The North Pole: The History of an Obsession by Erling Kagge | Book Review | Viking

 

'Much of the history of the North Pole is about men who were not willing to learn from their predecessors' mistakes,' writes Erling Kagge, Norwegian explorer and author of The North Pole: The History of an Obsession. There, I have (or, he has) summed up the book for you - but perhaps stay a while, as the meat of this fascinating book is in the detail.

Kagge is a Norwegian explorer with an impressive track record - the first to reach the ‘three poles’ (North, South and the summit of Mount Everest), and author of several well-known books. In this work, he partly focuses on his record, set in 1990, of becoming the first to reach the North Pole on skis, without any mechanical assistance or animal power, using it as a framework to paint a wandering history of polar exploration.

For me, a work that takes a place, time or topic as its central character - in this case, the North Pole - is true escapism, the epitome of non-fiction, seamlessly combining learning and enjoyment, all the while making the reading experience flow, linear like a novel. Kagge explores a huge variety of sources - literary, historical, zoological, geographical and more. From the world's earliest maps by Ptolemy and Mercator, to the golden age of British polar exploration towards the end of the 18th centruy; from Aristotle and Socrates to Columbus, James Cook, Fridtjof Nansen and Roald Amundsen, the character list is numerous and wide-ranging.

Undoubtedly, the history of polar exploration is colourful, inventive and entirely absurd at times. For many years, the predominant theory about the Arctic Ocean was that it was ice-free, if only one could reach far enough - so the attempts in the endless race to be the first to reach the North Pole, more often than not, ended in disaster. It is mind-bending how many journeys were taken by explorers across the globe - sometimes in the name of science or the advancement of human kind, but more often hubris (whether openly admitted or not) - and even more incredible to learn about the disastrous outcomes of most of them. Attempts were made by water, by air, by ice: creativity in this race knew no bounds. 

Another fascinating aspect is where funding for these journeys came from: royal support, family fortunes or media moguls would often back explorers to mount an expedition, with exclusive rights for coverage (as we know, disaster sells). If explorers survived their ordeal, but failed in what they set out to do, they would be shunned. If they died on their journey, they would become heroes. For almost three centuries, the public was entirely fascinated with the life-or-death drama of polar exploration, and only towards the mid-20th century did this begin to fade. Though, as this book shows, some of that fascination is still very much alive to this day.

What's more, to this day, we don't know for sure who, in fact, was the first to reach the North Pole by any means - historical records are dubious at best, and there were no photographs or tangible evidence to prove one's achievement. 

The history in itself is fascinating, but I did find that Kagge's reflections often seemed to mirror the very things he poked fun at - the machoism of explorers, the national pride, the search for improbable challenges, the need to win and impress. He often generalises about some explorers and nationalities, and romanticises others like sages. It's a touch black and white, which becomes apparent in the specific explorers that he chooses to dwell on, and which explorers he chooses to gloss over (I was personally offended by the lack of detail about the Franklin expeditions, for example).

There is also an undercurrent, a suggestion throughout the book, which feels a bit 'woe is me', that polar explorers overwhelmingly have daddy issues: most of the adventurers he dwells on (including himself) were abandoned by their fathers, were left by them quite young, or were simply ridiculed by them, spurring them on with a burning need to prove themselves.

I won't dwell on the fact that I think only two or three women are mentioned in the book in total. 

This book is romantic, but through male perspective-tinted glasses. If you can put that aside and simply enjoy the history presented - which is well done indeed - this will prove to be an enjoyable, educational read. 

Nights Out At Home by Jay Rayner | Book Review | Fig Tree

 

A lot of my book buying is carefully planned. Often I'll have a running list of books I want to read (in my head or on my phone, say), and each time I visit a bookshop, I can run my finger down that list, looking for a title that would fit the current mood, the current need, the current wish for my next read. Which is why I think people who take out book subscriptions are quite simply masochistic, depriving themselves of the pleasure of choice.

My point is though that sometimes I'll go a bit rogue - and although with Nights Out At Home by Jay Rayner, I did have a notion that this would make a good read, I hadn't made a conscious decision to purchase it. It just found me the other day, and here I am, having devoured (. . .) Rayner's first cookbook in just a few days.

This is, by all accounts, a solid choice for any food enthusiast, and even though I don't read Rayner's column religiously (nor casually, to be honest), I am well aware of his standing and skill as a restaurant critic. I had no doubt I would be in good hands.

