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. 

Wanderers: A History of Women Walking by Kerri Andrews | Book Review | Preface by Kathleen Jamie | Reaktion Books

 

[Review originally published on Bookmunch: View Post]

How many female writer-walkers can you name? We think of Dorothy Wordsworth (though we also instantly think of her brother); we think of Nan Shepherd (mostly thanks to her sudden popularity over the last few years); perhaps we think of Cheryl Strayed or Raynor Winn. But how can these women compare to the fame of the Lake Poets, the flâneurs, D. H. Lawrence, John Muir or Henry David Thoreau?

Wanderers: A History of Women Walking by Kerri Andrews (introduced by Kathleen Jamie) makes a strong case for remembering that there is a reason behind the history of walking coming to us from an overwhelmingly male perspective.

In this collection Andrews rounds up some of the most well-known (and some less well-known) writer-wanderer women who, for one reason or another, were passionate walkers throughout their lives. So much more than an anthology, each chapter is dedicated to a single woman and a meditation on the role that walking played in their lives. Through their walking habits (and what these habits inspired), Andrews paints vivid characters rather than presenting biographies, yet gives plenty of insight, and shows intimate knowledge of the backgrounds and output of her chosen examples.

The curated selection is colourful and exciting, and their reasons for walking varied. There are those we expect to be included, and those we get to know, perhaps for the first time. Elizabeth Carter, the whimsical vagrant, walked each day for inspiration and health, ideally also enjoying a good drench in a thunderstorm; Dorothy Wordsworth used walking as a way of ‘experiencing both her new-found independence and her new home’ after moving into Dove Cottage. Harriet Martineau, after a prolonged illness that confined her to a single room, rediscovers the joy of living in the act of walking, roaming the Lakes for ten glorious years and rivalling the Lake Poets as a writer-walker in her time. Virginia Woolf paces her novels into existence, while Anaïs Nin – diarist and writer – explores her sexual desires and creativity on the streets of Paris and New York.

What becomes clear from these essays is that walking can be a lifeline or a source of creativity; it can be a form of memory, and can transform a city or landscape into a vast spider web of lives lived in parallel.

Andrews also explores the limitations on women’s walking – not everyone is permitted, or is able to walk, and not freely in any case. Most women in this collection have some reason to fear, whether that’s judgement, assault, or household and family duties that husbands historically extricated themselves from. These women didn’t have the liberty to walk where and when they might have wanted and, arguably, women today often still don’t. With these essays, Andrews raises a rallying cry against giving up on a pastime that, as Rebecca Solnit writes, is a ‘portion of our humanity’.

Each chapter is bookended by a short piece by Andrews – some recounting personal experiences of walking, and some offering reflections on these extraordinary women. It’s a perfect balance, and the structure works very well in tying all the chapters together.

It’s not so much a history of walking as a historical tracing of a line, a trend often overlooked. It is a much-needed case to be made, and Wanderers sits proudly unique amongst the many walking anthologies that give a mostly male perspective.

Overall, Wanderers is more than history, more than anthology: with an excellent selection of case studies, it is a love letter to walking, and highlights time and again how this simple act can be true freedom.

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.

Four Mountaineering Books Everyone Should Read | Dorothy Pilley, Catherine Destivelle, Helen Mort & Alison Hargreaves | Rock Climbing Book Reviews

I want to tell you about the four mountaineering books I've read recently. This chain of events wasn't intentional, quite haphazard in fact; but the outcome, and this thread that I've followed (and can hopefully keep following) have been very satisfying indeed.

They're all about, or by, women; again, not planned, but I'm quite happy it turned out this way. They are all heroes in their own right, who broke unimaginable limits and went way beyond expectations. Whether you're a climber, hiker, walker or armchair traveller, these books, I believe, are full of inspiration and evocative landscapes that will delight you. 

I'll go chronologically.

Climbing Days by Dan Richards

I reviewed Climbing Days earlier on my blog, but this was the book that started me off on a quest for mountaineering literature. Its focus on a pioneer of British mountaineering, who also happens to be a woman, was a great hook. I loved reading snippets of Dorothy Pilley's adventures and those of the author, Dan Richards – both transported me, as a reader, to the places I dream of. The Lakes, the Alps, Welsh crags, the great outdoors, powerfully evoked throughout.

The upshot of reading Climbing Days was a short trip to Wasdale Head, where climbing as a sport first began (at least in the UK), with Walter Parry Haskett Smith's solo ascent of the Napes Needle. It is also the home of the Barn Door Shop, supplier of all the gear that hikers have forgotten to pack, as well as plenty of great literature of local interest. I came away with my next two reads...

