Should the climate movement be fighting for beauty?
How an expansive definition of "beauty" can teach us about means and ends in politics
In a village in north Derbyshire, nestled by the peatland plateau of Kinder Scout, there lived a man named Gordon the Warden. As a kid at the local primary school, I knew him by his snow-white beard, kindly smile, and the midsummer ramble he’d take us on each year. We’d turn up that morning with our sun hats and packed lunches. In a clumsy crocodile we’d make our way upwards, through the sheep fields to the heathery hilltops.
And Gordon would talk to us about the land. The sphagnum moss that the centuries change into peat, which in turn colours the rivers in the cloughs yellow-brown. The burbling of the curlew. The “go-back, go-back” of the grouse. The groughs that groove the plateau, a micro-topography that makes a mile on a map into two miles on the ground.
It was years before I discovered that this unassuming neighbour had co-founded the International Ranger Federation. Nor did I notice at the time - distracted by blisters on my heels, perhaps, or the daily dramas of childhood - that, through these conversational asides as we traipsed along, Gordon was kindling a lifelong connection between me and the countryside.
This was one of my entry-points to environmentalism. It was a people-centred variety that grew from a particular place in the world; from a feeling of being part of something that is awesome, bigger than ourselves, yet, when you look closely, tangible in every detail. I began to understand the countryside as a place where nature, work, people and heritage all meet - and to treasure it. And from that feeling and that understanding came the kernel of a more political outlook: why can’t everyone have this?
Politics beyond power
Like most who’re involved in climate politics, I came to it because I cared. That’s not to say every campaigner is inspired by where they grew up. But in my experience, our stories generally start with something meaningful: the magic and jeopardy of an Attenborough programme, say, or worrying about family members during heatwaves.
The day-to-day business of politics is exactly that - busy-ness. The process involves lots of emails, lots of meetings. Reports, headlines, polling data, social media. The practice of politics is a lot about power - who has it, how they understand it, and how they wield it. Personal relationships are key - yet power doesn’t just sit with people. You find it in institutions, interest groups - and ideas. One of the political arts is in marshalling the evidence and arguments that are most likely to persuade.
That’s why a lot of the arguments you hear in favour of climate action - including on this blog and on the Political Heat podcast - major on economic growth, energy security, and the cost of living. It’s smart to show how multiple public policy quandaries can be addressed simultaneously. Governments have limited time, resources and patience.
The soul of our movement
But is something lost when we allow our politics to be purely instrumental and materialistic? In Episode 8 of the podcast, I explore this question with Dame Fiona Reynolds, a former Director-General of the National Trust and veteran of many campaigns to conserve the country’s natural and cultural heritage. She’s also the author of The Fight for Beauty: Our Path to a Better Future.
Fiona believes “we need to get back to the soul of our movement, and beauty is a wonderful way of capturing that.” She tells me, “Beauty isn’t an aesthetic or physical thing. For me, beauty is a shape of mind. It’s about how we think about what we value. And in particular, it’s about valuing the non-material things in life, everything from birdsong to feeling enveloped by a sort of love of place and a sense of belonging.”
There are three reasons why I think Fiona is onto something, which I’ll develop in the rest of this post. First, her concept of beauty provides a fuller view of what’s at stake in environmental politics. Secondly, it’s partly what sustains us as individual campaigners. And the third reason is it connects the climate with ordinary people in a more personal, emotive way.
What’s at stake
An immediate criticism of the focus on beauty is that it feels almost frivolous when households across the UK are struggling with the cost of living. But for Fiona, beauty is not a luxury; it’s what makes life worth living. She insists it is “a very democratic philosophy”:
“Everyone is entitled to, and should feel that they have, things that they respond to emotionally, as well as enough to eat and a place to live. So it’s not a thing you get to when everybody’s needs are satisfied … It’s a way to talk about the things that matter, that money can’t buy but that need to be part of the way we think about the future.”
