BY DOMINIC WIGHTMAN
The Number 25 rolled on towards the waterfront, revealing the juxtaposition of sleek modernity against the backdrop of historic stone buildings crumbling gently with age in sea fog. An evolving landscape—successive layers of adaptation sculpted through the oft brutal trials of time. Built from materials shaped by their environment, each crack and beam a response to a myriad of factors, just as organisms adapt through natural selection.
Each structure told a tale of human struggle and ingenuity, much like the stained glass of St Andrew’s Minster, first shattered in the Civil War and then destroyed by Hitler pre ‘resurgam’.
As the bus jolted, it took a turn past vibrant residential areas, adorned with graffiti and headdresses, where families from a spectrum of backgrounds coalesced—at least some gave it a shot (or stab, as a cynic might add in Labour Britain, 2024).
This ‘community’—a cocktail of HMOs and council flats, bursting with emotions—resembled an ecosystem where interplay and interaction define existence. Each person represented a different ‘species’ within the collective identity of Plymouth: mechanics, artists, labourers, tramps and a sprinkling of dreamers, all interdependent, shaped by circumstance as they navigated the urban jungle or got lost in the local swamp’s creeping mist, scented increasingly with skunk and cider as we headed inland.
I have no idea why–perhaps it was something in the mist–but the concept of Intelligent Design (ID) had sprung to mind—an idea positing that the universe and its living things are best explained by an intelligent cause.
The ID perspective suggests that an external force meticulously curates every detail of existence, from Earth’s precise distance from the Sun to the intricacies of a hummingbird’s anatomy. The bombardier beetle and giraffe are the go-to pleadings of the ID brigade. (They are fond of the watchmaker theory too but that has been as well shattered as St Andrew’s glass).
ID is less and less in vogue and I am sorry to say, ID devotees, that, as I observed life unfolding around me, I recognised more the spontaneous order of nature—a dynamic thriving in chaos rather than control. Plymouth’s cultural cauldron and bomb-smashed architecture more mirrored speciation in the natural world.
Consider how immigrants have historically brought with them new ideas that interlace into the local fabric, contributing to an identity that is ever evolving, much like genetic diversity enhances the likelihood of survival.
Would an intelligent designer truly inculcate such a complicated web of cause and effect? Or is it more plausible that these varieties emerged organically, guided by evolutionary principles and shaped by environmental pressures and chance mutations?
‘The next stop is Rusty Anchor.’
As neighbourhoods slipped by, so I began to see reflections of adaptive behaviour everywhere:
Public parks flourished with resilient plants growing haphazardly in cracks of the pavement, akin to how species push their ranges to exploit new niches. Nature, it seems, is an entrepreneur—innovating, experimenting, and often succeeding in the most random ways.
The adaptability on display in Plymouth, so ruined during World War Two, aligned beautifully with Darwinian principles, showcasing everything from the survival of the fittest to serendipitous genetic drift.
As we passed through Citadel, passengers, at least on my side of the bus, caught glimpses of the stunning Royal William Yard in the distance, an epitome of regeneration and architectural evolution. Flats and offices to die for, as no doubt many did.
My musings began to crystallise…
If intelligent design implies direct involvement from a designer, how do we explain the evident imperfections, violent natural disasters, and cruelties of predation permeating the fabric of nature?
Shouldn’t a preordained world be devoid of adversity or pain?
This dissonance led me to consider that perhaps the universe isn’t a grand design after all, rather a vast, functional network spun by natural mechanisms intertwined with chance.
When the Number 25—an economical, circular way for a tourist like me to explore Plymouth without resorting to an expensive open-top tourist trap manned by a moron with a microphone—finally returned to its starting point, my contemplation coalesced into a firm conviction: the concept of intelligent design falters when put side by side with empirical evidence and scientific reasoning.
Nature, with its inherent complexity, exemplifies evolution.
The alleles, struggles, and triumphs across time, and Plymouth, reveal far less about meticulous engineering and more about a deep interconnectivity grounded in chaos, necessity, and adaptability.
‘Still always keep an open mind,’ I thought, but I don’t know why.
As I disembarked, I found myself, in no way mockingly, asking God for a sign.
A quiet whisper had crept into my heart, intimating that a tender thread still connected the realms of faith and science: who’s to say that evolution, in all its exquisite variations, could not also play a role in a divine plan, with God imbuing His wisdom, premeditated, into existence?
At that moment, a vertically challenged, unshaven fellow approached on the thin pavement of Plymouth’s Barbican area, in front of the Boston Tea Party café, pushing a bird cage on wheels.
The cage was full of budgies.
“Can you name them all?” a student exiting the café joked with his mates, then leant over the cage, momentarily blocking the path.
The budgie pusher, clearly inebriated at five past midday, and slurring his speech, responded angrily, leaving me both enlightened and somewhat overwhelmed:
“Yaaaa-(in the)-waaay.” (Pronounce this in your best Plymouth pirate accent after downing a few bottles of Bucky).
The student moved to one side.
I too was moved.
And so it was that we all moved on, still none the wiser.
Dominic Wightman is the Editor of Country Squire Magazine and the author of Dear Townies and Arcadia among other books.