Rock Queen by Catherine Destivelle

I started reading Rock Queen by the lounge fire of our cosy Wasdale Head B&B, whisky in hand, legs aching from a full day of hiking. It was perfect, and Catherine's no-nonsense, straight, driven narrative was a pleasure to read from the very start.

I didn't know it then, but Catherine is something of a legend in climbing and mountaineering circles, having completed first (often solo) ascents of some of the hardest rock faces and routes in the Alps and beyond, as well as being climbing world champion at a time that was the very beginning of competitive climbing. She began her climbing career while still at school, escaping to Fontainebleau and beyond each weekend. After she became world champion, she realised it wasn't what she wanted: her true passion lay in mountaineering, and so she turned her back on competing once and for all. It is so brilliant to read how she gave it all up to follow her own path.

It's hard to believe a bigger publisher didn't snatch this book to put out in English. My copy is from Hayloft Publishing, and albeit the translation and spell-check falter a little towards the end of the book, it is still a fascinating read about Catherine's life and genuinely jaw-dropping achievements. It made me want to try trad climbing for the first time in my life (the discipline where you place your own protective gear as you progress up a rock face).

A Line Above the Sky by Helen Mort

This was my second purchase at the Barn Door Shop, for a mixture of personal reasons, and also having seen Helen's name many times before. I felt it was time. 

This book is beautifully written, and is a poetic reflection of Helen's journey into motherhood. She is a climber and a fell runner, and although she yearned for it, being a mother didn't immediately feel natural for her. From the beginning, it made me sad.

A 'glass moth, a metal butterfly ': the first stirring of a new life in her. If I wanted reassurance that in motherhood, one can still have it all, I was disappointed – but Helen writes beautifully of the duality of a need for freedom and an even more desperate need to cling to her newborn. 'This is the purgatory of motherhood – perhaps of the human condition altogether – to want or need something else and then, as soon as you have it, to need the opposite.'

Throughout the book, she also traces the life of Alison Hargreaves, also a mother and accomplished climber who, six months pregnant, climbed the notorious North Face of the Eiger. She looks to her like her own mother figure, an example to her like I'd hoped Helen might be for me. In fact, the title of the book is that of a climb named by Alison's son, Tom Ballard. Which led me onto my next read, of course.

Regions of the Heart: The Triumph and Tragedy of Alison Hargreaves by David Rose & Ed Douglas

Reading Alison Hargreaves' biography was a very different experience from Helen's tender reflections, but perhaps that's a good thing. Alison was a driven, outstanding mountaineer and climber who struggled against the unfair cards that had been dealt to her all her life. It was another heartbreaking read, this time because such a brilliant talent was being kept down by an abusive husband and her isolation from the climbing community. (Catherine Destivelle often crops up in the narrative as Alison jealously read about her achievements in the press.) She was never quite able to break out and make a name for herself to the extent that she wanted to.

Nevertheless, Alison's achievements are mind-blowing, though one may not appreciate their full force on paper: perhaps the most oustanding one worth mentioning here is being the first woman to climb Everest unsupported, carrying all her gear and without bottled oxygen. By this time, she had two children.

Alison died on K2, way too young. She had already completed the ascent and was on her way down when a storm enveloped her. The narrative of the book is sorrowful: it felt as though she was finally ready to leave her husband, to start a new life with her children, somewhere new. But it was not to be.

It is a deep look at the life, drive and passion of an excellent mountaineer who deserved so much more recognition than she got. I am surprised and somewhat outraged that I had to buy this book second-hand from some dodgy website.

I'm currently reading The White Spider by Heinrich Harrer – where shall I go next? Please leave your best mountaineering or climbing recommendations in the comments, so that I may continue my escapist reading frenzy...

Climbing Days by Dan Richards | The Story of Dorothy Pilley | Book Review | Faber & Faber

 

I've read Dan Richards a few years ago; specifically, his 2019 book, Outpost. For some reason, at the time, it didn't make a huge impression on me, though I found the book enjoyable enough. Dan also collaborated with Robert Macfarlane and Stanley Donwood on Holloways, into which I've never taken the plunge. (Yet, anyway.) Don't ask me why. I'm sure we all get those books that are constantly on the list, but for some reason or other are just never bought, never read. It's almost like you believe you don't need to read it to know it (which is a false assumption, obviously).

