth-century pilgrim, Margery Kempe, screaming emotionally—maybe her feet hurt like mine. I’m on the verge of tears during the ceremony: so glad to be here safe, finally got here, my favorite service, my beloved husband. After the service, we pass on through the Quire to the spot where St. Thomas’s relic sanctuary was. People stare at a lit candle commemorating it. Tears well up in my eyes.I suppose some things have changed since the Middle Ages. One Friday in Canterbury with my children in 2003 has some parallels with earlier iterations. Seven-year-old Sarah and I go to evensong at the Cathedral. I tell her she has to be absolutely quiet or the Archbishop will chop off her head.She still has her head.Though the road has been paved, the view has remained virtually unaltered. Some aspects seem eternal—sheep, lambs, and stiles dotting the landscape. The grinding down of the pilgrimage path, reflecting the “slowness of flat ontology” (Yates 207), occurs over vast expanses of time. Similarly, Easterlin reflects on human and more than human vitalism: “Although an understanding of humans as wayfinders suggests a complex and dynamic interest on the part of humans in the environment, the surround itself is complex and dynamic and is frequently in a state of change as the individual or group moves through it” (Easterlin “Cognitive” 261). An image of my mother in the 1970s by a shady tree along the Pilgrims’ Way in England shows that the path is lower by 6 inches than the neighboring verge (Bright 4). We don’t see dirt evolving, because its changes occur so slowly. Only big time allows us to see transformative change.Memorial PilgrimageOddly, the erasure of self through duplication with a precursor occurred for me while reading W.G. Sebald’s pilgrimage novel, The Rings of Saturn. I had experienced my own pilgrimage to many of these same locations he immortalizes. I, too, had gone to Somerleyton Hall with my elderly mother, husband, and two children. My memories, sacred shrines pooling in familial history, are infused with synchronic reflection, medieval to contemporary—my parents’ periodic sojourns in Suffolk for years, leading me to love the very landscape Sebald treks across; sadness at my parents’ decline; hope in my children’s coming to add on to their memory palimpsest a layer devoted to this land, to this history, to this family.Then, the oddest coincidence from my reading pilgrimage. After visiting Dunwich Heath, Sebald comes to his friend, Michael, whose wife Anne relays a story about a local man hired as a pallbearer by the local undertaker in Westleton. This man, whose memory was famously bad, nevertheless reveled in the few lines allotted him in an outdoor performance of King Lear. After her relating this story, Sebald asks for a taxi (Sebald 188-9).This might all seem unremarkable to the average reader. Yet, “human wayfinders are richly aware of and responsive to environment, meaning both physical places and living beings, often at a level below consciousness” (Easterlin “Cognitive” 265). For me, with a connection to this area, I startled with recollection emerging from my subconscience. The pallbearer’s name in Sebald’s story was Mr Squirrel, the very same name of the taxi driver my parents—and we—had driven with many times. The same Mr Squirrel? How many Mr Squirrels can there be in this small part of Suffolk? Surely it must be the same family, related in a genetic encoding of memory. I run to my archives. And there, in my mother’s address book—itself a palimpsest of time with names and addressed scored through; pasted-in cards, names, and numbers; and looseleaf memoranda—there, on the first page under “S”, “Mr. Squirrel” in my mother’s unmistakable scribble. She also had inscribed his phone number and the village Saxmundum, seven miles from Westleton. His name had been crossed out. Had he died? Retired? I don’t know. Yet quick look online tells me Squirrell’s Taxis still exists, as it does in my memory.Making KinAfter accompanying a class on a bucolic section of England’s Pilgrims’ Way, seven miles from Wye to Charing, we ended up at a pub drinking a pint, with which all good pilgrimages should conclude. There, students asked me why I became a medievalist who studies pilgrimage. Only after the publication of my first book on women pilgrims did I realize that the origin of my scholarly, long fascination with pilgrimage, blossoming into my professional career, began when I was seven years old along the way