Nights Out At Home skillfully balances a two-pronged identity, being full of amusing anecdotes and mouth-watering recipes. The real skill is that, even though the recipes do take up most of the real estate in the book, one still ends up reading this cover to cover, because the introductions to each - as well as the step-by-step instructions themselves - are so entertaining that it would be a shame to skip anything. See All the roast chickens: 'Take a photograph and send it to your friends or they won't believe what you've done.' Or the Deep fried apple pies: 'Serve with whipped, sweetened cream. Because you don't get that from bloody McDonald's.' Or I wish I could remember which recipe included an instruction along the lines of 'Or don't. I'm not watching, I'm not your dad.' 

The point is, Rayner makes a conscious effort to keep things simple, dialled into the needs of a home cook. No fancy chicken stock? Get the cubes. Don't have Chingkiang vinegar? Sub in the balsamic. One recipe calls for (I'm not making this up) one packet of Frazzles, one packet of Scampi Fries and 30g Pickled Onion Monster Munch. It's incredibly user-friendly, and the variety of recipes is just as surprising: from recreating Michelin restaurant dishes in a manageable way, to cooking up home alternatives of high-street favourites, it's a wonderfully eclectic selection. And though, if I'm honest, I'm still unlikely to make a lot of these, unless someone else does the washing up - as much as I wish to eat incredible-sounding Louisiana cracklins, I have seen the picture of what the kitchen will look like afterwards - you never know. I'm glad to have these recipes on the shelf, just in case. And I will be making, among many other things, crispy cauliflower with salt and pepper; the ultimate cheese toastie; and a Malaysian chicken curry, just to name a few. The point, anyway, is not the actual cooking, but the delight of daydreaming of cooking these things, and the blood, sweat and tears that Rayner clearly put into bringing these recipes to us.

Interjecting essays, on everything from the life of a critic to anonymity to body image, add to the fun, and these again are written with Rayner's writerly flourish, full of humour and saliva-inducing memories. 'I like being alive,' he shares at one point. 'I've concluded that the best way to stay alive is by not dying and that's what I'm attempting to do. So far it seems to be working. Unless you're reading this after my death. In which case, boy did I have fun...'

But perhaps my favourite bit is the very beginning: Advice to readers. Any writer who advises me to rustle up a jazzy Bombay mix to snack on before I begin reading has my eyes, ears and mouth. I feel seen. 

The book is a beauty to behold, and while I wouldn't want to get my greasy fingers on it - so perhaps not strictly speaking a cookbook in the usual sense - it is a gorgeous read for any foodie and cook out there. Glad it found me. 

Aesthetitcally pleasing markers in an aesthetically pleasing book

Climbing Days by Dorothy Pilley | Introduced by Dan Richards | Book Review | Canongate

 

Ever since I read Climbing Days by Dan Richards, I have been intrigued by Dorothy Pilley. Dan's great-great-aunt was a pioneer mountaineer, and someone that the last few decades have somehow allowed to fade into some obscurity. Having finally had the chance to read her original account, Climbing Days - here republished in a stunning edition by Canongate, and introduced by Dan Richards - I am surprised and saddened that this book isn't one of the canons of British climbing literature.

But saddened no more! Here, again, is the book in all its glory, and what a surprising, delightful and exciting read it is. Tracing Dorothy's climbing journey from her very first forays in the UK all the way to her pioneering ascent of the north-north-west face of the Dent Blanche in Switzerland, this is a complete and satisfying climbing journey that takes all the great climbs in its stride. Equally though, it is tender escapism, inspiring dreams of distant mountains many of us will never see. Mountains of the mind, and all that. 

Climbing Days takes in the Lakes, Wales and the Isle of Skye - with Dorothy expressing equal amounts of awe as anyone doing the same today will experience - and then further to Switzerland, France and Spain for adventures in alpinism as her skills, confidence and social circles grow.

One must constantly remember (with both awe and horror), when reading this fine piece of mountaineering literature, that what we think of today as 'climbing' took a very different shape in the 1930s, when this book was first published. I often felt a thrill when remembering that when Dorothy says 'abseil', she means wrapping a rope around her thigh and shoulder and lowering herself just so. No Grigri, no belay or rappel device, just a rock with a rope slung around it to hopefully keep one safe. Equally, climbing looked rather different: there is no mention at all of harnesses, and though carabiners were coming into fashion around this time, they weren't widespread yet. Pitons - metal spikes to drive into the rock and use as a step or anchor - were more common, but falling, generally, still wasn't a safe option, just something hopefully avoided or mitigated mid-air. 

