dovegreyreader scribbles

Jacob's Room is Full of Books ~ Susan Hill

It's no good, I can't keep quiet about this a minute longer and I need to squeeze in the news while I head off on my antipodean adventure from whence I will try and write the occasional blog post, but will definitely be putting pictures and a few words over on Instagram (recently described as the Radio 3 of social media) so please do follow and comment there if you want to. The link is here but the pictures will also appear on the sidebar over here <<<<<<<<<

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jacob's Room is Full of Books, with its glorious cover, will be published on October 5th. Obviously I am excited because, like Howards End is on the Landing, it is another book from Susan Hill about books and reading and, having read it, I know many of you are going to love it. Susan has written a memoir of her reading year and you will emerge with a fantastic reading list. Susan and I have regular e mail contact and bookish talk is top of the agenda once we've moaned about the world a bit, she keeps me up to speed on the world of publishing and always ready with an opinion or a reading suggestion (and I reciprocate). Many of you will remember that is was Susan who published the Tinker's memoir Bugle Boy (and who gave him that name, which he loved) and our friendship continued.

Yes, yes, that's all very lovely but really, the bit I am most excited about is this because it has never happened before...

Look who Jacob's Room is Full of Books is dedicated to...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Candlestick Chapter

The Candlestick Chapter is still very much out there and active, a small group of you who receive the newest poetry pamphlets from Candlestick Press and then offer thoughts on them, it's just me who has let the summer break run away with her and must now play catch up. 

And we have a lot of catching up to do so thoughts and discussions will be coming in comments from Chapter participants about these (and hopefully you will join in) and my thanks to them for their hard work. And thank you to Candlestick Press for posting the pamphlets around the world. The bit the Chapter don't know yet is that they have pamphlets galore to come in time for C*******s.

Meanwhile, stand by for the delights of Ten Poems about Clouds, Telephones, Birds and Kindness...

 

"The Dart, lying low in darkness calls out 'Who is it?' " ...it was me.

I have been soaking up Alice Oswald's Dart all year. Matching the words to the walks as my Walking Friend and  I have meandered alongside the East Dart and up the valley on Dartmoor...

and with my sights set firmly on the journey to Cranmere Pool I booked that place on the guided walk months ago. 

'The Dart, lying low in darkness calls out Who is it?
trying to summon itself by speaking...'

This was further fuelled by a poem in Alice Oswald's latest collection Falling Awake called very aptly A Drink From Cranmere Pool..

Amphibious vagueness

neither pool nor land

under whose velvet

three rivers spring to their tasks

 

in whose indecent hills

tired of my voice

I followed the advice of water

knelt and put my mouth

 

to a socket in the grass...

 

I have massacred personalised my very precious signed copy of Dart with marginalia about the walks, and drawn maps on those handy blank pages at the back...

In the days before I walked out to Cranmere Pool I had also been re-reading (maybe for the fifth or sixth time) The Living Mountain by Nan Shepherd. Each time I read it something different is happening in my life and thus something different jumps off the page.

This time...

'One cannot know the rivers till one has seen them at their sources; but this journey to the sources is not one to be undertaken lightly. One walks among elementals and elementals are not governable. There are awakened also in oneself by the contact elementals that are as unpredictable as wind or snow.'

Never a truer word written about a walk to East Dart head than those, or these from Eric Hemery in High Dartmoor, the definitive book about the Moor...

'This is a place to visit alone or with one or two like-minded companions, to absorb the silence and be absorbed by it, for there is no place quite like it in Britain. The rim of the huge pan shuts out the centuries, preserving elemental purity - it is untouched by history.'

And when I stood at East Dart Head I felt it...

 It's a visceral place where that sense of isolation runs deep...

...as does the sense of awe and wonder that it is here the mighty river that will make its way down to Dartmeet, 

'a mob of waters
where East Dart smashes into West Dart.'

For much of the early summer the Dart was at peace with itself, docile and tranquil. Not so since the rains came, mob rule has taken over...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

But the river that will eventually emerge at Dartmouth on the south Devon coast is born here in this place seven miles or so from the nearest road..

'in the black gland of the earth
the tiny inkling of a river...' 

