| July 02, 2008 | Wednesday | Jamadi-us-Sani 27, 1429 |
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Pomp and tradition in Britain
AS A country with a long and proud history, Britain is at its best when displaying its many ancient traditions. I was at Cambridge last week to attend my step-daughter Josephine’s graduation ceremony, and like most visitors, I was struck by how the dons have stuck to their university’s early rituals. Cambridge University will be 800 years old next year, and the students and the faculty still follow the old ceremonies to the letter.
The students (or graduands) and their guests met at the college quadrangle for lunch before the graduation ceremony, and from there we walked through the city’s ancient streets, past soaring church spires and across an old market square to the Senate Hall. Here, we queued till 2:45pm when the gates were thrown open and we were seated on long benches by what seemed like ageing bouncers, but were probably staff from student residences.
As soon as the hundreds of proud parents and siblings had taken their seats, the vice-chancellor (VC) entered, preceded by two faculty members bearing silver maces, known as Esquire Bedells. Once the VC had taken his place, the graduands, or aspiring graduates, dressed in black gowns trimmed in ermine fur, entered in a procession at the back of the hall. From here, they advanced four by four. When a group reached the front, the students each took one finger of the senior don who then recommended to the VC that they be admitted to whatever degree they had registered for. Each student’s name would be read out by one of the Esquire Bedells, and he or she would advance, kneel before the vice-chancellor who would take one hand into his, solemnly proclaim that he was conferring whatever degree, bless the graduate, who would rise, bow and leave.
The ceremony was repeated hundreds of times, but everything had clearly been carefully rehearsed as it was all over in 45 minutes. When we emerged, another queue had formed to witness the graduation ceremony for another college. Apart from the tradition, what had impressed me was how personal the vice-chancellor made his brief proclamation, gazing into the eyes of each student, and smiling. Considering that he repeated the same formula literally hundreds of times, making each graduate feel special could not have been easy.
Another tradition recently on display was the Trooping of the Colours on the Queen’s birthday. This is an army drill of the highest calibre, and I cannot think that any body of uniformed men does it any better. We watched on TV as the Queen and her husband, the Prince of Wales, approached the parade ground outside Buckingham Palace in an open horse-drawn carriage. They were followed by other members of the royal family, and the Queen took her place on the reviewing platform.
Soon, unit after unit carrying ancient names and flags were marching past, their scarlet uniforms and glittering regalia resplendent in the warm sunshine. All the while, the regimental massed bands beat out a steady cadence, their brass and silver instruments glinting. Soon, the units formed at one end of the square, and then proceeded to perform intricate drills without faltering once. They were followed by a tightly disciplined body of horsemen who put their mounts through their paces without a stumble or a missed step.
While I am against inherited wealth and privilege, I do not agree with those of my friends here who would like to abolish the monarchy. Given the royal family’s purely ceremonial role, I think a bit of tradition and pomp adds colour to the texture of society. Surely we have enough grey, anonymous politicians. Above all, the institution of the monarchy is a great attraction to the millions of tourists who flock to Britain and make a beeline to Buckingham Palace. Surely what’s good for the exchequer must be good for Britain…
Other ancient traditions I have come across here include the weekly market of Devizes, a small town in Wiltshire where we have been spending most of our time since moving out of London last year. The Devizes market was given a Royal Charter by Empress Maude in the 12th Century in gratitude to the town’s people who had sheltered her when she faced a rebellion. Ever since, local farmers bring their produce to the market square every Thursday. People come from miles around to buy vegetables, fruit and meat. Now the stalls include more exotic produce: olives and olive oil from Italy; French (and local) cheeses; fresh fish from Cornwall; and even rugs from distant lands.
We do most of our food shopping here as the produce is fresher and cheaper than anything we could get at the supermarkets. Also, by buying from the market, we help the local farmers rather than corporate types who make obscene profits by squeezing farmers. But the price structure of farm produce is being transformed due to rising global prices. Already, the cost of feeding an average family has shot up within a year, with more price hikes predicted. If a rich country like Britain is feeling the pinch, what will happen to the millions who live below the poverty line in developing countries?
If globalisation has created more wealth over the last decade, it has also passed on the pain. Price rises in one part of the world are felt thousands of miles away. So if jobs have been outsourced to distant lands, so have economic slumps been exported. If arable land in South America, Europe and the US is now increasingly being used to produce grain to convert into alcohol to run cars, people in Africa and Asia are bearing the brunt of the resultant food price hike. But this conversion of grain into fuel is only viable because of the sharp rise in oil prices.
Ultimately, then, the prices of commodities are linked through a delicate network of futures and equity markets. A pebble falling in one market makes its ripples felt far and wide. A currency’s fall or rise in one corner of the world can impact on prices in another. As we have seen recently, a credit crunch in America has affected the banking system across the globe. When the world becomes a village, nobody is cut off from the fate of their neighbours.
