Just over 800 years ago, in the autumn of 1224, a small band of strangely dressed men landed at Dover. They were the first ambassadors in England of a new religious movement that was sweeping across Europe, inspired by the preaching and example of Francis of Assisi. These first Franciscans dressed, ate and lived with ostentatious simplicity: a contemporary chronicler marvelled that they walked barefoot, even in the snow, and drank nothing but the thick dregs of beer. Though they sometimes met with derision and hostility, their order would come to have a profound influence on medieval society.

The Franciscans, with their commitment to radical poverty, are one of the case studies chosen by Annette Kehnel in The Green Ages as an example of ‘medieval innovations in sustainability’. ‘There were times when we humans knew the limitations of our planet better than we do now’, she says, arguing that we should look to the past for ways of sharing and conserving the Earth’s resources more sustainably. If capitalism has driven us to the brink of ecological catastrophe, premodern economies may offer useful alternative models. Though she does not propose a wholesale return to a medieval economy, Kehnel suggests that history can provide inspiration, ‘to awaken our sense of the possibilities out there, and to help us to think outside now defunct thought patterns’.

To this end, she discusses how premodern European societies dealt with issues such as the fair distribution of natural resources, experiments in communal living, and recycling. From fisheries in Lake Constance to forestry management in Alsace and pasture lands in the Alps, she skilfully describes how the communities which relied on these resources developed collective methods of handling them sustainably, since it was in everyone’s interest to ensure they remained productive in the long term.

Medieval monasteries are identified as a model for what Kehnel calls ‘sharing communities’, since their dedication to communal living and the shrewd management of their estates often brought them great prosperity. She writes with particular warmth about beguinages, a special kind of semi-monastic community found mostly in Belgium and the Netherlands in the later Middle Ages. These were urban settlements formed of single lay women who wanted to live in an enclosed community without having to take religious vows. Such women enjoyed the benefits of collective organisation, while retaining control of their own property; the beguinage gave them more flexibility than a convent, though they still had to leave if they wanted to marry.

Despite the book’s subtitle, not all the examples selected are medieval. Most are drawn from Western Europe in the late Middle Ages, but several extend well into the 17th and 18th centuries. One chapter takes in ancient Greece, where Diogenes the Cynic, living in a ceramic storage jar in the Athenian marketplace, is hailed as a forerunner of minimalism and the tiny house movement. This historical breadth makes sense, because the book does not seek to identify any specifically medieval attitudes to sustainability. With some of the practices Kehnel discusses, such as repairing broken items rather than throwing them away, you only have to go back a few generations to find better ways of doing things; the gap is not between medieval attitudes and modern ones, but between the last few decades and most of human history.

Many of the case studies Kehnel puts forward are attractively described, and it is refreshing to see such a positive argument about what can be learned from premodern ways of living. However, the emphasis on economic models does leave some questions unanswered. How far can the economic advantages of these sustainability initiatives realistically be disentangled from their cultural and social context? The prosperity of medieval monasteries, for instance, was underpinned by the carefully regulated nature of their communal life, which allowed them to function but might prove distinctly less palatable today: strict hierarchy, constraints on personal relationships, uniformity in dress and subjection of the individual will to the good of the community. More than this, they were held together by an agreed set of spiritual beliefs and moral norms, which were constantly reinforced by teaching and sanctions for those who transgressed. Can you do away with all those things and expect to reap the benefits of communal living in the same way?

The Green Ages does a neat job of translating premodern practices into language that might appeal to modern secular society: unfashionable ideas such as frugality and abstinence sound more attractive if you call them sustainability, minimalism and eco-conscious living. In the process, though, we may lose sight of just how radical a challenge some of these ideologies could present to their own time, let alone to ours. If Diogenes or Francis of Assisi preached what we would today call minimalism, it was as one part of visionary philosophies that set them in opposition to all the values of contemporary society, not only its economic priorities. Perhaps only the romance and drama of such transformative visions can be inspiring enough to encourage adherents to make huge sacrifices. After all, people didn’t join the Franciscans and drink beer dregs because they wanted to conserve beer resources, but because they thought it would bring them closer to God.

In the absence of a similarly powerful ideology, what might stimulate our post-religious society to sacrifice comfort and convenience for more sustainable ways of living? It is an urgent question, and to answer it we may well gain inspiration from looking to the past. However, we might find that those who confronted the assumptions of their own society are still able to challenge us – and not only in ways we might like.

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  The Green Ages: Medieval Innovations in Sustainability
  Annette Kehnel, translated by Gesche Ipsen
  Profile, 320pp, £22
  Buy from bookshop.org (affiliate link)

  
  

Eleanor Parker is a columnist at History Today.