Alice Oswald - River (Woods etc)

The Dartmoor writer and artist the late Brian Carter is about to undergo something of a welcome resurgence with the re-publication of one of his novels in 2018  but we know him best for his books in the 1980s about the moors and his love for them, this from Dartmoor - The Threatened Wilderness (1987)

'The Dart is my favourite river. Whenever I see it behind my thoughts is the flash of sunlight through rowan leaves and the stony scent of water and moss. Going alone up the East Dart to Cranmere Pool I am confronted by the familiar invested directly with a splendour springing from the whole wilderness experience.'

Brian Carter goes on to say something which touched on those feelings of desolation expressed by Beatrix Cresswell when she visited Cranmere Pool in 1900...

'Many find bleakness and solitude intolerable; but what can seem a hostile environment to the casual visitor my be an area of immense interest to those who love it for what it is...'

I did love East Dart head for what it is and walking out there again is now top of my list.

The pictures barely match the impression left in my mind...the burnished bronze of the upland grasses tinged with russets and purples are hard to describe, as is the silence. The group had walked on and oblivious I was still standing there, the quiet so profound I ended up saying something to make sure I hadn't gone deaf. It was the strangest of moments and I could have sat there for hours and soaked up many more of them.

As it is I crunched and sloshed my way to catching up (by this time it was 80 degrees plus in old money) but had to keep looking over my shoulder to believe what I had just seen and felt, and I hope that magic will stay with me for ever.

Footnote : I am using Instagram alongside and inbetween blog posts now, so keep an eye on the pictures over here <<<< for updates. Clicking on them should reveal all without you having to sign up, and in case you missed it here's a morsel of film footage taken at East Dart Head. 

 

 

Cranmere Pool

"I do not believe any lady could get to Cranmere in a damp year, when every crack in the soil would be filled with water, and the ground soaking and shaking underfoot. Indeed I presently grew quite exhausted ; we knew the pool must be quite close to us, yet could not find it...'

Beatrix F. Cresswell, writing in the Homeland Handbook 'Dartmoor and Its Surroundings' in 1900 did get to Cranmere Pool, directed by old Mr Perrott, the legendary moorland guide of the day, who she had been to visit the night before for instructions. 

' An expedition to Cranmere Pool is an undertaking to be approached with much consideration. The weather should be of the finest; indeed a season of settled dryness is almost necessary for reaching the place at all. From 18 to 20 miles of hard walking must be expected...'

The trouble was that when Beatrix arrived at Cranmere Pool she was filled with a deep sense of anxiety and foreboding...

'I shall never forget the impression of utter loneliness that seemed to gather over the Moor - as far as I could see only dark swampy soil; the very heather seemed no colour in that dreary hollow...the great tors seemed to shut me in...a desperate wish to get up and run away seized me, yet I dared not stir for fear my companion should lose me altogether.'

I doubt any of this can have been helped by the dress of the day, or the lack of good maps, waterproofs, breathable layers, goretex boots, a comfortable rucksack with two litres of water on board and a pair of Pacer Poles, all of which I had upon my person when I ventured out to Cranmere Pool on a guided walk on Bank Holiday Monday. I booked it ages ago and had been wondering for months what the weather would be like because it was going to be a challenging eight hour day...little was I to know that it would be the hottest Bank Holiday on record.

But unlike Beatrix I savoured every second. A small group of ten ably led by the very nimble Shona from the Dartmoor Rescue Group (who had valiantly instructed us to leave our safety kit behind and use the weight for food and water instead, while she carried a rucksack the size of a bungalow). Mile after mile of vast open space, the colours of the Moor defying description and the sense that here is a place virtually unchanged by history, no signs of habitation bar the occasional hut. Cranmere sits in the midst of the military training area but we have the Moor to ourselves in August.

Cranmere Pool, as well as being the location for the Moor's first letterbox, is high Dartmoor, the upland fens the source of many of the south-west's biggest rivers and I haven't walked them for a long time. Teign, Dart, Taw, Okement all have their heads here, so the ground is understandably boggy and soggy but not impossible if, as Beatrix advises, you choose the right conditions for the journey.. and certainly don't even bother if rain is forecast.

The high ground alternately crunched and sloshed underfoot and there was some bog-hopping and stick-prodding from one spot to the next whilst keeping a careful eye for this sort of thing...

 And then when you reach Cranmere Pool (proof on my mobile OS map that I really did)

...this unimposing stone cabinet is what you will find...

