Stonehenge, Big Roads and Heritage Process

Plans were announced by the UK Government in January 2017 to spend £1.4billion on building a large tunnel so that the major A303 trunk road can be put underneath the Stonehenge landscape. According to the National Trust and Historic England, the continuing presence of the road spoils the setting of the site, and so the tunnel will ‘improve our understanding and enjoyment’ of Stonehenge World Heritage landscape. Dan Hicks, of the Pitt Rivers Museum and School of Archaeology in Oxford has written an excellent commentary on the episode in the online Conversation (http:/theconversation.com), entitled “Archaeologist: the A303 is a crucial part of Stonehenge’s setting”. Although the title of Dan’s piece gives away his basic point of view(!), I feel it is worth reflecting upon and developing a little further here, since it strikes me that the episode chimes with so many crucial elements of present day heritage management – and identity politics in the UK.

stonehenge-tunnell-eh

Bouncing off Jacquetta Hawkes’ phrase that “Every age has the Stonehenge it deserves – or desires”, Dan Hicks charts the conceit of seeking to ‘preserve’ Stonehenge as an ‘authentic ancient monument’ by tunneling a dual carriageway under it; the fabrication and management of the illusion of an unchanging Neolithic relic. Stonehenge has been built, re-built, viewed, ignored and/or engaged with for at least five millennia. Developing this idea of Stonehenge having an on-going biography – or life history – Dan Hicks likens the present attempt to conceal the ‘modernity’ of the big road to a revival of Georgian aesthetics, whereby landscapes are curated by the scraping away of present day ‘eyesores’, in order to allow cultured elites to stroll through an ‘authentic’ landscape of artful charade.

image-0065This line of thinking reminds me of the biography of nearby Avebury (within the same World Heritage Site). From the 1930s to the 1950s the wealthy amateur archaeologist and marmalade magnate, Alexander Keiller, oversaw the scraping away of much of the old village of Avebury, the wholesale remodeling of the landscape, and repositioning of the stones, in order to create an uncluttered ‘Neolithic’ landscape, fit for the nation – and fit to become, ultimately, a World Heritage Site. Medieval buildings were demolished and many stones were re-erected to create a fittingly ‘national’ monumental landscape.

Avebury and Stonehenge are thoroughly modern landscapes, reflecting the hopes, desires and dreams of the present day, and it would be a hypocritical confection to pretend otherwise. According to Hicks: “Today, it is Stonehenge’s modernity that is under threat from a narrow vision of the past” – and so we need to make space for the story of the A303, rather than airbrush it out of the picture. In his Conversation piece, however, Dan Hicks goes a little further than this, implying an important divergence from the situation at Avebury.

Alexander Keiller’s never-fully-realised plans at Avebury, certainly saw the remodeled monument as a carefully curated national landscape, but it was very much a ‘public space’ – albeit with lots of interpretation boards and signage to moderate and control pubic behavior. In many ways, the equivalent development at Stonehenge, akin to Keiller’s vision, was that of Cecil Chubb who, in the early 20th century bought it and presented it to the nation. The site was ‘cleaned up’, with several stones re-erected, to become a favourite picnic spot for motorists on the nearby A303. This was the Stonehenge that I first visited in the 1970s; thermos flask and cups of tea laid out on one of the stones. Cecil Chubb’s gifting of Stonehenge came with the demands that no other building ever be erected on/close to the site, and that the stones should be maintained as far as possible in their present condition – it all chimes with an ambition for the site to be understood as an unchanging monument set within the neatly cut grass sward of the specifically ‘English’ countryside. However, Chubb also stipulated that ‘the public shall have free access’, although Chubb did allow for a ‘reasonable sum, not exceeding one shilling’ to be charged, presumably to cover the costs of cutting all that grass.

The £15.50 entrance fee for visiting Stonehenge, together with the practice of sealing the actual stones off from the public, represents what Dan Hicks argues to be an increasing restriction of access at Stonehenge. This is no longer a ‘public space’. I get this point – that the momentary view of the stone through a car window, as you speed past on the A303, while not necessarily the aesthetic view that might be shown on a tasteful postcard is, nevertheless, a thoroughly democratic view. I haven’t actually ‘visited’ Stonehenge for 30 or more years, but I have ‘kept an eye on it’, during regular car journeys; I have maintained a direct relationship with the site without ever needing to pay an entrance fee.

