Turf Wars: living next door to malice

Our home is at the centre of a discomfiting territorial dispute. It started when we moved house last summer and - despite our best efforts - hasn't gone away. Harry the cat has, understandably, claimed our garden as his own. The cats that live next door see it as more of a community asset, particularly as there’s a conveniently cat-sized hole in the fence. Despite Harry’s insistence that the hole was only intended for hedgehogs, his fellow felines still pop round for the occasional chat. All we can do is shake our heads and shrug our shoulders in sympathy whenever Harry looks to us for support.

That’s pretty much the only disharmony in our street: intermittent tail twitching and a muttered miaow. Fortunately there's no personal disagreement whatsoever. Loving our human neighbours is remarkably easy. On a broader scale, Ringmer’s neighbours are equally likeable. Obviously I can’t say a bad thing about Lewes. (That’s due to contractual obligation rather than any personal preference.) Occasionally we hear a little noise when you throw a party – there’s some kind of thing you do every November, isn’t there? – but we’ve got used to it now. Barcombe Mills: it’s a delight to have you alongside us, although a bit of a shame about your lack of mills. Firle brings joy every time someone from the village says your multi-syllabled name. Obviously Isfield is notable for having the only working railway line within a significant radius. And talking of machinery, I really ought to mention Bentley Wildfowl and Motor Museum, which is surely the only place in the country that successfully combines ducks and racing cars without any harm to eider.

But all this is missing the biblical point of ‘love thy neighbour’. Jesus told the story of a man walking from Jerusalem to Jericho, which is rather like walking from the spiritual beacon of Ringmer to the far side of Hove, except that the road was considerably more dangerous. Not only was there no separate cycle path, there were also gangs of bandits roaming the countryside. In the bible story, the traveller has his life saved by someone who – in other circumstances – would have been seen as an enemy. Totes awk, as the Samaritan might have said when he texted his mates afterwards.

So, as well as loving my neighbour's cats and all the friendly people in our road who popped a Christmas card through the letterbox last year, it seems I have a biblical mandate to love people who live further away. Not just those in surrounding villages or even born-and-bred Brightonians. No, if I’ve understood the parable correctly, it seems I am being called to love those from far-away lands with lifestyles I don’t understand. Despite their strange customs and unfamiliar accents, the people of West Sussex are also my neighbours.

First published in Viva Lewes magazine issue 137 February 2018.