 But inside there are treasures...

 Duly signed by me, albeit not very imaginatively.... I was very very hot.

 ...and my own little book stamped...

And this is the extent of the 'pool' , the basin is thought to have been drained many years ago...

In Beatrix's day...

'The pool must be described as a moist expanse of peaty soil too soft to tread on, yet seldom covered with any great depth of water. In truth the whole locality is the 'urn of the Moor, whence the rivers have their birth.'

Walking back we passed the head of the East Dart river, birth place of Alice Oswald's Dart, and I was sufficiently overcome to think that deserves a post of its own. I'm not sure I have ever been to a more evocative and silent place.

Meanwhile I survived sans disaster or unwanted sequelae beyond anything that a prolonged soak in a Radox bath couldn't resolve, and blessed the day that I had decided to buy this fancy water reservoir thing with a drinking tube attached that slotted effortlessly, neatly and comfortably into my rucksack, because it kept me little-and-often hydrated throughout the day.

Oh that and and my lovely boots of course...

 

 

The Underground Railroad ~ Colson Whitehead

I had absolutely no intention of reading anything on the Man Booker short list this year.

Nothing, not a single book. I was over it.

That was until a reading friend persuaded me otherwise, lauding The Underground Railroad by Colson Whitehead and Paul Auster's 4 3 2 1 in the same sentence. It was a Sunday morning, it was gloomy and raining and all of an instant I had to have the books in my hand, Kindle versions wouldn't do.

Does this happen to you...this all-of-a-suddeness about a book (or two books).

I had Waterstones Loyalty Card stamps to hand (£10-worth) so off we went and two hours, bookshop, cake-coffee and papers later I was home and clutching my spoils...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I added in Barkskins by Annie Proulx on the Buy-One-Get-One-Half-Price thing because it seemed rude not to, besides which I haven't read Annie Proulx since she was E.Annie Proulx and writing The Shipping News, Postcards, Heartsongs, Accordian Crimes et al, so I've missed a decade or two.

By Monday afternoon I had finished The Underground Railroad, that's how compelling it was for me and there was me thinking I couldn't bring myself to read any more about slavery.

"Cora is a slave on a cotton plantation in Georgia. All the slaves lead a hellish existence, but Cora has it worse than most; she is an outcast even among her fellow Africans and she is approaching womanhood, where it is clear even greater pain awaits. When Caesar, a slave recently arrived from Virginia, tells her about the Underground Railroad, they take the perilous decision to escape to the North..."

I'm not going to elaborate on content or plot but suffice to say that, though the reading is often harrowing, the detail is not gratuitous and I felt in very safe hands with Colson Whitehead's prose style. He creates tunnels, trains, rails and drivers when in fact of course the 'underground railroad' was actually a network of people and safe houses above ground who helped the slaves escape to freedom. I was reminded of the subterranean would in Neil Gaiman's Neverwhere and for Colson Whitehead this became a device that allowed his narrative to move Cora from one state to the next whilst examining the differing attitudes to slavery that she would meet. There were parallels with Biblical plagues, the life of Anne Frank and Messianic salvation that make me want to read the book again because I suspect there is much I have missed.

What I didn't miss was a startling moment when a savage incident of punishment witnessed in Cora's slave life is mirrored in another entirely different social event in her 'free' life, and it was as if I had touched 240 volts of live wire. I think there was an audible gasp as the connections arced across and I had to stop reading for a while.  

Of even greater interest and revelation to me was the gaping chasm (and with apologies to all of you who read this in the US) in my knowledge and understanding of early nineteenth century American history, for which there can be no excuse. I have remedied that with some background reading which has helped align dates, causes and conflicts whilst dispelling some of the myths and misinformation that had crept in along the way. I have done a lot of background reading on the apparent myth of the Underground Railroad quilt phenomenon too.

There is a moment in the book when Cora joins in with a quilting bee..

'She cut out a bird, a cardinal; it came out looking like something dogs had fought over. Sybil and Molly encouraged her, they had badgered her into their pastime - but the quilt was botched. Fleas had found the batting, she insisted. The seams puckered, her corners unjoined. The quilt betrayed a crookedness in her thinking: run it up a pole as flag of her wild country. She wanted to set it aside but Sybil forbid her. "You start something else when this one is finished," Sybil said. " But this ain't finished yet."

