Detectorists

I'm relieved to recall I whacked Detectorists on to last week's "10 best" of 2017 TV, so needn't convince you of what a beautiful respite from the rest of the year it has been: its lack of judgmentalism, its gentle tolerance of human frailty, its being gallantly unafraid of silence, at spiritual poles to febrile Twitter spats, to endless virtue signalling and 24-hour offence-taking. The last-ever series (we're told) ended with the closest it could ever come to "villains", the pitifully pompous "Simon and Garfunkel" (last season, in an inspired little twist, they had to give their real names to police: Peters and Lee) being welcomed into the arms of the Danebury Metal Detecting Club, not without a few grateful tears on behalf of Garfunkel, the splendid Simon Farnaby. Andy (Mackenzie Crook) and Lance (Toby Jones) didn't, quite, get to do the "gold dance" at the close... cleverly, the high camera simply lingered, ambiguously, on the magpie's tree, as, coin by coin, then in a rush, it began to shed its secrets on to the sward below.

The very last drone-camera shot had the boys, alerted by some sixth sense, ambling towards the tree. I'm tempted to beg for more, but begin to wonder if creator Crook isn't quite right to leave it at this: perfect, and thus unimprovable, a treasure to be simply yearned over with wry wistfulness. Pub? Yeah, go on then.

Old rivalries are put aside and there's an auction in store for Becky and Andy, in this final-ever episode. Shall we ever see the like again? Deeply imbued with Englishness and English folk tradition (this series was inspired by a performance from folk sisters the Unthanks), yet without a shred of parochialism, this televisual seam of pure-spun gold has been a bucolic balm in an otherwise shrill world. Detectorists reminds us that nothing is ever truly lost.

Detectorists: We'll miss this gentle comedy gem

This week, with the UK under deep snowdrifts we bid farewell to the always summery Detectorists.