With a Reddish Tinge

Was driving back from the Cotswold’s this evening, enjoying being chauffeured around in my cousin’s new business expense, a Jag, when we hit the turnback at Fish Hill. Cut to the top, and as we reached the crest I had a quick view out over the vale of Evesham. Looking out as the sun finally broke through the clouds on the horizon, an idyllic panoramic view sweeping away from me into the valley, and there, running perpendicular to us down a hill, with the farm buildings in the background, was a perfectly trimmed, russet-coloured hedgerow, bounding the edges of the fields. And I thought to myself, ‘God, I love the world.’ Then was immediately puzzled as to why I’d have such a strong surge of emotion at so commonplace a vision.

Aditionally, the exclaiming of this to God seemed bizarre, for a couple of reasons. Firstly, because our God is lacking one crucial element that contributes mightily to his ability to hear my exaltations. Namely, his existence. While the second point is rendered moot by the first. But after this sudden roadblock in my thought, I next wondered why I’d suddenly decided to love the world. What does an English hedgerow have to do with anything really? On an immediate, shallow level I decided, well, nothing. So then at this point, I decided to ignore myself and chat with my cousin about Jools Holland, who I know fuck all about, but at least he keeps me entertained. ‘Don’t fall in love with everyone you see,’ sang Okkervil River to me. Sound advice. Amen. And don’t fall in love with the world everytime you see a trimmed russet hedge. Or do.

It’s all the same to me.