Cora needed no advice on the virtues of perseverance....'

For those that may not know about this, Underground Railroad quilts are something that have long hovered in my quilter's imagination...

The notion that quilts and the named blocks were used as a device to inform the slaves (most of them kept intentionally illiterate) of escape routes and directions to take....Jacob's Ladder, Bear's Paw, North Star, Tumbling Blocks, Crossroads, Wagon Wheel but the evidence is apparently flawed, with accusations rife of romanticising and a latter-day cashing in on the plight of the slaves. Historians require written evidence whilst all that exists, if at all, is largely oral history, 'informed conjecture' and with no evidence of accurately dated quilts, or that the names of the blocks even existed at the time (quilt historian Barbara Brackman is very definite about this.)

Others argue that written history at the time was the preserve of the few, and certainly not the slaves, so oral history is all there could possibly be.

And whilst not wishing to further propagate the myth the quilter in me understands the reasons and the opportunities ... the chance to attach significance, to reinterpret the symbolism, to pay homage and to stitch it into a quilt. 

I've done it plenty of times (with other symbolism) myself after all...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I'd be interested to know your  thoughts on The Underground Railroad ...

 

Budleigh Salterton Literary Festival 2017 ~ Alex Preston @BudleighLitFest

"With a title taken from the poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins, the bestselling and award-winning novelist Alex Preston, most recently of the critically acclaimed In Love and War, talks about the inspiration behind his beautiful new book As Kingfishers Catch Fire.

A birdwatcher as a child, he began again in the books that he read, creating his own personal anthology of nature writing that brought the birds of his childhood back to brilliant life.

Looking for moments ‘when heart and bird are one’, Alex Preston weaves the very best writing about birds by writers from Keats to Ted Hughes, into a personal and eccentric narrative that is as much about the joy of reading and writing as it is about the thrill of wildlife.

Alex Preston appears regularly on BBC television and radio. He writes for GQ and Harper’s Bazaar as well as reviewing fiction for The Observer."

 

I have this book ready and waiting as a feast of glorious book production values along with page after page of colour that pleases the eye and prose to match, and now I have Alex Preston's presentation to remember. This was an interesting talk to follow on from Stephen Moss this morning, a literary bird trail at Budleigh along with a thoughtful take on the act of 'birding' (not twitching apparently). Mindfulness is something birders have been doing since time immemorial and one of the many bonuses of Alex Preston's talk was the highlighting of the poetry of Mary Oliver.

Mary Oliver known to many of us, but I hadn't realised that she wasn't actually published here in the U.K., though apparently that is about to be rectified, but the reading of her poem Wild Geese brought tears to every eye. This literary journey through twenty-one bird species is very special.

There was a good signing queue and throughout the rest of the afternoon, as people sat waiting for other events to start, I saw people furtively getting As Kingfishers Catch Fire out of their bags, staring at and stroking the cover and then having a quick peek inside. Curlew had the person in front of me entranced and I thought "Yes you are in for a real treat when you get home".

 

Budleigh Salterton Literary Festival 2017 ~ Stephen Moss @BudleighLitFest

"Nature is always full of surprises – whether it’s the strange behaviour of clothes moths or the gruesome larder of the shrike.

Stephen Moss, naturalist, co-author of the award-winning Tweet of The Day and award-winning producer of Springwatch and Britain’s Big Wildlife Revival, takes us on a year-long journey from encounters with the curious black redstart, which winters on our rocky coasts, to the early morning autumn mist of London’s Richmond Park where male red deer lock horns in competition for a mate."

 

Day Two of my three days at this year's Budleigh Literary Festival and what a lovely, warm and welcoming bookish atmosphere there is around the town. My head is filling up with inspiration and ideas and enthusiasm which I will be squirrelling away for those winter months when I return from spring time in New Zealand to the clocks going back and the dark.

Much as I love it, it's high time I found a new book to read alongside Roger Deakin's Notes From Walnut Tree Farm for my regular dose of outdoor reading. I've been reverting to the same book every year since it was published, I am word-perfect on Roger's year and the book is littered with little diary marginalia of my own. Anyway, I think I might have cracked it...