As one of the National Trust’s founders, Octavia Hill, put it: “We all want quiet. We all want beauty…we all need space.” And it’s worth fighting for. Ethel Haythornthwaite, an indomitable countryside campaigner from my home town of Sheffield, insisted on continuing her work during World War II. “If not,” she argued, “much more of England’s beauty will be lost for those who return after the war. I believe our aims are too profoundly important to let go.”
Sustaining campaigners
A similar line of reasoning often holds true when you consider what sustains the individuals participating in politics, whether inside or outside the Westminster bubble. The cares and passions that motivate political action can be an infinitely renewable source of energy - if you stay connected with them.
That’s easier said than done. When you’re caught up in the drama of the latest reshuffle, or deep in analysis of the latest policy document, those deeper motivations can get buried. If you forget them for too long, caught up in day-to-day tussles, there’s a risk you become unmoored from the bigger change you wanted to see. Or you run out of that sustaining energy, and burn out.
The American environmentalist Edward Abbey advised: “Be … a part-time crusader, a half-hearted fanatic. Save the other half of yourselves and your lives for pleasure and adventure. It is not enough to fight for the land; it is even more important to enjoy it. While you can. While it’s still here. So get out there and hunt and fish and mess around with your friends, ramble out yonder and explore the forests, climb the mountains, bag the peaks, run the rivers, breathe deep of that yet sweet and lucid air, sit quietly for a while and contemplate the precious stillness, the lovely, mysterious, and awesome space.” (Disappointingly, some of Abbey’s other opinions were abhorrent - but he was right on this).
Connecting emotionally
Beauty is something that everyone understands. We might disagree about whether a particular building or painting is beautiful, but you can’t deny a person’s emotional response to something that enchants them. And there are some things that provoke near-universal enjoyment, meaningful connection and nourishment. Like nature.
Politicians and campaigners can struggle to find ways to communicate about the climate crisis in a way that connects with ordinary people. Language about emissions and global temperatures feels abstract and technical. But talking about nature can be very effective: about the wildlife with which we share our planet, and how it’s under threat from human activity.
Researchers at think tank IPPR tested ways of persuading people about climate action. They found that a narrative about the natural world significantly increased how likely people were to say climate was a top three issue facing the country. It drove down agreement with net zero sceptics' argument that climate policy would leave us “colder and poorer”. And it was notable in increasing non-graduates’ support for specific net zero policies, such as investing in electric vehicles.
Other narratives that worked well with the public also had an emotional resonance - talking about future generations, for example, or the human impacts of extreme weather. Although the case made to policymakers often focuses on the co-benefits of climate action, such as jobs and energy security, they’re less likely to persuade the public. The IPPR researchers say the arguments about “shared destiny or concern” that connect with ordinary people and thereby “boost the permission structure for action” on climate.
The power of fractals
Gordon the Warden’s public and professional persona wasn’t political. I imagine he followed the comings and goings of migratory birds much more closely than the twittering of politicos on social media.
But the ideas I’ve sketched out above are somehow all expressed in a brief interview Gordon gave towards the end of his life. He sits with Countryfile’s Matt Baker on a chilly-looking hilltop, and talks about becoming a Peak Park ranger in his 20s. Decades later, you can still feel his enthusiasm for the landscape and for sharing it with other people. “I’m in paradise here,” he says. “I’m incredibly lucky.”
Gordon passed away last year. But his humility and gratitude have stayed with me. So has his valuing of connections with each other, as well as to something bigger than ourselves.
It makes me think of the way adrienne maree brown describes the world as fractal: “the health of the cell is the health of the species and the planet”. Emergence, brown says, is “the way complex systems and patterns arise out of a multiplicity of relatively simple interactions”. Perhaps that points towards a way for Fiona’s concept of beauty to suffuse our politics.
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Listen to the full interview with Dame Fiona Reynolds wherever you get your podcasts. Find it here.
Those opening two paragraphs are just lovely to read. Excellent piece, Amy - especially for those of us often caught up in the bubble.