In the same vein, reading about rescue operations she occasionally took part in is fascinating. At the time, there was no official mountain rescue - just a handful of (hopefully) experienced climbers, who happened to be staying in a nearby hut, and were gracious enough to go looking for a missing colleague who hadn't returned. She shares tales on hut etiquette, rationing and packing (for example, how they slowly moved away from carrying heavy tins to spartan rations), and even her first close encounter with a crevasse. In a way, Climbing Days is a beautiful glimpse into the development of mountaineering and alpinism in the early twentieth century.

But then, so much more too: I am so pleasantly surprised by how funny Dorothy is. Considering Climbing Days was first published in 1935, it reads as easily as any modern climbing memoir, and her often tongue-in-cheek, self-mocking yet awe-filled rememberances fill the pages with life. Not always plain-sailing; sacrifices had to be made. 'I haunted second-hand bookshops for climbing literature,' she writes, 'going without a new hat or sacrificing lobster salad for a bun and coffee lunch.'

Lyrical, too; developed from her diaries that she kept throughout her entire life, Dorothy had plenty of material to draw on and develop into vivid descriptions of landscape and experience.

'After supper I went outside, wrapped in blankets, to watch the moonlight moulding the backs of a sea of clouds in the valley and cutting the upper glacial world into heraldic simplicity of sable and silver.'

The two Climbing Days - that of Dorothy Pilley and that of Dan Richards - are a brilliant match, and if any of this appeals to you, I would advise reading them both. The order doesn't matter, though Dan's book is perhaps a great contextual introduction to Dorothy's work. I am just glad that, to my ever-growing library of badass, inspiring female climbers' memoirs, I can now add this wonderful account.

 

Bothy: In Search of Simple Shelter by Kat Hill | Book Review | William Collins

 

'And come I may, but go I must, and if men ask you why,
You may put the blame on the stars and the Sun and the white road and the sky.’
(Gerald Gould: Wander-Thirst)

My first bothy experience was Dubs Hut in the Lake District. I was hosting a group of women as part of a hike organised by Gutsy Girls, and after a day of relentless rain (and I mean relentless), we arrived to Dubs Hut soaked, but delighted. There was a fire, and so warmth to dry our drenched clothes; there were hot drinks and boil-in-the-bag dinners, and extreme pride for having walked who knows how many miles in the pouring rain. I didn’t end up sleeping inside, though; having carried my tent all the way up, I figured I might as well use it.

Whether you sleep in them or around them, bothies are really quite magical: the crudest of shelters in secluded spots, just enough of a roof over one’s head to feel a little bit safer, a bit more out of the elements than in a tent. What Kat Hill does very well in her new book, Bothy: In Search of Simple Shelter, is to evoke all the feelings that a bothy awakens. Comfort, community, the simple joy of shelter (the smell of drying socks).

But Bothy is a strange book: it's not history, it's not really travel narrative. Instead, each chapter is an essay on a theme linked to bothies, be it how to live a good or simple life; romanticism and mythology; conservation or the concept of wilderness. And Kat's writing is meditative. As soon as we head into a chapter, I can settle, knowing that we'll ramble over literature and history, nature and philosophy. 

The book starts with a rather refreshing prologue: Kat is entirely conscious of the dangers of tipping into the romantic with her chosen topic. She sets the record straight, straight away. Bothies didn't 'heal' her. 'Wilderness' didn't 'heal' her. It's a process, gradual, where bothies are 'a place to start'. And isn't that just enough?

Initially, she shares quite a lot of personal details about her life in quick succession, but these are barely revisited later in the book. It feels like she has unloaded her reasons in her prologue, and thus freed, moves on. Instead, she meditates on simple questions like what do we need (in a bothy or otherwise); what constitutes adventure; our need for hideaways, even as adults.

In her writing, she wanders; on her Penrhos Isaf trip in Wales, for example, she starts out by recounting the history of gold mining in the Welsh hills (something I've never read about) before winding her way to meditating on the marks we make as humans, on leaving no trace – or what to do with the traces we do leave. 'Humanity,' she writes, 'is now grappling with the problem of how to cover the tracks of our existence where we have already caused damage.' This kind of meandering, or weaving, works most of the time, though in some chapters I question the relevance of some of the explorations. We often get quite far from the bothy itself, and it must be said that the link back at the end doesn't always work. Her in-depth research as an academic and historian is laudable, of course, and the book is full of learnings, from the history of the Mountain Bothy Association to Highland clearances and climate change. I just question if it all builds a cohesive narrative. 

