Reading 'Lost in the Forest': Not Belonging and the Uses of Disorder

 I have finished reading  Colin Heber‑Percy’s 'Lost in the Forest'. A gentle and absorbing read. I was struck by how astutely he writes about the idea of not belonging. He confesses to early experiences of feeling out of place, for example, at school and indeed in early experiences of training for pastoral life.

 It is an unusual theme for a parish priest, a role normally associated with being at the centre of a community. Yet Heber‑Percy focuses on the moments when we feel out of place. At school - a particularly common experience in childhood and adolescence -  at work, or within institutions that expect quick conformity. I recognised these moments immediately; they are familiar to anyone who has stepped into a new environment and felt the pressure to adapt before really getting g any kind of grip about what is being asked.

Heber‑Percy argues that stepping outside the labels and categories society applies is valuable. He writes with humour and a certain self‑deprecation about his own difficult school years and his sometimes uneasy experiences within the Church. These examples are illustrations of how belonging can be demanded too quickly, and how that demand can narrow a person’s sense of themselves.

The book is organised around his regular walks in Savernake Forest, each chapter centred on one of the large oaks to be found there. The trees are given names and which define their characteristics, each characteristic driving the narrative. I found this structure interesting because it quietly contradicts his argument for the benefits of disorder. The framework gives the book shape and direction, and this tension — between structure and freedom — runs throughout. It reminded me constantly of the adage that  freedom is easier to understand when there is 'something to be free from'. Heber‑Percy also acknowledges that freedom without boundaries can slip into chaos, as shown in his very funny description of a pond full of mating frogs.

Of course, Heber-Percy’s Christian faith is in evidence but there is no sense of didacticism or preaching. Biblical quotations site neatly among quotations from philosophy, literature and even Steve Jobs....

The nature writing echoes writers such as Robert McFarlane. Pussy willows are glimpsed as “smudges of green through the stiff arcades of beeches and chestnuts and oaks”; he stops to listen to the “dense polyrhythm of falling conkers, acorns and beech nuts”. 

We meet some fascinating characters along the way too: John the bellow maker who writes words – about the first cuckoo, perhaps, – on the inside of the bellow’s wooden boards, words that will never be seen again. There is much lyricism here.

Meantime, his reflections made me think about traditions that place a high value on order. Confucian thought, for example, emphasises structure, ritual and social harmony. In that tradition, belonging is learned gradually through shared forms. These forms are meant to guide behaviour and create stability, not to suppress individuality. When I set Heber‑Percy’s ideas alongside this, I find that both approaches recognise that people need orientation; they simply begin from different places. Heber‑Percy starts with looking away and stepping outside established norms, while Confucius starts with slowly adopting the best of them.

For me, the middle way lies in acknowledging that both freedom and order have their uses. Belonging should not be regimented or  imposed, but neither should freedom be directionless.  

A Wagon from Willesley: A Visit to the Rural Life Collection, Old Prison, Northleach

 On a recent visit to the Rural Life Collection at the Old Prison in Northleach, I spent time looking closely at the group of late‑nineteenth‑ and early‑twentieth‑century wagons displayed in the cart shed. Several examples stand side by side, each representing a different aspect of rural transport before mechanisation. From among them, one wagon in particular stood out -  the name painted clearly on its side: Edwin Hatherell, Willesley, Wilts.

Wagon of Edwin Hatherell, Willesley, Wilts

Willesley lies some distance from Northleach — roughly 35 miles by modern road routes. The wagon therefore travelled far enough in its lifetime to become part of a Cotswold‑based collection.

Here we have a Gloucestershire Archives record (D5865/1/2) (opens in new window) provides a firm point of reference: in 1913, Edwin Hatherell was the owner of the Willesley Estate near Tetbury. This places him as a landowner within the Gloucestershire–Wiltshire border region, active during the same period represented by the Rural Life Collection.

The wagon forms part of a wider group of agricultural tools and vehicles assembled after the Second World War by Miss Lloyd‑Baker of Hardwick Court. Her collection covers the period from the late nineteenth century to the first quarter of the twentieth — a time when horses were still central to farming and transport. In 1910, more than a million horses worked on farms across England and Wales. By the 1960s that number had fallen to around 60,000, and by the 1980s horses had disappeared entirely from agricultural labour.

When Miss Lloyd‑Baker died in 1975, her collection was accepted as part of her estate duties and transferred to the care of the Cotswold District Council. It was moved to the Old Prison in 1981, and today it is maintained by the Friends of the Cotswolds in partnership with the Corinium Museum.

Choosing one wagon from several makes it easier to appreciate the broader shift it represents. The Hatherell wagon belonged to a named individual in business within a rural estate, at a time when transport depended on horses, local labour, and durable wooden vehicles. Today, goods move quickly and largely out of sight. This wagon stands as a reminder of a different pace of work and movement — one shaped by the practical needs of farms and estates across the region, and preserved now as part of the Cotswolds’ rural heritage.

Footnote: Gloucestershire Archives, reference D5865/1/2, contains a farm diary of Mr Edwin Hatherell . The document provides confirmation of Hatherell’s connection to the Willesley estate.

The diary chiefly consists of references to farm work, but also mentions "Sherston" band and wassailers ("way-sailers") 23 December 1884, and polling day 1 December 1885. It includes: methods for making silage stacks and curing foot rot, lists of horses to break in, 1890 - 93; price of rabbits from Willesley, 1893 - 94; various poems; lists of livestock for breeding purposes n.d. (c.1882 - 85); lists of livestock food, 1882 - 83, 1886, and time sheets for work carried out in June - August [1884?]

Still Calculating After All These Years

 I found this calculator by accident, buried in a drawer I hadn’t properly sorted for years. It was one of the small promotional units I used to give customers in the mid 1990s — slim, black, with a neat gold strip and my business details printed across the top. I hadn’t seen it in decades. It felt like the sort of object that would have quietly died sometime around the millennium.

It hadn’t. Of course, when I pressed the power button, nothing happened. The battery was long gone, so I looked out a replacement. After a short detective session by the young man in the hardware shop, who took genuine pride in identifying the correct button cell, I tracked one down. He approached the problem with the earnest concentration of someone decoding a minor mystery. Button cells have their own taxonomy — LR1130, AG10, SR1130 ... — a bewildering equivalence chart in front of him. He worked it out, eventually. A small, obsolete puzzle from one era to another, solved with patience and curiosity.

I got back home, inserted the new battery and typed in a random number, 3663, simply to confirm it was alive. 

There was something pleasingly matter‑of‑fact about the whole experience. No sentimentality, just the recognition that this small, inexpensive device had endured. It was designed to be functional, not memorable, yet here it was: still capable of doing exactly what it was made to do.

These calculators were never grand gestures. They were practical giveaways, chosen because they were useful, portable, and unlikely to be thrown away immediately. Seeing one again reminded me how straightforward that logic was. A customer could actually use it. It didn’t pretend to be anything more.

Now, decades later, its survival feels almost like a quiet joke — a reminder that some technologies persist  because they are simple, durable, and unbothered by the passage of time. It is a small object, but it has earned its place as a curiosity: and  it still works.

And, as I’ve since discovered, these little calculators  turn up on eBay and similar sites, sold as retro novelties. I won’t be going on a world cruise on the proceeds of mine, but it’s oddly satisfying to know it has entered the ranks of collectible curiosities.