On the one hand, these recent developments make you reflect on all the other public spaces that are being ‘privatised’; pedestrianized shopping centres that are now patrolled by private security firms, or World Heritage Sites such as St Augustine’s Abbey in Canterbury, set amid a parkland that (according to an ivy-covered plaque) was ‘presented to the citizens of Canterbury’ as recently as 1977, but now only accessible through payment of £5:80. On the other hand, however, is a story of how singular (and often overtly ‘national’) ‘heritage management practices’, have themselves sidelined or obliterated alternative heritage narratives. The singularly most striking example that I can think of for this, is the Meadows at Runnymede, next to the River Thames just west of London.

As the site of the signing of the Magna Carta, Runnymede has a central place in any heritage narrative of democratic freedom. Not surprisingly, perhaps, as the ‘Birthplace of Democracy’, Runnymede has become a ‘monumental landscape’; a setting within which several monuments and memorial features can be visited; several monuments to the actual signing of the Magna Carta, as well as monuments to John F Kennedy, and the Air Forces Memorial, dedicated to dead RAF service personnel. It is – still – a ‘public space’, to be visited freely. But in laying out the national monumental landscape in the 1930s, the National Trust actively extinguished a whole range of local commoners’ rights. At Stonehenge, it is the every-day and slightly banal or mundane heritage of catching a glimpse of the stones from a passing car, which is removed from the public orbit. At Runnymede, there is a deep sense of irony, that it is the public rights of the Commons, which were over-ridden by the need to set out a suitably monumental national landscape! The public can still visit (and, unlike at Stonehenge, there is no £15:50 fee), but the terms on which the visit takes place is now that of the nation. The mundane and ever-day relationship between people and the landscape – the ‘right’ to be present – has been extinguished, as a relationship is re-forged and mediated through an official discourse related to a distinctly national story.

stone-runnymede2Back at Stonehenge, I am reminded of something I wrote back in 2006 (a chapter entitled ‘Landscape as Heritage’, in RJP Kain’s England’s Landscape the South West, published by English Heritage), when pondering the question of which landscape best represents the ‘essential landscape’ of the South West, I came up with the A30 trunk road (which is, essentially, the continuation of the A303, which passes Stonehenge, further up-country). “If we try to be honest about the aspects of the present-day landscape that the people of the future will remember us for, then the A30 would be a very good example. Today, the road provides an axis and backbone to the region, and is a symbol of the region …. [memories of sitting in traffic jams, and glimpsing the countryside as you go] is a far more meaningful memory to preserve than the typical picture-postcard images … the road network (love it or hate it) is surely among the most enduring symbols of early 21st century life”. I remember that, at the time, some of the bigwigs at English Heritage were quite angry that I had suggested this trunk road as the key item of heritage in the South West, but Roger Kain, the editor, stuck by me. Just as Dan Hicks has said that the A303 is a crucial part of Stonehenge’s setting, then the A303/A30 provides a crucial way in to understanding ongoing heritage processes, and will be a central part of what will become the future past.

Breaking Down Boundaries with Heritage in Belfast: a Titanic fix?

I visited Belfast last weekend for the first time in about 10 years – a beautiful couple of lovely sunny days. Having first visited the city in 1990, my visit last week gave a good opportunity to reflect on all the changes that have happened. A period of 27 years is quite a time to witness change in any city, but what with the formal ending of ‘The Troubles’, the Good Friday Agreement, and the Northern Ireland Assembly (albeit presently suspended), Belfast has witnessed more significant change than most. No more soldiers on street patrol, no more military (or paramilitary) checkpoints, no more combat helicopters. I walked towards the Falls Road, strangely disorientated by the lack of the Divis Flats, with its army fort keeping watch from the top stories. There are, of course, plenty of signs of the past conflict – and plenty of evidence of a continuing division between communities within the city, but what role does heritage play in this story – and what role might it play?

In many ways, a dominant narrative strand of the conflict was always about competing heritages; of two distinct communities, each with a powerful set of heritage stories that solidified an identity politics that seemed to be cast in stone. Much of these heritages remain as strong as ever, and continue to be expressed and broadcast through that most characteristic feature of the urban landscape of Belfast; the mural.

This is a heritage that requires constant attention; painted and repainted, renewed and touched up countless times over the years, many of these murals seem to have endured in aspic since my first visit 27 years ago. Constant presences, preserved through an almost ritualized process of renewal, shiningly brand new-and-immemorial. Most of the motifs haven’t changed a great deal over the years: in Republican areas, an appeal to an internationalist ‘freedom fighter’ connection, alongside a memorialization of hunger strike martyrs, the heroes of the 1916 Easter Uprising, civilian victims, and soldiers in the struggle, often conveyed with Gaelic script and nodding to Celtic and Irish legend.

