Matthew Parris

Since at least the beginning of this century there has been a mood abroad – cultural as well as political – to trash the place that contributes most to British culture and the British economy. Without London and its population, we in the rest of the United Kingdom would be unable to continue living in the manner to which we have become accustomed and which we seem to consider our birthright. But suggest as much in the English provinces, the West Country, East Anglia, the Home Counties, Scotland, Wales or Northern Ireland, and people look at you as though you were mad – or, worse, secretly in the pay of the spivs and swindlers of Canary Wharf and the City of London. Have we Derbytanians the least idea of the wealth transferral from the metropolis upon which we depend?

On Easter Saturday, I wrote for the Times about the victimhood of Christ, describing this as a regrettable foundation for a world religion. In online posts beneath my column came hundreds of comments from Christians protesting that I’d misunderstood the Crucifixion’s meaning, which was (they said) the ultimate victory. Triumphantly, Jesus redeemed our sins. Or ‘atoned’ for them. Along with atonement and redemption, expressions like ‘ransomed’, ‘forgiven’, ‘pardoned’, ‘paid for’, ‘healed’ and ‘washed away’ recurred, as well as ‘sacrifice’ – Jesus’s blood-sacrifice to expiate the world’s sins: a kind of reparation. The notion of release – from slavery, debt or imprisonment – suffuses these responses.

In June 1999, I described on this page jameitos, tiny, blind, albino crabs on the sea bottom in a cave in Lanzarote, occasionally caught in a shaft of sunlight they couldn’t see. ‘Might there be searchlights moving across the surface of our world, too,’ I wrote, ‘catching [us] within their purview, and we the objects of this silent inspection, all unknowing?’ It was a long overnight flight from South America last month. Though comfortable, I couldn’t sleep, so I accessed the in-flight entertainment menu, selected ‘Comedy’ and decided to try The Truman Show, a 1998 American movie, not really a comedy, with (I later learnt) something of a cult following.

In the language of the Mapuche people of Patagonia, futa (I’m told) means ‘river’ and leufú means ‘big’. So Spanish--speaking Chile could have called it the Rio Grande but instead have kept the indigenous name, Futaleufú, for this sinuous, deep, swift-flowing river, hurling its clear turquoise waters at the black basalt that flanks its roaring gorges. That this is one of the finest white-water rafting and kayaking rivers in the world is uncontested. And the river has given its name to the small town nestling beneath snowy Andean peaks and glaciers, past which it flows. Before crossing the border into Argentina on a dirt road, six miles upriver, I spent a day in Futaleufú last week.

I have never met Enver Solomon, the chief executive of the Refugee Council, but I have not the least doubt that his heart is in the right place. And that’s the problem. In the current and coming furore about small boat crossings and what to do about them, too many who comment are concerned to show that their heart is in the right place. Too few appear ready to contemplate the natural rather than the hoped-for consequences of stopping the government’s plan to deport those who come here without permission to a third country like Rwanda.

Perhaps there’s a German word – for there’s no English one – for that alloy of liberation with melancholy that comes with having faced up to something sad. I have made my will. A draft for my English will lies on the desk beside me, and early this week I flew to Catalonia to make the Spanish will that my brisk and capable Bakewell solicitor said I’d need. In decor, lawyers’ offices breathe the same mood across the planet. Gravity, money, a certain self-regard I’m in excellent health for a man of 73 and, God willing, may have many years left; but there’s no gainsaying it – these things need to be sorted out in an atmosphere of calm when there’s time to get it right. It’s what my father did, without a fuss, and Dad is my inspiration in these matters.

I’ve been conducting a straw poll. Using incidental encounters with people who don’t follow politics closely, I’m learning what ordinary voters do or don’t know or think of Rishi Sunak. Responses range between neutral and mildly positive. Beyond that, what do I get from respondents? (1) They really don’t know much about him; but (2) they do know he’s rich. The problem for Mr Sunak is not so much that he’s known to be rich – of course he is – but that this is almost the only thing about him that has sunk in. Here in Britain the observation that a politician is rich is typically followed by the thought that this may ‘separate’ them from the lives and concerns of the ordinary voter. ‘If you haven’t lived it,’ we say, ‘how can you fully understand it?

Let nobody say Liz Truss achieved nothing in her mayfly days at Downing Street. She gave away the vast British Indian Ocean territory, the islands and the sea around them, known as the Chagos Islands. To be more precise, in talks with Mauritian officials while in New York, she set in train negotiations with Mauritius over a handover next year. Exempted from any such agreement will be the island of Diego Garcia, nominally British but for all practical purposes under the control of the United States, who maintain a huge and important military base there, probably torturing people – but we wouldn’t know or, if we do, wouldn’t be so impertinent as to complain.

Theresa May’s premiership is now a memory. Boris Johnson’s time in office assumes the status of a rather brief, if often embarrassing, interlude. Liz Truss has gone in short order. The threat of a comeback by Johnson has been lifted. What a rollercoaster. Each of these events, in its time, took centre-stage in our politics and each prime minister became for a while the object of contempt, suspicion and rage. I called Mrs May the death star of British politics; I called Mr Johnson a moral toad; I called Liz Truss a planet-sized mass of over-confidence and ambition teetering on a pinhead of a political brain.

‘That element of tragedy which lies in the very fact of frequency,’ wrote George Eliot in Middlemarch, ‘has not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion of mankind; and perhaps our frames could hardly bear much of it.’ Her thought extends beyond ‘compassion fatigue’ in the face of global suffering on a scale beyond our homely ken, but to life itself in its unfathomable abundance: the dramas, the joys and the sorrows and the sheer activity that surrounds us and would engulf us if we paused for long enough to think about everything. We screen almost all of it out. We have to. Our Derbyshire home is on a hillside in the middle of fields and woods.