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A weekend in Boston

Observations from Boston (working title)

A couple of months ago I spent the weekend in Boston.

“Boston? Bit far for the weekend?” I hear you say. No, not Boston, Massachusetts, our fabled American cousin. We, the British, have our very own Boston. Yep. Boston, Lincolnshire. Home to one of the country’s most famous churches, the great St. Bostophs (known locally as The Stump) and also in a hopefully unrelated manner to the church, the murder capital of the U.K.

No, the real reason I was there was because Boston, British Boston in Lincolnshire, had the highest percentage of leave voters in the EU referendum. “Good god”, I hear you say, “why did you go there?”. Well, because I wanted to.

You see, I, like most of my friends, family and fellow Londoners, wanted to remain in the EU. So when the sun rose on that gorgeous Friday and the results came in, I was a little bit shocked. After the shock came the anger. After the anger came the sadness. And since the sadness began to subside, my good old friend futility (last seen in May 2015) swept in like the useless person he is.

In fact, futility proved useful. After a period of reflection, it appeared to me that to continue sitting and complaining, beer in hand, about our racist, unfair and ignorant country, is a futile act in itself. It’s a part of the problem. What did I personally do to prevent it from happening? Nothing.  

What can I do now?  

A month later and I’m trundling up the A1 towards Boston. The journey takes the best of three hours. We pass through Cambridge, Peterborough, Crowland, Spalding. Names get less and less familiar the further away from London we go. Michael, joining me on photography duties, rightly observes the flatness of the land. As you look into the horizon, there seems no end as green fields merge effortlessly with blue, moody skies.

As we near Boston it’s clear that agriculture is the main breadwinner here. There are no workers on the field today but the sight of gleaming new tractors and hay bales suggests an industry thriving and alive. You can’t talk about Boston and the EU without talking about agriculture. Since the 2004 EU expansion, 65,000 people, largely from the new member states, have arrived in the town looking for work in the local food industry. Such was the volume of arrivals that by 2011, Boston was deemed to have the highest proportion of Eastern European immigrants in the UK.  

On our arrival into Boston the visible effect of immigration is profound. On one of the main thoroughfares into town, Lithuanian speaking couples stroll past shops with names such as ‘Euro Booze & Food’. Two-up, two-down terraces dominate the side streets as groups of kids wearing Polish football shirts play with their BMXs. So far, we’ve not heard much spoken English.  

We wander aimlessly; conversing with Deli owners over pasta and espresso and crawling (literally) to the top of St Bostoph’s incredibly high tower (see picture). Eager to shake off the vertigo blues, we drift to the port - previously Boston’s raison d’être - now a subdued, void space. The derelict warehouses and rusty machinery provide an alluring backdrop to myths of a local Russian mafia presence. On top of one warehouse, a huge banner reads “Port of Boston into Europe”, with UK and EU flags on either side. Yet the lettering is faded and tainted. The flags are yellowed. As such, the poignancy is impossible to ignore.

The following morning we start at St. Mary’s, Boston’s biggest Catholic church, for Sunday mass. The pews are full as some are forced to stand at the back in the reception hall. The congregation is incredibly diverse. English couples sing alongside Indian families as Portuguese and Filipinos exchange warm greetings. The visiting pastor, Father Ayogu, receives affable applause from the Nigerian contingent clearly happy to see a fellow countrymen take the stage at their local church. “Today was a good day”, reflects Father Alex after the service, clearly in delight at the size of the congregation in what is traditionally a quiet period. With church attendance supposedly increasing in the area, I suggest the need for a bigger church, “well if the Poles are ready to pay for it”, he quips with zest.  

In fact, given Boston’s huge Polish population, it is a surprise that they are nowhere to be seen at St. Mary’s. Father Alex soon clarifies this, claiming that exactly because there are so many, the 9.30 mass which he presided over is followed by three separate sessions dedicated solely to the Polish. These are all led by a Polish missionary priest from nearby Spalding. In fact, Father Stanislav arrives shortly after but has time only for basic introductions and arguably the most painful, bone-crushing handshake I’ve ever received.  

After St. Mary’s, we make the short walk to St. Bostoph’s arriving halfway through mass. The atmosphere is profoundly different. A congregation of about 50, all white English bar one Portuguese family, are stood at the chancel. With a capacity closer to a thousand, this beautiful, vast church feels hollow and sparse. As the Reverend Buxton delivers her sermon, the Sunday morning sun seeps through, providing a serene match for the colourful stained glass.  

As the service draws to an end, I begin to wonder whether the future of Boston lies in the walls of its churches. Certainly, in the two days we spent there, the churches were the most integrated spaces in the town. As an institution, it is also an active help to the community, providing essential support to those in need. Pointing to the Portuguese family, Reverend Buxton says they are a case in point, ‘they arrived last summer, no roof over their head, nothing. We gave them a house for the night, and we went to the council and gave them permanent housing. The husband works now and goes to the college’. Reverend Buxton continues, "As a church, whatever message we can get out there - we want to be at the centre of”. After indulging in coffee, conversation and biscuits we begin the journey back to London.

A month later and as I write this I can with humility acknowledge that Boston confounded my expectations. The manner in which we engage and digest news today often robs us of an opinion beyond the paper and ink. We forget that every story is itself a mosaic of realities and perspectives most of which we will never understand or hear about. By no means am I satisfied by just one trip to Boston, by no means do I now think I understand Brexit. What I do know is that by making a move, by getting quite literally in the field, I have learnt a lot more about Brexit and Boston than I would have done had I read all the various musings and commentaries of our most celebrated thinkers and journalists. This was not meant to be an opinion piece, simply just a few observations, but I guess another one won’t do any harm.