In Loyalist areas, a sense of defiant ‘no surrender’ siege mentality of ‘ourselves alone’, alongside a memorialization of First World War bravery against the odds, through which futile death somehow found meaning through a century of memory work, and all conveyed in strikingly repetitive red, white and blue.

Love them, or loathe them, these murals seem to be a vital feature of the city, both in the sense of being a constant presence in the life of communities, and also as a central feature in the city’s ‘tourist offer’. Visitors to Belfast expect to see these murals; they go on tours, take photos and selfies. The ‘city divided’ seems to be a crucial aspect of what Belfast is, and so one could argue that the nurturing of heritage is a ‘problem’, holding back processes of reconciliation. Preserving the heritage of Belfast, seems to require the preservation of at least the outward emblems of conflict. Belfast is a city that seems to be united in its adherence to a heritage of division. One of the biggest changes that I noticed on my trip to Belfast last week, however, was the development of a new heritage story; Belfast as the home city of the Titanic.

In some ways, it might seem a little odd, to base a heritage story around a big ship that people only know as the unsinkable ship that sank: Iceberg, Dead Ahead! The Titanic story, however, is a story that has immediate and global recognition, so why not!?

A lot of resources have been ploughed in to the Titanic project in Belfast; the city has a ‘Titanic Quarter’, the centerpiece of which is a huge and excellent museum. This museum seeks to tell a story of how ‘the city of Belfast came together to build the world’s largest passenger liner’ at the city’s Harland & Wolff Shipyard. That tagline of togetherness is repeated often, and supported through some really engaging and innovative methods of museum display. I particularly liked the section on riveting; the process through which gangs of men constructed the enormous iron hull. The displays don’t exactly shy away from the city’s identity politics of Republicans and Loyalists, though I didn’t see that much critical examination of Harland & Wolff’s employment practices, which meant that Titanic workforce was almost entirely from the Unionist-Loyalist and Protestant side of the city (see: http://www.irishcentral.com/news/did-anti-catholic-sentiment-of-titanic-workforce-help-doom-the-unsinkable-ship-147293105-237441311)

One thing that I found particularly interesting, however, was the way that considerable efforts have been made to connect the Titanic heritage to the tradition of mural painting. It strikes me that this is an example of how the enduring heritage of mural making within the city can be tapped into, perhaps re-purposed – even ‘hi-jacked’ – away from the celebration of Republican-Loyalist difference, and towards a heritage story of togetherness and peaceful co-habitation.

I get the point of this. Indeed, I would strongly support the sentiment – it is a great example of how ‘heritage’ can be used to change things; this is a heritage that can engage. From some of the labels and notes around the new murals, these activities seem to be the result of a very conscious practice of ‘re-imaging’ – a re-working of heritage practice for the sake of casting a more positive sense of ‘prospective memory’.

belfast-newtonards-road-ballet

I can’t help thinking that some of the images look, well, a bit cheesy; like an aspirational mission statement designed by a particularly keen and trendy head teacher in a school that has recently been in ‘special measures’. … but, of course, Belfast has been in ‘special measures’ for a long time, so I think the re-imaging – or heritage re-imagining – activity is a really good thing. I don’t know the detail of how the individual murals came about, who painted them, or how local people view them (but see here for some detail: http://jamiebaird.squarespace.com/northterminal/2015/2/26/evolution-of-murals-in-east-belfast). Whatever the circumstances of their production, however, it strikes me that the key issue is whether there is the means that will make them endure, through the constant maintenance that will be needed to keep them there for forty years and more.

belfast-war-to-peace

 

Celebrating Boundaries and the Heritage of Distinction (Part 3): a bit of hygge would be ‘nice’….

Alongside the more predictable (and depressing) words and phrases of the year in 2016, such as ‘Brexit’, ‘post-truth’ and ‘alt-right’, was the much more positive-sounding Danish-Norwegian word hygge.