I wasn't even going to review Climbing Days; I didn't take notes throughout (hence this flapping review). But whether it's the book itself, or a combination of the book and timing, it swept me along so fast that I finished it in just a few days, and enjoyed it immensely.

In Climbing Days, Dan goes in search of the history of his great-great-aunt, Dorothy Pilley: a pioneer woman mountaineer, and a pioneer mountaineer in her own right. With her linguist-cum-mountaineer husband, endearingly referred to as I.A.R., they find their happiness in the mountains of the UK, Switzerland and beyond, and spend the best part of their lives doing so. They travel the world in search of great ascents and traverses, making life-long connections with guides and locals and communities everywhere. 

Dan has never met Dorothy, being as they are separated by a generation, so he speaks to living relatives and friends who share their recollections, and trawls through letters and diaries in dusty archives to get to know Dorothy as a person. He also follows in her footsteps, in the Alps, in Wales, in the Lake District and even in Spain. In doing so, he manages to evoke a complete person by the end of the book: as readers, we feel as invested in his discoveries as he is. 

And how wonderful that someone as deserving of fame as Dorothy is being pulled from the shadows to place her firmly in the forefront of public consciousness! Her most well-known achievement, making a first ascent of the North ridge of the Dent Blanche, makes her a very important figure in the history of mountaineering; and if that wasn't enough, her incredible love for the mountains and adventure is something to aspire to. During a time where being a housewife was all that was expected of women, she firmly refused to be classified; she wore a skirt over her knickerbockers just until she reached the start of her ascent, neatly tucking them in her backpack as soon as it was decent to do so. And even after a car accident damaged her hip to the extent where she couldn't climb mountains any more, she still found ingenious ways to be able to enjoy them - whether that's a horse or a chaise, she would make it up there.

Throughout the book, Dan finds a good balance between asserting his point of view and letting the histories speak for themselves. It is refreshing to see how humbly he writes: he candidly admits to things he doesn't know, and as mistakes happen in the mountains - as they so often do - he doesn't shy away from them either. Although during short intervals he dips into the lyrical descriptive to the extent that I can't understand every word, he maintains a musicality that is enjoyable in itself. He is incredibly evocative though, without needing long descriptions, and paints vivid pictures of frozen landscapes and cloud-crowned hills. And, there's no other way to say it: he is funny. He has a cheery persona and doesn't take things too seriously, and that makes for entertaining reading indeed - especially in a genre where authors often fight to the death to pretend they are well-versed in anything and everything.

I loved the book and, surprisingly, I even loved the appendices. Included, amongst obituaries, is an essay by I.A.R. titled 'The Lure of High Mountaineering', and far from the dry treatise I expected to read, it is a powerful reflection on why people climb mountains. I recognised plenty of similarities with why I like bouldering: there is the careful planning; the joy of feeling your experience take hold; the physical challenge combined with the mental. 'To go lightly up a rock wall,' he writes, 'when the only hold is the friction of the forearm pressing against the sides of a vertical crack while the feet push gently yet firmly upon roughness not much bigger than a thumbnail is an achievement which allows a good deal of innocent self-flattery to develop.' The essay leaves your head reeling, suddenly craving the mountains, the beyond.

This book found me when I needed it most: when a lack of inspiration was taking a freezing chokehold. And now, in two weeks' time, I am making my own pilgrimage, following in Dan's footsteps to the Lake District. He has managed to awaken my dormant love for adventure, and I am extremely grateful. 

As for the amazing Dorothy, her book (confusingly also called Climbing Days) is getting a reissue this year from Canongate, and I am very much looking forward to reading it.

Really Good, Actually | Monica Heisey | Book review

Bearing in mind that this book could well be about me, the claim that it is depressingly relatable may not be universally true. Nevertheless, with a female protagonist of 29-30 who fills over 300 pages with mostly self doubt, for me, Really Good, Actually by Monica Heisey was unputdownable. 

I've read too many books with female protagonists whose support group is more than believably supportive, living in London yet somehow managing to be at said protagonist's house in a crisis within 20 minutes. Honey, if you live in Woolwich and she in Wandsworth, that ain't happening. Not even if you're loaded, which these clichéd, adoring friends somehow normally are. The forceful cheeriness of fictional WhatsApp groups who love each other oh so much are so done in my opinion.

