Ever Britannia

The world is richer and more meaningful than the most experienced traveler can hope to understand. I'm aware of this, and what follows is not a case for Britain and things British (or Celtic, or English, or Irish) being better than other countries or cultures. Nor do I mean to suggest that I am drawn to no other place; all over the world places and peoples have addressed my soul. Greece has a special place in my heart, as do Rome, Israel, the American West. There's something important to me about Scandinavia, the Amazon, Africa; New Zealand, Tibet, Andalusia, these are places I certainly want to travel to and through. These—and others—have been old loves or new, and often both. But there is something about the British Isles (to which I attach Ireland, Iona, Skye, and more) that has a unique place in the depths of me, and always has.

It's in everything from the accents to the history, from the literature to that special green of pastoral fields. It's in the music—the deeply familiar folk-tunes like Greensleeves or the soul-wrenching mournful Irish melodies, the assertive Highlands bagpipes and the lilting Welsh voices. It's in the indomitable spirit that etched a life from the barren but beautiful gray Glens, that fought against Romans, Anglo-Saxons, Danes, Normans, and handed even conquerors defeat by shaping them according to the soul of the land—the same indomitable spirit which unflinchingly and against all odds blunted the Nazi offensive. It's even in the place-names—Caerleon, Edinburgh, Iona, Oxford, Anglesey, Caledonia, Galway, Clare, Shannon—an outpouring of that mixture of cultures that formed, in the manner of a fugue, a blending together of distinct themes into the climactic world-shaping multi-culture that shaped the world, and me.

I am, I suppose, American. But what is America but an offshoot of that noble lineage, from Celt, to Roman, to Saxon, and onward…and properly, the prefix "Anglo-" should be added to those labels. For the Anglo-Celts differed in real and deep ways from the continental Celts, as the Anglo-Saxons (Anglo in the sense of the land, not the Angles) came to differ quite distinctly from the inhabitants of Saxony. In the same way, Anglo-Normans were not French, nor "Northmen." And so I am Anglo-American, in a real sense, shaped by the Isles I've spent far too little time in…shaped, in truth, from my earliest remembrances.

There is something British that shapes distinctly; and again, and for the rest of this musing, British does not mean specifically the political/cultural unit that is "The United Kingdom of Great Britain," though more power to them. I, in an action that will disturb proper historians and Irish alike, include things Irish and pre-Great Britain under the label "British" for efficiencies sake. Look to Ireland, and you'll see much the same process that results in a distinct but kindred spirit: the Anglo-Normans who settled rather forcibly in Ireland in the 13th century became nigh as Irish as the Gaels themselves. The Elizabethan English who came later found much the same fate, and it seems to be only the absentee landlords residing in England who held out against the Irishizing forces of the Emerald Isle—much to the sorrow of said Isle. The Protestant (mostly Scottish) settlers to the North—they are Irish, no matter their political loyalties or last names. And so it seems to me there is a powerful influencing force in the Isles that homogenizes the heterogeneous peoples of the British Isles. Drier and more cynical historians will call this romanticizing, but these are the historians who can't see the forest for the trees—who ignore realities in the face of popular skepticism.

When did Britannia begin her gentle, moulding influence on me? I think it's safe to say some of it began before my birth; three of my four grandparents carried Scottish last names, and the remaining one owned a generic British name that I carry as well. It's in my blood, from my kilt-owning grandfather to my genetically-derived brooding black Irish personality. From birth, however, the influence only increased. Some of it was subtle, some of it was blatant. My favorite movie for many of my single-digit years was Robin Hood, and my favorite story was probably the Arthurian legend; and I dreamt of both Cross-clad Templars and blue-painted Picts. I enjoyed the accents of Sean Connery and Patrick Stewart, without even thinking of their origins. I loved the Chronicles of Narnia—and though in first grade when I stumbled graciously across them I didn't think past the story to its author or even much about the Englishness of the children, Britishness was definitely woven into the tale and continued its work on me. Louis L'amour's Sackett series struck a resounding note inside of me, and though the setting was largely American, the context was primarily British. Then there were Mary Stewart and T.H. White and their quite different Arthurian legends. Tolkien picked up where the earlier writers of Britain left off, joined in time by Sir Walter Scott, Rudyard Kipling, Robert Louis Stevenson, and the Romantic Poets. TV shows like Highlander and old movies entertained me probably more than their merits would demand, and even pictures of Highland Glens and lake-rimmed forgotten castles moved me strongly.

When I began to think on such things (probably too early in my life) I tended to favour the British in the American Revolution. Something about the lack of loyalty to the Old Country bothered me (and still does) and I never heard a convincing reason why war should have been declared. But it's not so much for the rational tension, but the emotional attachment, that part of me would have like for us to remain a part of the British Empire. When studying WWI and WWII, the tenacity of the British impressed me somewhat more than the resources of the Americans. But I've always seen Britain in America; in little things like the forgotten influence of the Scotch-Irish accent on Southern speech mannerisms, the fiddle-driven music of Appalachia, and the place names; as well as the more important elements like the Christian heritage, the ingenuity, the determination to be involved in world affairs. The similarities of the Declaration of Arbroath and the Declaration of Independence are not taught enough, and neither is the common origin of the American and the British legal systems.