A stand-out chapter for me, Maol-bhuidhe (chapter six) considers the freedom of walking. Kat finds and highlights the childish joy in just putting one foot in front of the other, and crafts a beautiful love letter to walking. This is the part of the book that really makes my feet itch, lyrically exploring how walking can be hope, freedom, distraction; how walking can make talking easier, and how, at least temporarily, it can move anxieties a step further away.

So what is this book really about? It's difficult to say. Bothies form a vague structure – each chapter a trip to a different one – but I would struggle to sum it up. It's meditation. That's the best I can think of: as if the author wrote down each thought following the next as she treads. So it's not travel writing, not completely nature writing either. A strange mix of research and personal narrative, though the author's personal life stays somewhat at arm's length. It’s less of a connection to the author than seeing through her eyes, which isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But if nothing else, it’s certainly a warm invitation to seek out a bothy, if you haven’t done so yet.

Arrangements in Blue: Notes on Love and Making a Life | Amy Key | Book Review | Vintage

 

Is Arrangements in Blue a memoir? Is it poetry? Is it a free-flowing meditation? Perhaps all of those, and none. Using Joni Mitchell's album, Blue, as her starting point, Amy Key opens up her heart and mind about what life feels like when romantic love has eluded you. The gushing reviews on the cover suggest a seismic shift in modern-day thinking about romance; a book that will resonate, no question. I would argue that they hinder the beauty and art of this hard-to-classify book.

It's not what I expected, but perhaps I wasn't sure what I expected anyway. I am not single, yet this book called to me: maybe because I was instantly drawn to Amy's courage to open up in this way. Arrangements in Blue is no manifesto: what it is instead, thankfully, is a brutally honest exploration of one person's innermost life – a license to spend time inside someone's head. That this person is Amy Key is lucky for all involved, because her thoughts are elaborate, honest, personal and curious. I revel in the fact that the book has no obvious structure: it is loosely centred around a certain theme in each chapter (more precisely, a lyric from Blue) but they all read like streams of consciousness, freely following each line of thought, wherever it may lead. It's the type of book one genuinely needs to get lost in, give over the controls to the author. I did so with pleasure.

Amy recounts, in uniquely crafted language, the ups and downs of her life; romantic involvements (some harrowing, some just like any other teenage romance), friendships, loves and losses; and works through them forensically. It's a sort of evaluation, overthinking, unpacking, asking questions. But the thoughts and events that do resonate, the moments where I find the connection, are powerful. She made me remember the joy of moving into a flat by myself, making decisions and being completely in control of my happiness; but then I remember I was already buoyed by having had a couple of dates with my now-husband. To be perfectly candid, her book made me smug, and I apologise whole-heartedly. No, perhaps not smug, because it's not at the expense of anyone else that I feel this way – perhaps she just reminded me of my luck, and I'm grateful.

Is it self-indulgent? Sure. Sometimes overly so. Perhaps it could have been edited down slightly. But perhaps that's the point. Amy often takes us through her emotional cycles, feeling joy, then empathy, then suddenly anger, jealously, resentment – and it's something like that to be her reader. You cycle through emotions, most often empathising, sometimes thinking you would never do what she did, how terrible, how embarrassing. But ask yourself: wouldn't you? And if, like me, sometimes you sigh in annoyance while reading – 'get over yourself' – notice if you're talking to her, or yourself. If you wrote down your innermost thoughts for a week, a month, a year, wouldn't they look just like this?

I salute the publisher who put this book out, because it is needed in a world of polished things. It isn't a novel, it isn't a self-help book, it isn't a wildly revealing biography: it's quiet meditation on life, happiness and self-worth. And if you're anything like me, and spend at least 60% of your waking hours thinking about your worth, your future, your next steps, it'll be just as comforting to you as it was for me. This book is a companion, a friend you can sit with and have a glass of wine while ruminating.

I admire Amy's courage to put these notes out into the world. I feel it somehow creates a psychic connection with every reader so that, even though we've never all met, we feel connected somehow. 

Perhaps we should organise a big Amy Key meet-up. Imagine the buckets of tears, the empathy, the comraderie. What a world it could be.