In collaboration with Brett Westwood, Stephen Moss ( I wrote about Wild Kingdom as part of the Wainwright reading) has written a beautiful book with an entry for each day of the year on Britain's wildlife, with something to 'see' every day.

Once a BBC producer of Springwatch, Stephen is now course leader on the MA in Nature & Travel Writing at Bath Spa University and he talked persuasively about the connections between nature and memory that so many of us have shared discussions about here in the past. How those childhood experiences, and the associated wonder, can be recalled as an adult by the same sighting.

We all smiled at the suggestion that sometimes 'the very best nature can be found in the car park' and how people might feel 'nature averse' and uninformed but in fact it's about attitude and making the effort.

I didn't get to ask a question but if I had it would have been about recommendations for learning birdsong. I'm still bird-confused, but suspect it's about 'attitude' and 'making the effort' on my part, and I know you have all offered sage advice in the past but please could you offer it again?

Meanwhile Wonderland will be on my Christmas list because, like Stephen Moss, I want to start with a clean nature slate next January and see what I see.

Budleigh Salterton Literary Festival 2017 ~ Alastair Sawday @BudleighLitFest

"Teacher, environmentalist and campaigner, Alastair Sawday has spent his life travelling. In his charming memoir, he will share with Carol Ackroyd his gradual awakening to the fragility of everything we love through contemplative, consciously slow journeying.

Every visit uncovers difference – from France profonde to the darker side of Sicily, and to the flora, fauna, and silence of rural Britain. He’ll give voice to those of us who have climbed no mountains or discovered no rivers, but who yearn to understand the world and make sense of its infinite variety.

The founder of Sawday’s Travel Guides, he will be celebrating regional character, respecting the environment and absorbing the landscape."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you know those serendipitous moments when someone talks about something that is in your thinking that day?

 

Well, it happened twice in Alistair Sawday's talk...

 

Firstly he mentioned Ladakh in N. India...so hot foot across to the Instagram feed <<<<< and there you will see that I have been posting some of the Kayaker's pictures of Ladakh in connection with my Snow Leopard week (blame Jackie Morris for that, more soon). I was immediately tuned in.

 

And then mention of Between the Woods and the Water by Patrick Leigh Fermor and the beautiful prose therin when I have just turned to it having finished A Time of Gifts.

 

Born in Kashmir in 1945, Alistair Sawday talked us through his journeys to extraordinary places but with some perceptive questions from chair Carol Ackroyd we all learned a great deal about the perils of  mass tourism. 

 

"Tourism tends to destroy that which it loves.. the beast that turns a blind eye to its own excesses" and with it came fascinating insights into the travel business today and the damage being done. It is clear we need to rethink the way we travel, where we go, why we go, and how we go.

 

And who knew about "tourismophobia" ...communities campaigning about mass tourism. However many thousands of people visited Venice last year, it was a lot, and the checks and balances need to be considered with care and consideration for those that live in the midst.

 

One of the things that struck me most about A Time of Gifts was Patrick Leigh Fermor's ability, as a young man to travel without anxiety, with no fear about finding a bed for the night. Alastair Sawday suggests the latter day narrative of travel needs to be re-written, we are becoming risk-averse...

 

I wonder what you think?

 

I'm as guilty as the next person these days...flying long haul to New Zealand, wanting to know where I will be sleeping that night. We were almost room-less in Inverness last year and that wasn't funny.

 

I suspect this spontaneity gets more difficult with age. I'm sure, in fact I know, that it never worried me when I was younger.

 

There was much talk about ethical business models, greed and expectation and extractive practices, versus giving back to the community and employee ownership. It's not hard to see which is fairer but also rarer.

 

All in all so much to think about that my head was spinning, but that is what the best literary festivals offer, along with Earl Grey tea and the best cake (Posh Nosh are doing Budleigh proud in the marquee) then it was off to hear Dame Hilary Mantel. 

 

 

Budleigh Salterton Literary Festival 2017 ~ David Crystal @BudleighLitFest

Budleigh Literature Festival 2017 @BudleighLitFest

This walking on Dartmoor is all well and good, and look how fit we all are, but there's nothing like a good literary festival in a really nice venue to keep me on the reading paths, so this week I'm taking you all off to South Devon's wonderful Budleigh Salterton by the sea.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We'll have a couple of days of sea air and some short bookish posts. The programme is wide-ranging and fascinating so I'll be blogging on the go on my iPad from the festival marquee (hopefully with tea and cake to hand) about the events various.

