Chris Smaje returns from a Scottish cycling expedition not with a travelogue, but with a searing critique of the modern political imagination. By juxtaposing the quiet persistence of ancient field systems against the noise of contemporary polarization, he argues that the binary of 'far-left' versus 'far-right' is a dangerous distraction from the biophysical and social realities we face. This is a rare piece that uses a personal journey to dismantle the very categories we use to understand our political collapse.
The Shifting Baseline of Loss
Smaje begins by grounding his analysis in the physical landscape of the Outer Hebrides, where he cycled alongside his son, a river ecologist. He observes that the wildlife they encountered—sea eagles, golden eagles, short-eared owls—has retreated to the edges of the country due to farming practices optimized for "higher productivity, and lower price." This observation serves as a metaphor for a broader economic blindness. Smaje writes, "We cannot imagine the less monetised, less energised and more localised worlds of the past involving more people and more wildlife on farms, or imagine that it's feasible or acceptable to project such ways of being into the future." This framing is powerful because it challenges the assumption that modernization is an inevitable, linear progression toward a better life. Instead, he suggests we are suffering from a "shifting baseline syndrome of human economic action" that actively causes ecological decline.
We cannot imagine the less monetised, less energised and more localised worlds of the past involving more people and more wildlife on farms, or imagine that it's feasible or acceptable to project such ways of being into the future.
The author reflects on the history of the shielings—seasonal mountain dwellings—where his own ancestors lived. He notes that while modern culture often romanticizes the "hard and miserable life of the agrarian past," the reality was a complex tension between family and freedom. Smaje argues that our current inability to conceive of shared agrarian property rights stems from a fear of this complexity. He admits to his own hesitation, asking, "Have I become a petty bourgeois Little Englander, obsessing over landownership and property boundaries?" This self-reflection adds credibility to his argument; he is not dismissing the difficulties of communal living but acknowledging that the resolution between individual and collective interests is never definitive. Critics might argue that romanticizing pre-industrial life ignores the genuine hardships of disease and starvation that plagued those eras, but Smaje's focus is on the loss of social cohesion and ecological diversity, not the denial of suffering.
The Collapse of Political Narrative
The piece takes a sharp turn when Smaje addresses the political chaos in the United States, which he observed while sheltering from a storm. He describes a social media firestorm surrounding a shooting in Utah, where the narrative oscillated wildly between blaming "far-left ideology" and "far-right ideology." Smaje notes that the confusion was so profound that "the shooter wasn't actually the shooter." This anecdote illustrates his central thesis: "in politics as in farming there now seems to be a missing middle – everybody these days seems to be either 'far left' or 'far right'." This polarization, he argues, is accompanied by a conviction that one's own position is "plain good sense" while the other is "twisted 'ideology'."
Smaje connects this political fracture to the concept of the "supersedure state," a term he uses to describe a scenario where national cohesion unravels and sub-national entities pull away from the federal structure. He references the deployment of troops to Portland and the "Unite the Kingdom" rally in London as symptoms of a deeper rot. He writes, "It seems to be an open question now whether the US republic can survive given the rent in the fabric of any common political narrative." This is a sobering assessment that moves beyond partisan bickering to question the viability of the nation-state itself under current conditions. The author suggests that the "far-right" narrative plays on fears of collapse, but he warns that "far-left" narratives have historically done the same, creating a feedback loop of anxiety that paralyzes effective action.
It seems to be an open question now whether the US republic can survive given the rent in the fabric of any common political narrative.
He observes a geographic gradient of political allegiance, noting that as he traveled north, the density of national flags dwindled, only to disappear entirely once he crossed into Scotland. He jokes that this is "cast-iron proof at last that my theories of the supersedure state are well grounded," but the underlying point is serious: political identity is fracturing along regional lines. Smaje acknowledges that in wealthy Global North countries, the "far-right" poses a greater immediate threat, yet he criticizes the left for being "delusional about the reasons for its eclipse." He argues that the left fails to take the "petty bourgeoisie" seriously, a class whose complex politics are often dismissed by both extremes. This is a nuanced take that challenges the standard progressive narrative, suggesting that the left's inability to connect with this demographic is a key factor in its decline.
The Romanticism of Survival
Despite the grim political landscape, Smaje finds hope in the "entry-level Romanticism" required to simply love the views from a mountain top. He recounts a conversation with a young woman studying environmental history who was searching for evidence of old field systems. This encounter gives him comfort, suggesting that "our ancestors in the deep past took many millennia to figure out how to survive in northern Europe." He posits that if we are to survive the coming shocks of climate change and resource depletion, we must rethink how to live with "less reliance on imported energy and materials." The author concludes by rejecting the temptation to retreat into a purely aesthetic Romanticism. Instead, he resolves to "stay sober and industrious," planting new gardens and articulating a politics that dispenses with modernist figments.
Loving the views at all is at least entry-level Romanticism of the kind that's needed if we're to have any hope of navigating toward a better world.
Smaje's argument is that the path forward lies not in choosing between the far-left and far-right, but in rediscovering "vital political traditions like Romanticism and distributism." He acknowledges that this enterprise is "thankless and daunting," inviting indifference or ridicule. Yet, he insists that the alternative—continuing on the current trajectory of fossil-fuel dependence and colonial growth—is unsustainable. The piece ends on a note of determined pragmatism: "I have new gardens to plant." This simple statement encapsulates his belief that the future will be built not through grand ideological battles, but through the slow, local work of rebuilding our relationship with the land.
Bottom Line
Smaje's most compelling argument is that the binary of left and right is a modernist construct that blinds us to the biophysical limits of our world. His biggest vulnerability is the risk that his call for a return to localism and shared property rights may seem impractical to those entrenched in the current global economy. Readers should watch for his upcoming work on the "petty bourgeoisie" and how it might bridge the gap between these competing political visions.
We cannot imagine the less monetised, less energised and more localised worlds of the past involving more people and more wildlife on farms, or imagine that it's feasible or acceptable to project such ways of being into the future.