Fortunately, that's not the case here - in fact, I felt it was a bonus that this book is set in Toronto, giving enough colour to make it feel more warm and true but removed from the metropolis that I'm familiar with. The support group is present, but no friend gets more, or less, characteristics pinned on them than is needed, and in fact they manage to act like normal people most of the time. (Okay, fine, one character's message does read 'Be there in 20' as if people have nothing to do all day but respond to friend emergencies, but as we learn in the book Toronto is small, and I can overlook it this one time anyway.)

The story can be summed up simply: Maggie, 29, is a very normal main character. She is an adjunct professor, teaching and working on her PhD. ('Jon had joked about me stepping forward on an airplane: 'Are there any doctors on board?' 'Yes! What part of Coriolanus is he struggling with?') Crucially though, she is going through a divorce. And losing custody of her cat. When you open the cover of this book, you grab your suitcases and march on into her head, where you'll be making a home until the end, including hilarious lists of Google searches and hypothetical scenarios which end each chapter, adding that touch of lightness. 

Maggie's internal monologues are self-deprecating, biased against herself: negativity piles about her body, her actions, her entire being as a person (bad daughter, bad friend, bad everything). And although yes, she has flaws - as we all do - it is weirdly uplifting to read such a negative view of another's self and be able to think, 'don't be so hard on yourself'. Perhaps this is what is so loveable about this book: by cultivating compassion for someone who is just like us, we as readers can stop and imagine being this compassionate towards our own selves as well. Just imagine!

Importantly, Maggie is not kooky, or depressed in a cute way, and her friends only tolerate her meltdowns up to a point. She is sometimes rude, sometimes insensitive, and this is what makes her believeable and a pleasure to spend time with.

Although the novel follows the simple story arc where things go from good to bad to really bad to hopefully better, it is full of bittersweet surprises and human decisions, interactions and occurrences. It is a story of a divorce that somehow manages to avoid melodrama, even when things don't go as originally planned - the amicable, reasonable breakup we'd all want but none of us can make happen in the end. In fact, refreshingly, the ex-husband barely features in person, and is more hinted at through memories and second degree interactions. 

The only slight crime, if we need to poke holes, is the overuse of the word 'bashfulness', but if that's all, believe you me we're in good hands.

Ultimately, this is easy reading that still manages to make you feel like your heart is broken (I kept reaching over and grabbing my husband's hand for reassurance). I loved Maggie and I will miss her honest rambles, and her 3am burger deliveries, and her therapeutic online shopping, and her too many hashbrowns for breakfast. In fact, I'm slightly annoyed I can't get a McDonald's breakfast delivery right now.

Eating to Extinction: The World's Rarest Foods and Why We Need to Save Them | Dan Saladino | Book review

 

Ah, glorious food. Living on a sailboat with a fridge that is currently out of order, food is indeed a key consideration from day to day. Fresh vegetables go mouldy quickly, so I have a list that I update daily, prioritising what needs eating first. Tinned things - pulses, beans and the occasional fruit - last forever, so are a godsend. Rice, bulgur wheat and the recently discovered giant couscous are all staples.

To be honest, I think about food most of the time anyway, don't you? So does Dan Saladino in his book Eating to Extinction: The World's Rarest Foods and Why We Need to Save Them. He goes in search of some of the most ancient staple foodstuffs on Earth, and presents them here as case studies for a trend that is taking over our food chain globally - namely, that traditional values, methods and food varieties are being supressed in favour of productivity, coupled with global homogeneity. 

Eating to Extinction is divided into ten sections, such as Vegetables, Meat, Cheese or Fruit. Ten?, you might ask. Indeed - because although Saladino has dug admirably deep and traveled the world in search of these rare foods, and has carried out in-person research that is hugely valuable, there is a lot of ground being covered here. Each of the ten sections is further divided into at least two, more often three varieties: four cereals, six sea-based foods, and the stranger categories - such as stimulants or cereal - also include at least two varieties each. 

Each individual item is covered in a chapter, including the author's experiences, as well as covering local food-based traditions, personal histories, or initiatives to save said food. This, unfortunately, does mean that the pace of the book is a bit slow. In the first few sections, lots of short chapters cover a wider variety of grains and pulses than my brain can't store (unlike the fascinating grain stores we meet along the way), and the snippets of various people trying to salvage heritage breeds often doesn't give a deep enough insight to make us care. Later, a chapter about bison especially stood out for me as not really finding its place in this book, barely touching on the topic of food. These chapters read almost as if the author is trying to meet the minimum of three varieties per section.