 

 

 

 

 

Number Forty-One...

Forty-one years ago today since the vicar handed me the piece of paper (note smug look on face and 70's page-boy hair and Juliet cap) and Bookhound stood to attention and wondering what on earth he had just let himself in for...

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Lost Words ~ Robert Macfarlane & Jackie Morris

I've been digging around in the blog cellars again...

Imagine if you will it is June 1st 2015 and Bookhound and I have spent the day at the Hay Literary Festival specifically to hear Helen Macdonald talk about H is For Hawk and Robert Macfarlane talk about Landmarks. We were on the road at 5am and we have a long drive back to the Tamar Valley but I am allowed one more sortie...

"Granted one more sniff of the Festival Book Shop, off I trotted at about 7.30pm and there he was, Robert Macfarlane with his signing queue still snaking out of the door. I watched for a while... he was talking interestedly and at length to each person and it was clear plenty of people were prepared to wait for the opportunity. Plenty too seemed to be offering suggestions about more words for the glossaries in Landmarks, laying out books in front of him with carefully marked pages, turning to each one and pointing something out while Robert looked on and listened with patient attention. In the rarified microcosm that is a literary festival this all seemed to be signalling a heightened awareness and a genuine revival of respect for these disappearing words before it is too late, and it can only be hoped that the interest and enthusiasm spreads beyond the confines. As well as taking an interest in schools' projects, Robert Macfarlane revealed that he will be collaborating on a children's book in the near future, one that brings back the words lost from this year's Oxford Junior Dictionary, words like catkin and acorn, buttercup and bluebell (replaced by blog, broadband, cut-and-paste and voice-mail.) so it is clear that he has a commendable vision for this that goes far beyond the pages of his book.

Something interesting has begun...."

Well that 'something interesting' had begun and now it bears fruit because The Lost Words by Robert Macfarlane and Jackie Morris will be published by Hamish Hamilton on October 5th and you can read more about the book's genesis from Jackie here.

Magicians the pair of them...

I could just say that and leave it there because The Lost Words  is such pure enchantment and genius of collaboration that I really don't want to spoil the magic for any of you by giving too much away, either about the spells or the pictures.

These spells deserve a little bit of mystery, anticipation and the unexpected, a big reveal; Robert's words conjuring up the 'near-lost magic' and the mood of twenty words from Acorn to Wren, whilst Jackie's illustrations wave like a wand across the pages bringing the words from near invisibility into being. The intention is to read aloud, to seek, to find and speak, to discover the things that are missing and hidden, the absence and the re-appearance, to unfold dreams and summon the lost words back into the imagination and the mind's eye. Bramble marches, conker glows, dandelion dazzles, fern flares. I sense the welcome stardust of Gerard Manley Hopkins in these pages, there is subtle assonance and alliteration, hints of in-scape and in-stress, spells that will commit to memory and it is easy to imagine little fingers seeking the words in the cascade of letters or tracing the goldfinches across the pages...

...or finding acorns and wanting to plant them because 'as kindness is to good so acorn is to wood.'

...or revisiting the forgotten beauty of conkers, their burnished glow. 

...or waiting for bluebell season with renewed anticipation to find 'the late-day light' and to step into the ocean.

When I turned the page to Jackie's double-page bluebell wood I was as startled as if I had stumbled on a real bluebell wood by chance, it is no exaggeration to say I was 'pulled down by the hue,' and 'lost in the depths' of the page. I want the colour in my mind's eye for ever, no camera can replicate Jackie's exactness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The book will be a gift of great magnitude for any child given that it measures 15" by 11" (you'll need a whole sheet of wrapping paper) and weighs in at premature baby size. It's a book that is scaled up rather than scaled down, a joy to see these days, and I am envisaging children clutching this under their arms with looks of acute concentration on their faces.

But the children can't have all the fun because I am imagining grown-ups doing likewise.

