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St Joseph’s Gategate has sparked a battle of the communities—I know which community I want to belong to

 (Google StreetView)
(Google StreetView)

The Passionists picked the first quarter of the pandemic to lock an inconspicuous gate leading into an apple orchard on the slopes below St Joseph’s, a gloomy Romanesque church near the top of Highgate Hill, with a green copper dome you can see across Hampstead Heath.

For more than twenty years this gate was used by people a lot further down the hill — Archway people, not Highgate people — and because the footpath beyond the gate was a shortcut to the affiliated Catholic primary school and the park, it was particularly appreciated by the elderly, the infirm and families with small children, who were grateful to be spared the steep polluted climb up Highgate Hill.

The gate was locked without warning or explanation. When I rang the church to find out more, one of the priests suggested it was none of my business and ended the call rather unexpectedly. I was not the only person getting short shrift. My neighbours and I started to pool Gategate intelligence via social media and at a safe 2m distance when we happened to meet on our daily walks, and eventually we were told the padlock was necessary for the safety of the few resident Brothers, to keep the orchard free of knifemen, thieves and fornicators and (a particular bugbear) people wishing to ‘sun-bake’ in scant clothing on hot days.

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It sounded horrible. We had every sympathy. But we were puzzled by the security defence: there are two other entrances on the other side of the orchard, open to the road 24/7, so knifemen, thieves, fornicators and sun-bakers can still stroll in whenever they like. It’s mainly the primary-school kids and the elderly who are being kept out.

That said, we were moved by the Brothers’ evident anxieties, which reminded me a little of Black Narcissus, Rumer Godden’s wonderful novel about another tiny religious community living in increasingly fearful isolation at the top of an even bigger hill. So we proposed various things that might make a difference to everyone’s wellbeing: we offered to man the gate and lock it at night. We offered to stump up for a timer lock and security lighting. We’ve discussed a litter patrol. The Brothers wouldn’t have any of it.

At a time when we were all being encouraged to exercise locally and help our neighbours, the Passionists’ refusal to engage with their parishioners (the people who serve on the parish council, send their children to the primary school and support the church with fundraising, volunteer work and donations) seemed self-defeating as well as mean-spirited. It felt very much as if St Joseph’s, rather than looking outward and seeking to connect with the communities around it, was shrinking further into itself. Members of the congregation expressed embarrassment and hurt about the priests’ tone; plenty have cancelled long-standing direct debits in protest. We all lose.

Google StreetView
Google StreetView

Still, some good has come from this. My neighbourhood has risen up in an exuberant communion of cheerful incredulity. Jokes, strategies and updates ping in constantly via various street WhatsApp groups. It’s a battle of the communities, and I know which community I want to belong to.

We’ll keep at it. We’ll keep writing to the council, the Cardinal, the Passionists’ HQ in Rome and the Ramblers, who advise we have a case — if only we had the cash — to claim the footpath as a public right of way, as it has been enjoyed as such for over twenty years. We will make banners that say, ’Tis easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for local residents to take a shortcut to Waterlow Park’.

Twice recently the gate has been torn from its hinges, so the elderly and families with small children can again walk though the orchard, beneath the apple blossom. I don’t approve of the hinge-tearing, of course, and I don’t suppose it will help our case in any way. But I have a respect for the rage behind it. I wonder about the numbers who will return for Mass, when regular services resume at the top of the hill.

Harriet Lane is the author of HER and ALYS, ALWAYS.

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