October 2021 | Interview with Bruce Garrard, Author of ‘The River — An exploration of a disconnected river; the Brue and Axe in Somerset’

I spent a summer planning a walk from the source in the Mendip Hills, down to Glastonbury and across the Somerset Levels where the Brue used to flow, then following the River Axe to the sea. It’s very important to know which side of a river to walk along; whether you’ll be on a path or encountering barbed wire fences. So, I walked sections of the river with groups of friends, and the following year, I was ready to walk the whole route. It took me five days. One of the footpaths, near Bruton, goes through a private estate. I just decided to walk through (though I was vague about this in my book, which I published locally!).
 
The book is in two parts. Both were a practice in Witnessing. The first part of the book is a description of that 5-day walk—what I felt, saw, thought.  The second is a history of the River Brue and how it became two rivers. I did my best to describe the history without making judgements. This was hardest for the post-World War II era, especially the ’70s and ’80s when many important issues came up – and there were farmers burning effigies of environmentalists because they felt the environmentalists were interfering and making life difficult.
 
I next wrote a story about the Celtic period before and during the Saxon invasion. Celtic culture had recently re-established itself after the Romans had withdrawn. My second book related to the river, Petroc of Glastonbury, was also my attempt at re-imagining through feelings, and in that sense belongs to Grieving.
 
The third book, Conversations with the River Spirit, was born by visiting the river regularly with a camera and notebook for a period of a year. It wasn’t in itself about prayer, though perhaps it is a prayer.

Finally, I  carried out a project by opening an office and shop in Glastonbury, to raise awareness of the local river and other ecological issues. I put up a big sign, The River Brue Rehabilitation Board, which caught the eye and at first sight gave the impression that it was some sort of official body. This was to be the fourth point, Action. Three months into the project, suddenly we were locked down.
 
During that time, the Brazilian writer Antônio Bivar, who was a dear friend, died in São Paolo from Covid. I ended up translating some of his work – we had met fifty years ago and his writing describes his meeting with us in Salisbury, Wiltshire, as a bunch of young hippies, and his travels in Europe. He’d left the first draft of his book, Verdes Vales do Fim do Mundo, with me. As part of the process, I made contact with a former girlfriend who also had a close connection with him. I’m still working out my responses to his death. It brought up deep feelings. (Grieving again!)
 
The simple sign, The River Brue Rehabilitation Board, drew in people, including several who used to go fishing in the river as teenagers and now find there are hardly any fish. A biologist came in who was experienced at checking out the state of rivers and was willing to volunteer. Somewhat embarrassed, I explained that the project was only me, and on my own, all I could do was attempt to raise people’s awareness. 
 
Thinking about a fourth book, the threads are now gradually coming together. I wrote a series of articles for a local journal about climate change and the ecological emergency from a spiritual point of view, and these I am planning to include. I covered Jem Bendell’s deep adaptation; how the Coronavirus and eco-crisis are two parts of the same situation;‘What’s Good for the Land, is Good for the People’; and ‘Rewilding the River Brue’. I realised that intellectually the rewilding isn’t currently a practical political proposition, but it’s where my heart is. I had asked the River, right at the beginning, if it was a good idea to write about it in this way, and she responded, “Yes, but write from your heart!” This was confirmed by indigenous writers I’ve read – I’ve also been influenced by indigenous writers and speakers including Robin Wall Kimmerer, Sherri Mitchell, and Ilarion Merculieff.

In April 2020 it was the fiftieth anniversary of the first Earth Day and I read an Emergence Magazine article about it (What Difference Does a Day Make? Earth Day at Fifty by Paul Elie). During the lockdown almost everything had stopped; traffic was noticeably reduced, there were hardly any planes flying, and so on, whilst wildlife thrived. This led to the extraordinary and uncomfortable fact that the temporary cessation of full-scale industrial production had done more good for the Earth than fifty years of environmental campaigning. The article suggested that we could decide to do nothing as a regular practice, which to me seemed like a very interesting idea. 
 
On the back cover of The River, I describe the separation of the river. For me, it became more and more symbolic of the separation we’re all suffering from. The separation happened over two hundred years between the 11^th and 13^th centuries. It was part of the aftermath of the Norman invasion. Glastonbury Abbey was the primary landowner in the area and it created additional waterways to facilitate commerce – rivers were the main form of transport at that time. No one consciously decided to cut the river in half. The consciousness that created this situation was the same consciousness that meant being separated from the land, from each other, and from ourselves. Diverting the waters of the river had the effect over time of drying up the old River Brue.
 
The Somerset Levels used to be marshland. They changed a lot during this period of history in ways that have become even more obvious in the last couple of centuries. The marshes were known as ‘waste’ by medieval landowners, and there was a growing assumption that it was good to pump it dry and turn it into viable farmland. The idea of restoring the wetlands runs very counter to that assumption.

There were seven islands in the Somerset Levels. On a map, they form a figure very similar to the Plow or Great Bear. The islands were Avalon (Glastonbury Tor is located there); Beckery (a pre-historic burial site); Meare; Godney (God’s island); Panborough (contains Barrow Hill, another pre-historic burial site); Martinsey, also known as Marchey (St. Martin was the patron saint of drunkards and sobriety. Martinsey had been the site of a Roman temple to Bacchus). It was located roughly where the River Axe joined the River Brue. And Andrewsey (now known as Nyland) which is a striking conical hill.   
 
I asked Bruce if he would share a story from ‘The River’. He kindly consented. (He tells this story in a much fuller and more intelligible way in the book.)
 
The Peace of Wedmore.
 
After Wessex was invaded in 878 by Guthrum, the Danish king of East Anglia, King Alfred retreated to the Isle of Athelney in the Somerset marshes. After some months of preparation, he gathered his soldiers from Somerset, Wiltshire, and Dorset, the three counties that happen to meet close to the source of the River Brue. He defeated the Danes at the battle of Ethandun and captured King Guthrum. Alfred then did this extraordinary thing and let him go when he agreed to become a Christian and to become his godson. Alfred sailed with him down the River Parrett to the sea and then up the River Axe to Wedmore, where he had a royal manor. There he entertained King Guthrum, who adopted the (Christian) name of Athelstan.  
 
The Peace of Wedmore was far more effective than others of that era, and for a generation, life was relatively peaceful. It was a remarkable achievement. Alfred was the fourth son and had no ambition or expectation of becoming king – he was more interested in art and culture. But his three older brothers, in those turbulent times, had all died in battle. Alfred had a very wise advisor, the Welsh bishop Asser. His kingdom, Wessex, was the only one in Britain never to be taken over by the Danes, and following these events, it became the basis of the English nation.

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October Butterfly

 

 

Far-flung butterfly

     fanning yourself on a mound

in a patch of October sun,

     those orange black-dotted

wings have spun and spun

     through summer months.

Is your harvesting done?

 

Swaying bay branches 

     barely hint at your bright

bursts of flight, when

     for turn of speed I

could only glimpse you

     sparely lighting on

some leaf or flower.

 

Your dark, still center

     as motionless

as the fulcrum

     of a fan. One step closer

and you’re off again whirling—

     now and now

all that counts.

 

 

Raphael Block