I'll be tramping in New Zealand on launch day and I'll never get the date right anyway with the time difference, but I'll be there in spirit and I'm giving you advance warning now, time enough to plan, because seriously, make sure you are somewhere special to buy a copy of The Lost Words on October 5th. Make it a memorable Day of The Lost Words (the official launch will be on that day with a ticketed event at Foyles in London) and if you don't have a child to buy for, don't worry, buy one for yourself (in fact buy one for yourself anyway) because I can promise you won't regret it. I have been regularly nursing mine on my lap for several weeks. For children The Lost Words is an early investment in awe and wonder, a chance to know the words that are disappearing from the dictionary; for us more weathered and cynical grown-ups it is a chance to rewind the wonder-clock and be enchanted once again. Each time I pick the book up, or maybe it picks me up, I'm not sure because I often abandon what I am doing and read some spells, and each time I see new things. Children will see even more. And each time I have a new favourite...

Maybe it's 'Huge-hinged heron'...

or perhaps it's the lark whose song is 'torrenting on.'

For now it is 'heather' because Dartmoor is awash with it at the moment...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

and here the last few lines (note how the upper case letters have spelt the word)

'Hold a heartful of heather, never let

    it wither,

Even as you travel far from crag and river -

Remember heather, the company it keeps,

    its treasure.'

And...oh alright, I'll give you a tiny glimpse of the picture...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Outskirts - Living Life on the Edge of the Green Belt ~ John Grindrod

I might be jetting off soon but we have plenty of bookish thoughts still to come before I do and, having seen that Outskirts by John Grindrod was in the offing, I was more than pleased when a copy arrived in the post..

'Coined by National Trust co-founder Octavia Hill at the end of the nineteenth century, the phrase 'Green Belt' originally formed part of an impassioned plea to protect the countryside. By the late 1950s, those idealistic Victorian notions had developed into something more complex and divisive. Green Belts became part of the landscape and psyche of post-war Britain, but would lead to conflicts at every level of society - between conservationists and developers, town and country, politicians and people, nimbys and the forces of progress....

The first book to tell the story of Britain's Green Belts, Outskirts is at once a fascinating social history, a stirring evocation of the natural world, and a poignant tale of growing up in a place, and within a family, like no other.'

And I grew up there too as I mentioned in a post backalong. John Grindrod hails from 46 Fairchildes Avenue, New Addington, me from nearby Mitcham, mid-way between the two is Croydon, my mum's go-to shopping venue for dressmaking fabrics (Allders) and we'd get a ride on the donkeys (Kennards). It's hard to believe that there was such a thing as donkey rides in a shopping arcade, but Kennards in the 1950s was that special. Years ago now, when I did that interview with Ralph McTell, also a Croydon lad, we spent an age talking about those donkeys; something a child would never forget.

In fact, could donkey rides for children in shopping arcades make a come-back or might health and safety, crash helmets, RSPCA, insurance, CRB checks, safe-guarding or infection control get in the way?

In a seamless blend of social history and anecdote John Grindrod has created a unique interpretation of place in Outskirts, and in doing so made that place special. Who else would bother to take a close look at an ordinary housing estate on the edge of the woods 'an intermediate nowhere', let alone make it this fascinating for the reader.

Woven into the fabric is John's remarkable family, his parents Marj and John and two brothers. Marj disabled and wheelchair-bound but don't be deceived, set aside any notions of limitations because Marj is game for anything. Whilst it might have been terrifying to cadge an excursion in her Invacar it would have been memorable for neighbour Joan Blood I am sure...(my asterisks because said words are blocked on here or I end up with spam galore)

'Marjorie on a cushion in the driver's seat, Joan next to her, like an ironing board in a mac...once behind the wheel all of her street-fighting Battersea childhood came out and she'd f*****g b*****d her way round the streets, winding down the windows and giving some van driver or reckless motorist a piece of her mind, two fingers and a bagful of bad language.'

Blended into the narrative of John's family life in the 1970s are the origins, history and development of the Green Belt, the protected chain of green land that started to purposefully surround our cities here in the UK in the post-war years, bought by councils to prevent or control further building. But someone has to live in the edge of it, on the rural boundaries, ' the intermediate nowhere' and with that came tensions and snobbery, along with class and social boundaries...the townies seen as trespassers, mocked and scorned for their lack of country knowledge. Coupled with this are the often fragile and fractured aspects of family life challenged by the gaping holes created, despite her best efforts, by John's mum's disability and illness, his dad's coping mechanisms and the family's preference for mental and emotional self-sufficiency.