With very little hint of irony, this supposedly untranslatable Danish word was explained, described, examined and otherwise deployed again and again as the year wore on. The subject of many articles in Sunday newspaper lifestyle supplements and consumer magazines, and often illustrated through pictures of candles, wooly jumpers and beautifully presented open sandwiches, hygge tended to be translated as ‘something like a sense of coziness’. The authors and others doing the describing had always to underline the inexact nature of their translation since one of the key attributes of hygge is that it is ‘untranslatable’. Another of the key attributes of hygge is that it should be understood as a state that just ‘is’ – there is no sure-fire means of achieving it, and any blueprint for reaching a state of hygge would be an oxymoronic exercise. That certainly didn’t stop anyone trying, however, and as Christmas neared whole displays of self-help hygge instruction and lifestyle books appeared in bookstores across the land!

hygge-book-display

So far, so … normal and predictable, then?! There doesn’t appear to be much of ‘geographies of heritage’ interest here. Or is there….?

I am always suspicious when a word that is indicating a situation, an attitude or state psychological wellbeing is so easily related to a sense of nationhood, or supposedly natural character. Wikipedia suggests that hygge has a ‘unique definition’, but what does that mean? Surely any and every word can have a ‘unique definition’? Indeed, if I were being a bit naughty, I might put forward the English word nice as an untranslatable word with a unique definition, to be deployed both when something is liked or disliked, often used simply to fill a gap in a sentence, and probably only to be understood in the context of who is saying it and in which situation. But perhaps I shouldn’t over-think these things? After-all hygge is such a warm and glowing word, and is usually deployed in a manner that is as positive as it is sincere. It sometimes seems that 2016 brought precious little joy to the world, so we should cherish hygge as a word-of-the-year to be celebrated, in its suggestion of coziness and companionship that sometimes seemed to be in short supply.

 

hygge-book1

This happy acceptance of the word was fine for a while, but what I cannot quite rid myself of, however, is the implicit suggestion that the untranslatability of hygge might be used to create boundaries. And sure enough, when I was in Denmark in the Autumn an article appeared in the Danish newspaper Politiken, which included some interviews with supporters of the Danish People’s Party: hygge was Danish – and understanding it, and even doing it ‘correctly’ was in the preserve of the Danes. Immigrants to Denmark cannot have hygge because they are not Danish.

 

You need to be ‘Danish’ in order to understand what hygge really meant. The word is not just ‘untranslatable’, but is also unavailable to anyone but true Danes. Indeed, it can be deployed in a fashion that leaves it hanging out in front of you – as something wonderful, but forever out of reach. All of a sudden, the self-help guides seem to have a much more sinister overtone – manuals that carefully and lovingly describe how the reader can never be ‘Danish’.

As we approached Christmas, a very good article by Charlotte Higgins in the Guardian, added some further depth to the issue:

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2016/nov/22/hygge-conspiracy-denmark-cosiness-trend

It is through these means that hygge can become a device for marking distinction; of insider and outsider – of citizen and non-citizen. And since hygge is essentialised as ‘untranslatable’, then it can act as a social code that is forever out of reach for certain people. It would be overtly racist (and probably illegal) to cast non-Danes as explicitly ‘inferior beings’, but the deployment of hygge can perhaps sometimes herald a more subtle form of exclusion.

 

hygge-book2

 

Of course, the word hygge does not automatically contain any active sense of exclusion. Indeed, I would say that any attempt to use the word in that manner would be uhyggelig – ‘un-cozy’! But for this openness to be apparent requires an acceptance that what hygge means remains equally ‘untranslatable’ for everyone, and unhooked from any national stereotype, rather than as something that requires arbitration. If that were the case, then hygge would certainly be nice.

 

hygge-book3

 

 

Celebrating Boundaries and the Heritage of Distinction (part 2)

So – following on from my last post – how is the heritage of boundaries underscored and celebrated, particularly in ways that, at first sight, seem to be totally innocuous? How can a joyful and even positive-sounding sense of distinct cultural heritage get bound up and entangled within the politics of exclusion?

Sometimes these things can emerge as a by-product of an un-thought-through celebration of all things local. This is not a new idea, but I still find it startling how easy it is for unexamined ‘cherished local heritage’ to gloss over some really nasty implications. I have published on how a seemingly jolly piece of local heritage community performance activity can, even inadvertently, become a magnet and focus of racism (see Harvey 2015 http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/full/10.1080/13527258.2014.955812). On a national scale, one can often find traces of boundary-marking sentiment in most national museums, as (often singular) narratives of national struggle and achievement are displayed. My blog post from May 2016, outlined the competition between Denmark and Norway to claim ‘Viking Heritage’ as an inalienable part of the story that cements Danish and Norwegian nationhood, residing in defined boundaries. But I think that it is often the more banal, every-day, and popularly generated (as opposed to State-led and institutional) initiatives that often get ignored, but which can often be more influential.