to Canterbury. The seeds of that pilgrimage when I was so young bore fruit and flowers decades later.One story illustrates Michel Serres’s point that we should not aim to appropriate the world, but merely act as temporary tenants (Serres 72-3). On pilgrimage in 1966 as a child, I had a penchant for ant spiders. That was not the only insect who took my heart. My mother shares how “Susie found a beetle up on the hill today and put him in the cheese box. Jimmy put holes in the top for him. She named him Alexander Beetle and really became very fond of him. After supper, we set him free in the garden here, with appropriate ceremony and a few over-dramatic tears of farewell.” He clearly made a great impression on me. I yearn for him today, that beetle in the cheese box. Though I tried to smuggle nature as contraband, I ultimately had to set him free.Passing through cities, landscape, forests, over seas and on roads, wandering by fields and vegetable patches, under a sky lit both by sun and moon, the pilgrim—even when in a group of fellow pilgrims—in her lonesome exercise endeavors to realize Serres’ ideal of the tenant inhabitant of earth. Nevertheless, we, as physical pilgrims, inevitably leave our traces through photos immortalizing the journey, trash left by the wayside, even excretions discretely deposited behind a convenient bush. Or a beetle who can tell the story of his adventure—or terror—at being ensconced for a time in a cheese box.On one notorious day of painful feet, my husband and I arrived in Otford, only to find the pub was still closed. Finally, it became time for dinner. We sat outside, me with feet ensconced in shoes blessedly inert and unmoving, as the server brought out our salads. The salad cream, white and viscous, was presented in an elegantly curved silver dish. Then Jim began to pick at the salad cream with his fork. Patiently, tenderly, he endeavored to assist a little bug who had gotten trapped in the gooey sauce. Every attempt seemed doomed to failure. The tiny creature kept falling back into the gloppy substance. Undaunted, Jim compassionately ministered to our companion. Finally, the little insect flew off, free to continue its own pilgrimage, which had intersected with ours in a tiny moment of affinity. Such moments of “making kin” work, according to Donna Haraway, as “life-saving strateg[ies] for the Anthropocene” (Oppermann 3, qtd. in Haraway 160).How can narrative avoid the anthropocentric centre of writing, which is inevitable given the human generator of such a piece? While words are a human invention, nonhuman entities vitally enact memory. The very Downs we walked along were created in the Cretaceous period at least seventy million years ago. The petrol propelling the magic taxi cab was distilled from organic bodies dating back millions of years. Jurassic limestone from the Bathonian Age almost two hundred million years ago constitutes the Caen stone quarried for building Canterbury Cathedral, while its Purbeck marble from Dorset dates from the Cretaceous period. Walking on pilgrimage propels me through a past millions—billions—of eons into the past, dwarfing my speck of existence. Yet, “if we wish to cross the darkness which separates us from [the past] we must lay down a little plank of words and step delicately over it” (Barfield 23). Elias Amidon asks us to consider how “the ground we dig into and walk upon is sacred. It is sacred because it makes us neighbors to each other, whether we like it or not. Tell this story” (Amidon 42). And, so, I have.We are winding down. Time has passed since that first pilgrimage of mine at seven years old. Yet now, here, I still put on my red plaid wollen jumper and jacket, crisp white button-up shirt, grey knee socks, and stout red walking shoes. Slinging on my rucksack, I take my mother’s hand.I’m ready to take my first step.We continue our pilgrimage, together.ReferencesAllen, Valerie. “When Things Break: Mending Rroads, Being Social.” Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2016.———, and Ruth Evans. Introduction. Roadworks: Medieval Britain, Medieval Roads. Eds. Valerie Allen and Ruth Evans. Manchester: Manchester UP, 2016.Alworth, David J. Site Reading: Fiction, Art, Social Form. Princeton: Princeton UP, 2016.Amidon, Elias. “Digging In.” Dirt: A Love Story. Ed. Barbara Richardson. Lebanon, NH: ForeEdge, 2015.Barfield, Owen. History in English Words. Grand Rapids: William B. 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