'In my family, keeping it all in was the very least that could be expected of you. Forget public displays of affection, we could barely manage private displays of acquaintanceship.'

This was no more acutely demonstrated for me than in Marj's concealment of a pregnancy. hidden not for reasons of disability but by the low expectations of others.

John Grindrod doesn't flinch from examining his family's past, nor how it has affected the present, acknowledging the truths that are revealed, but sharing too the joy of that woodland across the road waiting to be explored (though by his own admission it didn't turn him into nature boy) which all makes for a fascinating and highly recommended read and I learned surprising Did-You-Know things along the way like these statistics...

Constituent Parts of the British Isles

Arable and horticulture 25%
Grassland - pasure, silage and recreation 25%
Mountains, heaths and bogs 16%
Semi-natural grasslands 13%
Coniferous woodland 6%
Broadleaf woodland 6%
Urban areas 6%
and an awful lot of golf courses.

I tended to think that cities took up a lot of space but it would seem they don't.

I'm thinking some of you, like me, might have grown up in the Green Belt ' a band of tame outdoors held in stasis' or perhaps live there now so I'd love to know your thoughts...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

New Zealand redux

I'm travelling at the end of this month, the day after I am unashamedly sixty-four...

"Doing the garden, digging the weeds, who could ask for more?
Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm sixty four?" etc

Who'd have thought it back in 1967 when my thirteen-year-old self was singing those words.

Preparations are well underway.

The first thing I declared after fifty-four hours of flying last time was...

"I'm not doing that again without a set of noise-cancelling head phones."

I know you all told me to get some... money well-spent, would make all the difference etc but somehow you just can't believe it until you have sat through fifty-four hours of engine noise, and every other sort of noise, and realised after about thirty minutes that your £30 set aren't going to cut the mustard. Anyway after a lot of research I have taken out a mortgage with John Lewis (why buy anything anywhere else these days) on a set of Sony something-or-others which seemed to get even better reviews than Bose. It's a shame because I've always coveted anything Bose, but the trouble is when you go to the shop, and try them all out whilst standing underneath a machine that creates aeroplane engine noise, you can immediately tell the difference and are hooked into the best pair whether you like or or not. 

This time around, and yes, I am just as excited about my first sighting of The Land of the Long White Cloud...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

...it's Air New Zealand all the way and I hope I have planned my flight times more carefully (I will never leave Singapore at midnight again). I will be going backwards for a change, as in outward to Los Angeles with long enough there to find my next boarding gate, thence to Auckland and on to Christchurch. Homeward via Singapore, so a great big circumnavigation of the world, and three weeks with Offspringette in the middle. As well as the International Quilting Symposium it is also the Christchurch Walking Festival so I shall be doing some tramping too, as well as day to day around the city rather than the big tourist trail around the entire South Island. 

You all gave me some wonderful advice and tips for my last long haul flight in January 2016 but I'm up for a new developments, discoveries and innovations, so all suggestions very welcome. After that first excursion I already have a list of must-haves and must-dos...

Small carry-on case with multi-directional wheels rather than a hold-all...

Capacious 'handbag'...

Inflatable foot rest...

Inflatable back cushion

Neck pillow...

I'll still be inflating all these things half-way across the Atlantic but it helps pass the time.

Anti-bacterial wipes...

Hand cream, lip salve....

Elasticated waist on whatever I am wearing...

Fluffy socks and slippers....

A pashmina/style wrap...

An aisle seat so that I can walk around when I want to rather than waking the comatose person next to me. Mind you I'm hoping that the comatose person might be me this time around...I don't think I slept a wink either way last time. 

And who was it who suggested the Simple eye gel stick?? Wonderful invention, thank you.

Having given up on my audio books last time I'm hoping for success this time. I actually wish I hadn't already listened to all Kate Atkinson's Jackson Brodie series, and Gail Honeyman's Eleanor Oliphant is Completely Fine because I enjoyed them so much. Currently I'm listening to Lenny Henry narrating My Name is Leon by Kit de Waal and it is exceptional in every respect...story and 'performance' stunning.

More audio book suggestions very welcome....

What would sustain me in my own little world through twenty-six hours of flying?

And music...

I know this is a very personal thing according to taste but what would sooth, even send me to sleep...

 

 

 

 

You are allowed...

...just the one guess...

Oh alright then here's another clue ...