A couple of weeks ago, the Boundary Commission in the UK published a report that recommended a radical overhaul of Parliamentary Constituencies across the UK. In order to reduce the number of MPs and meet strict guidelines about the demographics of each constituency in the South West of Britain, the Commission has proposed a new constituency that stretches across the county boundary of Devon and Cornwall. Unsurprisingly, this has yielded a lot of criticism, especially from people in Cornwall who feel that the distinctive cultural heritage of the county would be underlined by such official disregard of the (supposedly) ancient boundary of a Cornish nation.

“The people of Cornwall have fought long and hard to preserve their sense of identity”, a resident of Launceston has been quoted as saying – implying that the ‘The People of Cornwall’ neatly correspond to a singular identity, which is stable and unchanging, separate and most definitely bounded. I am not totally convinced that the boundary of a Parliamentary constituency is a make or break ingredient of there being an expressed sense of ‘Cornishness’. After all, the St Loyes suburb of Exeter was recently re-located out of the Parliamentary constituency of Exeter and placed in East Devon, but I expect most residents of St Loyes will still say they live in (and identify with) Exeter. But maybe this is a thin end of a wedge – and one that seems to run roughshod over recently acknowledged status of ethnic distinction that Cornwall now has within European legislation.

The idea of there being a distinct Cornish identity is certainly widely accepted, but where should a boundary to this identity lie – and should there be a boundary anyway? Looking at the historical evidence, there is a strong case for saying that the boundary between something called Cornwall, and something called England, should perhaps be much further to the east, with what-is-now Devon being included within a greater Dumnonia. On the other hand, if you take the place-name evidence seriously, then much of this north-eastern part of Cornwall, around Stratton and Kilkhampton, should perhaps really be in Devon! And in terms of the roll that Parliamentary constituencies are supposed to fulfill, then there is a strong case for saying that the small (Devon) towns of Holsworthy, Bideford and Hatherleigh together with their fairly isolated rural hinterlands have a good deal in common with the (Cornish) towns of Launceston and Bude.

But that is not the point: following the work of the Finnish geographer Anssi Paasi, we have to recognise and acknowledge the tremendous symbolic power of territorial shape. Supposed factual detail doesn’t matter – the idea that the border between Devon and Cornwall lies along the River Tamar has popular currency of near essential proportions. It is difficult to challenge this. Furthermore, there is a very real concern over the so-called ‘Devonwall’ syndrome – that the people of Cornwall are marginalised by always being attached to Devon as a secondary partner. Whether the issue is of Higher Education, of landscape or heritage management, or of policing, it seems that Cornwall doesn’t warrant any separate status, but must always be attached to a larger authority, which inevitably has its headquarters outside the county – often in Exeter in Devon. Sometimes – as with the maintenance (so far) of the Cornwall Fire Brigade – attempts to foster ‘Devonwall’ can be staved off, but there is a very real danger of a fairly marginalised region such as Cornwall becoming even more marginalised, and cast outside of decision-making processes as a result of always being linked to Devon.

This active process of marginalisation points strongly towards some important political-economic issues of inequality and governmentality. Cornwall’s popularity as a tourist destination and holiday-home location has led to it having a relatively high cost of living (especially housing), but with low wages and poor quality job opportunities alongside what are often poor services (whether it be broadband connectivity or social and educational services). People in Cornwall are relatively poorer, less healthy and more disadvantaged than further up country. ‘Devonwall’ exacerbates this cycle of inequality and marginalisation, and so partly explains the efficacy of supporting a call for Cornwall to be treated as different, and requiring some special measures in order to overcome the difficulties. But does the proclamation of a distinct Cornwall, founded upon an essentially separate, historically deep and bounded cultural heritage actually help the cause? I would argue that it often does not help; it gets in the way and – potentially worse – it seems to answer questions or even suggest a panacea, rather than actually address issues of inequality and disadvantage.

