Chris Smaje offers a rare and necessary pivot away from the exhausting spectacle of global power struggles, arguing that fixating on Washington, Tehran, or Jerusalem often feeds the very pathologies we fear. Instead of dissecting the latest geopolitical maneuver, he turns his gaze to the muddy reality of farming, the romantic roots of climbing, and the quiet arrogance of ignoring local languages. This is not a retreat from the world, but a strategic reorientation toward the local ecologies and human connections that actually sustain us.
The Clown Farmer and the Cosplay of Power
Smaje begins by dismantling the obsession with high-level politics. He notes that while "all eyes on Gaza from now on" is a common refrain, the real danger lies in how this attention fuels the systems it claims to critique. He observes that "giving our attention to the power plays of global political centres can help feed their pathologies," a claim that challenges the modern media diet of constant crisis coverage. He specifically addresses the shifting narrative around US leadership, noting that the view of a president focused solely on domestic affairs is now "safely in the bin," and that current events are hardly helping the case for nuclear energy as a silver bullet for environmental collapse.
The author then uses a reader's comment about a "clown farmer" to explore the absurdity of modern identity. He admits that the desperate economics of the food sector mean "most farmers across most scales have a second income of one sort or another," yet the cultural perception of the "real farmer" remains a semi-mythical construct. Smaje writes, "A clown farmer is probably closer to the mark, to be honest," embracing the label as a way to push back against the rigid hierarchies of who gets to define agriculture. He argues that the modern world is essentially a "big cosplay," and that "at least cosplaying as a farmer is kind of on the right track."
This reframing is powerful because it strips away the pretension of professional identity. Smaje suggests that "the superpower of the clown is the ability to laugh at themselves," a quality he believes is desperately needed in our "clown society." He draws on the work of anarchist anthropologist David Graeber to suggest that the modern epoch erred when it forgot "the comedy of political power claims." By accepting the title of "clown farmer," he aligns himself with a tradition that sees the serious nature of comedy, rather than the hollow seriousness of titles like "president for life."
A clown farmer in a clown society is good enough for me.
Critics might argue that this self-deprecating humor risks undermining the serious economic and ecological crises facing agriculture, potentially dismissing the need for structural policy change. However, Smaje's point is not to trivialize the work, but to humanize the worker against a backdrop of dehumanizing systems.
The Romantic Roots of Rewilding
Shifting from the farm to the mountain, Smaje recounts a climbing trip in Eryri (Snowdonia) with his son, using the physical act of climbing to explore the history of leisure and nature. He describes the route as "Very Difficult," a British grade that ironically means "it's very easy," noting that the climb was first attempted in 1905 with far less equipment. He reflects on how mountaineering emerged as a "Romantic reaction to the march of that very industrial economy that made it possible," allowing people to find peace in the "beautiful indifference" of nature.
This historical context is crucial to his argument about the current rewilding debate. Smaje observes that while the conservation movement often claims a scientific basis, it is deeply rooted in this same Romantic tradition. He points out the irony in the pro-rewilding camp's position, wishing they would "take more trouble to see the Romantic roots of their own position." He highlights the contradiction of "paying farmers not to practice forms of local farming that cannot be dismissed themselves as a romantic carryover from the past."
The author also touches on the practicalities of rewilding, noting that while he is "not averse to the idea of cutting sheep numbers," there must be "like-for-like redress elsewhere in the economy." He sees the long association of humans, dogs, and sheep in the Welsh hills as "one of the more awe-inspiring achievements of human science," contrasting this with the "scrubby" regrowth seen in areas cleared of livestock. He notes that despite the official narrative of a sheep-free zone in Cwm Idwal, "we saw quite a lot of sheep in the cwm," suggesting that nature moves to a "different rhythm than impatient humans."
Nature moves to a different rhythm than impatient humans.
A counterargument worth considering is that the "Romantic" view of nature often ignores the immediate livelihoods of rural communities, potentially alienating the very people needed to steward the land. Smaje acknowledges this tension by calling for economic redress, but the practical implementation of such a balance remains a significant hurdle.
The Language of the Landscape
The piece concludes with a personal reflection on learning Welsh, prompted by Carwyn Graves's book Tir. Smaje admits that visiting Wales for years without learning the language was "quite arrogant," and that the Welsh language "richly encodes knowledges of nature and human implication in the landscape." He finds joy in recognizing place names like Tŷ Gwyn (white house), realizing how much he has missed by not engaging with the local tongue.
This final observation ties back to his opening thesis: the importance of looking locally. He expresses a wish that "other men in other Tŷ Gwyns were likewise tending to their own gardens," suggesting that the solution to global chaos lies in the humble, attentive care of one's immediate surroundings. By grounding his argument in the specificities of language, landscape, and local history, Smaje offers a compelling alternative to the detached, high-level analysis that dominates public discourse.
Bottom Line
Smaje's strongest argument is his reclamation of the "clown" identity as a serious, subversive act that humanizes the struggle for food security and ecological balance. His biggest vulnerability is the potential for his romantic framing of rewilding to oversimplify the complex economic realities of rural life. Readers should watch for how this localist perspective evolves as he connects these personal observations to the broader structural changes needed in his forthcoming book.