For a while, I focused chiefly on my Scottish heritage together with the pull Ireland had on me; Braveheart stirred me and brought clearly before my eyes my Wallace heritage, and the book Captains and the Kings pushed me permanently over onto the Irish side of their troubles with England. Reading Stephen R. Lawhead reinforced my Celtic preference. I'm still a Celtophile at heart, although I embrace more consciously now the influences Englishness had on me, and the inherent value in it. Scotland, however, remains what is most "home" about Britain—for now, at least.

I remember my first trip to Scotland; a mere month's stay in the summer before my senior year of high school. After a recognized love of things Scottish and Celtic and "Highlander," I rightly knew that my trips into the Highlands would stir a feeling of homecoming within me. I expected rather less from the town wherein I would pass most of my days—the lovely little seaside university town of St Andrews. I expected to enjoy, appreciate, like it, but it wasn't what I identified "Scotland" with. Nevertheless, my first overpowering feeling of being home did not occur visiting the Highlands or a crumbling castle, but instead came upon me one of my first days in St Andrews. I remember walking through an alleyway, a tight corridor of gray and rough-cut stone, and seeing a small garden outside the window of a quite British looking house…and that's all it took. Nothing grand, or noteworthy, or even unique; just something simple and British, and I knew part of me belonged. That's not to say that the feeling was not repeated upon Highland hill or coast-clinging castle, but it showed me how deeply this intangible and vague "Britishness" was a part of me. It was not a tourist's wonder at the magnificent, nor even a traveller's appreciation for the unique, but a man's familiarity with a place he belongs.

C. S. Lewis has, perhaps, been the most influential figure on my intellectual growth. I see in his writings the manner of thinking I believe God intended for me to exhibit, as well as an openness, a resoluteness, a genuine love, and a deep appreciation for myth and old ways and certain values that I was made to develop. The Chronicles deserve a certain primacy of place as my introduction to the man and what he values—and an understanding of the loving and sovereign touch of God upon His world that is woven throughout everything Lewis wrote. Mere Christianity offers a certain "completeness," while the Screwtape Letters might have been the book that led to me continuing to open up Lewis books. The Great Divorce is wonderfully fresh and deep and real, and the Weight of Glory is a recent blessing. Lewis's Space Trilogy presented me with a much needed insight into Adam and Eve, as well as providing in That Hideous Strength one of my absolute favorite books of all time. But it's not just his deeply feeling wisdom or rich Christianity that draws me…his Englishness does as well. The scene of meeting with Tolkien and Charles Williams within the Eagle and Child Pub in Oxford (a lovely and quite small pub with a lasting feel about the place) and discussing ideas, or the image of taking brisk but unhurried walks throughout Oxford or the English countryside, these resonate strongly with me.

My year at St Andrews University could be the subject of many journalings itself, but suffice it to say here that it made Britain's influence on me ever more real; not only did I live in Scotland and soak with its rain and chill with its wind, but I met Scot and Englishman and Irishman, again and again and again. I ate in the homes of British people; bangers, neeps, and tatties in a Scottish reverend's house, Irish stew made by a Northern Irish friend's mother, English pub food at the Eagle and Child. I traveled in Germany and Poland and Italy as well, but it was always going "out"—and not just because I was leaving my residence; I was traveling away from home into the rest of the world. I still miss and remember vividly things from my year in Scotland; walking upon North Street or the Scores, sitting on the shore of the North Sea, and little things like how the library was set up and how the St Andrews coffee shops smelled.

Recently, reading "A Severe Mercy" has reinvigorated and expanded my feelings for Britain. The author, Sheldon Vanauken, reminds me deeply of myself; I've seen in CS Lewis a model for how I was made to think and a man who valued what I value. In Vanauken, I see a man who felt like I feel, even from our childhoods; who has the same deeply held convictions about love and beauty, literature and family, home and travel. Vanauken, like me, was born in the US. He, also, knew from an early age that Britain was a part of him. It's tempting to go into the wonderful and challenging things I got from reading "A Severe Mercy," but I'll stick with how it applies to my fascination with Britain. Vanauken's time in Oxford renewed my desire to spend large quantities of time there; his words highlight how special and unique a place it is, how utterly appropriate it is for my mind and sentiments.

And so, partially due to reading "A Severe Mercy," but more so due to other, lifelong factors, my old desire to study (again) in Britain is becoming more unavoidable. Maybe it's to be reading History or Theology at Oxford, or returning to St Andrews to study International Relations or Divinity and Theology…but either seems more appropriate, and even more likely right now, than law school in the US. So, once again, I'm brought to a strong fascination for Britannia—the birthplace of so much history, poetry, literature, ideas, and of so many heroes, travelers, churchmen. Who can not love it?