Issues of peripherality can be glossed over because a separate and bounded heritage provides the stable and essential answers. Indeed, potential commonality between the small towns of east Cornwall and the peripheral areas of NW Devon are ignored, while the very real economic differences and prospects between different towns in Cornwall – between (say) St Ives and Redruth; or Fowey and St Austell – are glossed over as they are all lumped together as being The People of Cornwall, distinct from the People over there.

parking-for-locals

“Cornwall is passionate about its own identity … the Cornish are very aware of their separateness. It’s in the blood”, proclaims another commentator of the Parliamentary boundary commission recommendation. Cornwall is cast as a sentient and singular entity; no room for hybridity, for fluidity, for difference. Indeed, no room even for a heritage of migration and diaspora. The proclamation that Cornish identity is ‘in the blood’, buys in to some troubling Victorian views on race theory and suggests a natural exclusion of people with the wrong blood. What is worse, is that it sidesteps all of the crucial issues of economic marginalisation and political dependency. Peripherality almost becomes a virtue, to be enjoyed by weekend holiday home owners – and the very real problems of health and social inequality can be safely ignored.

To return more directly to the theme of the celebration of boundaries through heritage, leading figures within the Cornish nationalist movement are rightly proud of Cornwall being officially recognised by the European Union as a distinct national minority. But I am frightened by a Europe that celebrates cultural diversity if cultural distinction is always couched in terms of being made up of a mosaic (or patchwork quilt) of unique (and essentially unchanging/unchangeable) units. On the one hand, we should seek to get beyond some of the cosy narratives of essentialised heritage distinction and challenge differences, where there seem to be unjustifiable distinctions in wealth, health and opportunity. On the other hand, where appropriate we should be celebrating difference, recognising that we live in a hybrid and dynamically changing world – certainly recognising that there are differences between groups of people, but that all these differences are made up of blends. We have a responsibility to protect the rights of people to be different, even – or especially – when they are on the inside of bounded territorial containers.

Celebrating Boundaries and the Heritage of Distinction (part 1)

 

It is easy to put it down simply to “post-Brexit blues”, but the celebration of boundaries seems to have an enduring appeal, both to people in these islands and in Europe more broadly. The popular refrain that tends to accompany such narratives usually relies heavily on an expressed sense of ‘heritage’ … We are totally different to the people over there; we require ‘our sovereignty’, the inalienability of which is based upon a distinct ‘heritage’; the people over there should not come over here; these boundaries are sacred and unquestionable; these boundaries are our heritage and must be preserved.

Witnessing the Migration Crisis in recent years – how the issue is (not) engaged with and talked about – of course, makes me realize that these feelings are much more broad and deeper than ‘Brexit’. One could say that the ‘celebration of boundaries’ is what Europe is all about – it is an essential part of European heritage. Often, these narratives have a positive gloss – of ‘celebrating regional diversity’, and the idea that Europe is made up of a sort-of mosaic of nations and regions, each one a unique bounded entity, more-or-less tolerant of other, surrounding unique bounded entities, with stories of this uniqueness founded upon origin legends and claims to ‘distinct heritage’.

 mosaic

As so often is the case, heritage seems to answer questions, making the world seem clear and easy – divided into unique groupings of people, with ‘change’ and ‘movement’ being cast as an enemy to the supposed natural order of things. In seeming to settle issues so easily, people don’t tend to look much further, but instead they end up tacitly (or explicitly) supporting the building of razor-wire fences to ‘protect our heritage’. Is it really this stark?

I find it frustrating that the warm glow of a backward-looking sense of nostalgia somehow makes it easy for people to cry for the ‘return of our sovereignty’ without facing up to the very real and increasingly unavoidable globalized interconnections of Neoliberalism. Neither present political economics, nor the reactionary nostalgia of wishful (and often bigoted) imagination, are challenged. It seems strange that people cherish a governmental memory of nineteenth century free trade, but forget that it was only in 1905 that passports were first required to enter the UK. And it is especially disheartening to see any notions of a heritage of humility, common concern and empathy always being trumped by a forward-looking sense of destiny that resides in the heritage of our boundaries and borders. We are different to the people over there.

I would certainly not claim that ‘everyone is the same’, but we must be able to differentiate between celebrating difference, and celebrating the apparent distinction between ‘unique’ bounded entities that are part of a supposed mosaic of separate, stable and homogenous ‘cultures’, where ‘culture’ is a super-organically essentialised set of characteristics, often recognized through unchangeable ‘heritage’. Even when people talk about ‘tolerance’, it is often in a sense of being tolerant of something that is always ‘distinct’ and must be kept separate. … no space for engagement, for hybridity, for evolution, for change and ambiguity, for the celebration of differences, or for movement and flows – except for the flows of capital and the movement of privileged holiday makers intent on ‘experiencing the other’, from a safe distance.