We came to Whitstable yesterday afternoon, a pleasant seaside town in Kent, just in the Thames estuary. I’d been here before as the GF’s parents have very close friends near here, whom we’ve visited as well, but never overnight. This time we’re staying for the weekend and other relatives of the GF arrive this evening.
We left in a bit of a hurry as it was also the local elections and we were damned if we were not going to vote against the Tories first.
On arriving at the hotel we were greeted with report of a disaster, fortunately it turned out that the disaster was that they had accidentally given the room with the balcony to someone else. A shame, as the GF’s mother’s balcony is a pleasant place to work and drink tea and watch the people go past (not very many of them as it’s still midweek).
Anyway, we worked in the afternoon, and then strolled off to where the friends live for dinner there. Along the way we planned to stop for a coffee but were stymied by the bizarrely early closing hours in this country – why would a cafe shut at 5?
The friends live facing the sea in an old wooden house with a large glass conservatory for the living and dining room. She is a witch and an astrologer, he is an astrologer and a warlock. Some years ago they made a great deal money by following the stars’ advice on where to invest, so of course stock picking tips are always welcome. This time, though, they seemed rather gloomy about the world’s prospects, and in particular America’s, which has a Pluto return that is particulary affecting economic matters.
I do slightly roll my eyes at the astrology stuff internally but am probably more tolerant of it than most people. But while I find the idea of understanding the world through symbols entirely sympathetic – after all, what else do we do? – I have rather less sympathy for some of the more concrete parts. There was one part of the conversation that I found rather revealing. They told the story of how one of them had found the builder’s wedding ring using horary astrology.
The builder who had set up the conservatory had poured a concrete screed one morning, a miserable cold, rainy morning through which, he said, the only thing that gave him cheer was seeing a plaque showing the sun they had installed over an inside door of the house. And then he realised that his wedding ring, which he never ever took off, even in the bath, was gone. They all searched for it everywhere, but it was nowhere to be found, and it looked probable that it had been buried in the set concrete while he was pouring it. The builder, a big bluff man, nearly cried, and the astrologers wondered if they would have to have the concrete removed and redone.
The builder went home, sad, and one of the astrologers declared that they would find the ring, and did a reading. They also remembered, one of them said, what he’d said about seeing the sun, which was not really visible from outside. So they went outside and found the one spot from where it was visible. And there was the ring.
I found it really interesting that this was an example of their art as, to a sceptic like myself, it was a pretty solid counter-example. And one of them said that the magic in it (to use a reductive shorthand) was that he’d mentioned the sun and that was somehow important. And the other said that the magic was that the other astrologer had said, with such conviction, that they would find the builder’s ring and that there was a power in that. I don’t find that way of seeing the world entirely incomprehensible, but there is something strangely blinkered and self-fulfilling about it. But I daresay one who sees the world in that way would say the same about how I heard the story.
Anyway. It was a pleasant dinner, for all that I had not much interest in the conversation, and the two astrologers are lovely people. And it was a warm day with a stunning sunset over a very still bay.