14 March 2018

Ringwood and the Enlightenment

Yesterday, it being my Birthday, we went for a spring stroll in the most fantastic eighteenth century garden in England ... promisingly distinguished at its entrance by a blessed Notice forbidding Dogs (and push-chairs and children).

I have occasionally infuriated dog-lovers by referring to the species canis lupus familiaris as
     Man's oldest and filthiest friend.
Canine coprolites have been found, have indeed been lovingly and scientifically excavated, at Bronze Age sites such as Amesbury.

Perhaps Dr Linnaeus should have named these animals canis lupus cacatorius.

Warden Sparrow, late of All Souls' College in this University, famously and O-so-accurately spoke of the Dog as
     That indefatigable and unsavoury engine of pollution.

When out walking in unfamiliar countryside, one always knows when one has got within an easy radius of a carpark because of the care one is obliged to exercise. Dogs, obedient ubiquitously to the Bergoglian injunction hagan lio, have been active. However, is it fair to condemn dogs? Certainly not. Dog-owners, yes. I know a slipway in Cornwall where fish is brought in; the National Trust, who own it, were driven a few years ago to ban dogs from the slipway and to provide for the dogs and their walkers a simple pleasant alternative footpath away from the fishy area. And I know beaches galore with clear notices banning dogs between March and September. Quite possibly, dogs can't read. Can the Dogwalking Tendency read? What would be your guess? Exactly. But they and their animals are, of course, individually, each and every one, lofty and aetherial exceptions to any terrestrial regulations which bind merely common humanity and its all-too-terrestrial common caninity.

But stay: all my speciesist prejudices were in abeyance yesterday. You see, we must not forget Ringwood, the last echoes of whose deep full voice can still by the very sensitive ear be heard, baying Et in Arcadia ego in the Kentissimi horti at Rousham in Oxfordshire. His "Master and Friend", Sir Clement Cottrell-Dormer, had this "otterhound of extraordinary sagacity" buried in the Vale of Venus (a possibly dubious expression) right in front of the very statue of the Goddess herself reflected in the waters of her pool, nuda sed pudica* even if dangerously overlooked by Faunus and Pan, only feet from the river Cherwell where Ringwood worked such righteous havoc upon the otter population. There, since those last enchanted years of the reign of His Most Eminent Majesty King Henry IX, this doggy wraith has surely mingled at dusk in the dances of the  dryads and naiads. Is Ringwood Canine Nature's Solitary Boast?

Today, as we walked along his banks, we inferred that the great God Cherwell (sometimes mispronounced by common folk so that his first syllable rhymes with the chur of church) must be enraged, since intumuit ... pariterque animis immanis et undis** ... etc..

Ever an Enlightenment Rationalist, I blamed Monday's rain.

*naked but modest ** he is swollen mightily both in rage and in waters ...


A Daughter of Mary said...

Father, we folk who pronounce Cherwell incorrectly are not so much common, as deaf to the correct pronunciation. I, like millions of others, read many English books wherein the Cherwell is named, but of course never pronounced. Might future authors use the old help of putting in a pronunciation in brackets when the word is first written?

So it's the KERwell, then?

Amateur Brain Surgeon said...

Dear Father. The sign banning dogs is wonderful. It could only be improved it the sign read "But children are welcome."

In America ABS is Chairman of ABE Ministries (Against Basically Everything) and he has started a movement banning Dawgs from all public events.

Dawg is a homophone of dog but has a slightly nuanced difference; while both are animals only one walks on two feet.

Joshua said...

Having availed myself of the services of those modern gods, Google and Wikipedia, I find that Cherwell is pronounced /ˈtʃɑːrwɛl/
("Charwell") around Oxford itself, but /ˈtʃɜːrwɛl/ ("Cherwell") in north Oxfordshire.

I have much sympathy for such shibboleths; I live in the antipodean Launceston, pronounced as if spelt "Lonseston" (the "au" in the actual spelling is pronounced with a short o, as in Australia), not the Cornish (pronounced something like Lahnsen).

I once stayed in the Melbourne suburb of Reservoir, pronounced by its denizens as if missing its penultimate letter, and certainly not in the French manner.