You might be forgiven for thinking that only two topics were of interest to the inhabitants of Suffolk in June – the heatwave and the new system of refuse collection. Late June heat dominated the national news, while nearer to home the collection – or not – of rubbish, recycling, and food waste bins caused some prolonged overheating on social media.
But more than half the month brought rain , wind and low temperatures. Several times I felt moved to put the heating on, using precious oil purchased at sky-high prices (thanks, Trump, for your pointless but costly war). Returning along flooded roads from a pétanque match played in a deluge on a water-logged terrain, my hands were too cold to grip the steering wheel, and a hot bath did little to warm me.
Only a matter of days later how grateful would we have been for a cooling drop or two! Roads melted, trains and planes were cancelled, schools were closed as most of England failed to get to grips , as we so often do, with unwonted temperatures. I was about to boast (if it were really a title to aspire to) that Suffolk broke the record for June heat on the 26th reaching 37.3◦C, but this was pipped at the post rather late in the day by our northern rivals Norfolk at 37.7.
The elderly and dogs are vulnerable, so my girl and I were out in the relative cool of 5am, often earlier. Sometimes we head for the coast, to Dunwich, once one of the country’s busiest ports before it was lost to the encroaching waves. We watch the sun’s first golden path across the now peaceful sea, its sibilant sighing on the shingle shore inducing a soporific torpor….If only I could reproduce that in the sweltering sauna of my bedroom!
These extremes – the cold rain and the searing heat – have helped me through the now prolonged season of hay fever. It is now accepted that climate change has extended and intensified the effects of this condition. For me the enemy is grass seed pollen. When I was a child the season lasted three or so weeks towards the end of June – always at exam time, and I like to blame the first-generation antihistamines, which induced sleep and brain fog, for my indifferent O Levels. Now though the grass starts seeding early in May, and it continues till early July. Rain dampens down the pollen, and fierce heat matures the grasses quicker, so the combined effects, plus industrial quantities of high-dose second generation antihistamines, have helped me through. At its worst it means eyes itching and swollen grotesquely, sweating, shaking, sneezing, accompanied by an inflammatory surge of pain through the joints and muscles. Did I hear someone say ‘Don’t live in the country’?
At the beginning of June Suffolk instituted a new system of triaging and collecting refuse. This means rubbish is now sorted into a ‘container’ bin, a paper and cardboard bin, a general waste bin and a caddy for food waste. I also have a ‘garden’ bin as my neighbour has forbidden bonfires (because – I confess with shame – many years ago I set fire to a stubble field, farmed by her father. It was an accident…a rogue gust of wind into an incompletely cleared field. This has not been forgotten).
The various district councils regularly sent out information about the forthcoming change, delivered helpful graphics, clear calendars and timetables to each household, (duplicated online), advertised their new app which notifies us the preceding day of which bin to put out, and – here at least – ensured the new bins arrived in good time. But for the past four weeks social media, local press and every supermarket queue has buzzed with complaints, plus requests from the those challenged by change of “Does anyone know what bin it is this week?” “I haven’t had my food caddy yet.” “There were maggots in my caddy in this heat.” One housewife, enraged by what she thought was the non-collection of food waste (“Wrong lorry, love”) pursued the truck down the road in her car, demanding to know the reason for their perceived inefficiency.
From where I am (that is in the middle of nowhere) all has gone smoothly. Everything is collected on time by charming and helpful young men who toil through the heat. They take the time to stop and make much of my dog, who races to the gate to greet them. “You’re a good boy,” they say to her, proffering not one, but two biscuits. Often, if I should be out, a Bonio is left on the empty bin. They make the annual leap in Council Tax worth it. Almost.
But people love to complain, and local social media (NextDoor and local pages on Facebook) give them a stage and a megaphone. The complainers can be pretty potty-mouthed at times, ready to make others feel small, even threatened. But generally I find those two platforms helpful ( I deleted my X account because…Elon Musk). On FB I keep up with many ‘friends’ acquired in the course of long pilgrimage walks through Europe. NextDoor is useful when seeking recommendations for plumbers, garden machinery repair etc; people ask for lifts or car sharing; wanting help identifying plants or insects. Both sites are a good market place for second-hand goods and tools. Generally I am for it. Maybe those who decry it, and say it is purely for backbiters – or photographic boasting about holidays and fine dining, do not understand what it is to live alone, with friends far scattered though the world.
And they miss gems, such as this one, as well…
Through the year the dog and I walk, and as I walk I think. Is this prayer? Maybe. I think a great deal about love – human, divine, animal. I think about my dog, the faithful companion of my days. Can dogs love? They are often said to embody unconditional love, and certainly my lovely girl knows me through and through. The slightest movement, gesture, sigh, raised eyebrow…she can interpret them. Without (I hope) blasphemy her knowledge of me after nine and a half years is like that in the wonderful Psalm 139 (138 if you’re Catholic):
[She] knows my sitting down and my rising up; [she] understands my thought afar off. She comprehends my path and my lying down, And [is] acquainted with all my ways. For there is not a word on my tongue, But [she] knows it altogether.
But does she love, as we human beings understand the word? Her primary concern is her stomach, there is no doubt of that (she is half Labrador), but if I am distressed, crying, upset, she comes immediately to my side and leans in to me in a way I can only describe as empathic. And she has that strange canine sixth sense – she knows when I am on my way home (so those who look after her in my absence tell me). Her devotion is unconditional; her forgiveness and tolerance infinite.
Breathe on me breath of Dog…
But we can see that animals are capable of tenderness and care, if not of love. It is instinctive. Since early spring two pigeons on my fence sit, billing and cooing. Two horses on the Common groom each other. The herd moves in whenever anyone comes close to the foal born two weeks ago. And my dog is followed adoringly by the elderly dog of a friend, who (the dog) trots devotedly after her. Perhaps this is an anthropomorphism too far…
More death this month. The elderly Benedictine who was priest of the local Catholic parish, where once I worshipped, and was also a former Abbot of Downside has died. Tributes pour in to the “life of devotion and service”. But it brings up a question to which I have no answer. This man was named and shamed in the IICSA report on child sexual abuse in the Church (and particularly among the English Benedictine Congregation) as having turned a blind eye to the disturbing abuse within the monastic community.
Do the flaws of the past and the sins that are made public overshadow and destroy the legacy of the “lifetime of devotion”? Of course, sexual abuse is always utterly wrong, repellent, and often criminal, but – unlike other transgressions by those in the public eye – it elicits such an extreme response that not only is the name of the abuser blackened but so also is his entire professional career invalidated (along with the reputation of the institutions and individuals closely connected with the abuser). Those who are able to hold that there are both bad and good within the same person can often be vilified by association. Visiting a paedophile in prison can mean being ostracised by friends. There are people who cannot bear to look on any work by Eric Gill because he abused his daughters. And we forget that the vile Jimmy Savile raised millions for charity.
It is hard, sometimes impossible, and demands a high degree of moral maturity to hold the good with the bad at the same time. Monks and priests who abuse, yet maintain a “brilliant” public ministry, Jack Dominian, Jean Vanier…can we forgive these “wounded healers”?
It is a sombre question on which to end this midsummer chronicle. We must decide for ourselves.
In the meantime, I have ripe tomatoes (in June!), courgettes, broad beans, french beans, chard, onions, summer broccoli, cavolo nero, lettuce, beetroot, potatoes. Happy days!