Among the many varieties of not-so-interesting grains and cereals I trudged through, however, there were a lot of interesting nuggets of information in other parts of the book. I never knew oyster stout was called that due to brewers plopping oysters into their dark porters for added flavour; and reading about Georgian wine and its mystical fermenting in clay pots underground felt like reading fantasy. Black Ogye Chicken is a breed exclusively found in Korea, and is black from beak to toe, absolutely worth a look. Most fascinating to me was a chapter about fermented, wind-dried meat (Skerpikjøt) produced on the Faroes as a delicacy, painting vivid images of meat hanging in sea-wind battered wooden sheds called 'hjallur', and providing a fantastic glimpse into island culture and history.

By the end of the book, a picture does build up slowly, as the patterns too often repeat: a depressing present time of traditional values and methods disappearing in favour of globalised, homogenous food supplies. Chapters do tend to finish on a somewhat hopeful note that the individual forerunners and preservers might be able to hang onto, or bring back, traditional methods and varieties once again.

After all that, I feel I sound quite negative about this book. I can only praise the author's effort and knowledge that has gone into such a wide-ranging, colourful collection of stories. I do think it could have done with some trimming down here and there, but on the whole it is a fascinating discussion of what we eat, how much of it is our decision, and how these choices influence the planet and us as people. It's less of a foodie book, more of a food book - if that makes any sense at all - but the message comes through loud and clear.

The Nightingale | Sam Lee | Book review

I first came across Sam Lee's work in April 2020. We were a month into our first lockdown, when most of our evenings were spent on Zoom quizzes (remember when those were still fun?) and drinking lots of wine to forget the bleakness outside. (Okay, we still do the latter.) It had only been a month, but I was already itching for the outdoors, desperately watching the start of camping season - my favourite time of year, really - slip away.

And then I came across 'Singing with Nightingales', organised by the Nest Collective. A live stream, free to access through YouTube: an evening with live nightingale song, side by side with contributions from artists, musicians, poets, writers and singers. All combining to create something truly magical. Hosted by Sam Lee.

That night is honestly one of my fondest memories of 2020: starting to listen to the session out on the balcony, watching the lights go off one by one - the live stream stretches well into the night - then migrating to bed, drifting off to the sound of birds singing and the occasional piece of song or recital. It was magic.

So when I found out that Sam was collating a book on nightingales, I was delighted. This before even knowing what the book would entail exactly, or just how beautiful the item itself would be.

Notes on a songbird

The subtitle of this book doesn't do it justice. It's a very modest approach to all the knowledge, years of research, detail, love and passion that is clearly contained within these pages. Instead of a simple piece of non-fiction (if you're after that, I'd suggest the RSPB), Sam's book combines stories, songs, poems and tradition to paint a picture of this strange and unique bird both as a living thing, and as a symbol that we created by projecting our own emotions onto it.

The focus is very much on the history of the nightingale in our collective consciousness. From the captivating story of how Beatrice Harrison, 'the woman who played with nightingales', brought the bird's song into livingrooms through the BBC, to the traditional tale of how the nightingale got its voice, the book creates a colourful, vivid and fascinating image. There is also occasional 'supporting material', including a list of the different names of the bird in different languages, as well as more practical sections - such as where to go, and when, to hear their song yourself.

The writing is often tongue-in-cheek, gently mocking. There's lots to smile at. I particularly enjoyed a disagreement about the bird between Milton and Coleridge, the latter of whom "thankfully, took up this mantle to protect the nightingale from drowning in doom. His 'The Nightingale: A Conversation Poem (1798) corrects Milton's 'Most musical, most melancholy' tag (from his Il Penseroso) and roots the bird in its nature."

Global fame

It is difficult to summarise just how global the reach of this little bird is - the more I read about all the different traditions and imagery surrounding it, the more astounded I was. From Persian music and poetry, through Turkish folk songs and lamentations, to Russia, Greece and France, the nightingale makes an appearance in almost any tradition. 

It sings to emperors and it is 'spring's messenger'; it is a witness to love and a singer of sorrow. In the UK, the nightingale tends to arrive sometime around these very days in the first few weeks of April, and so it has been linked with the bringing of good weather and the May Day traditions across the country. It has even laid its roots in places where it was never known to nest. 

Is it the strange, almost mysterious trait that it is the only nocturnal songbird? Is it the special song they practice through winter and perform in spring? What makes this bird so attractive for our stories and songs?

Good night, nightingale

It cannot be ignored that this beautiful species is under dire threat. The combination of climate change and human activity means their habitats are disappearing (and actually, they're fairly picky birds when it comes to habitats). It means that within the next 30 years, they could completely disappear from the UK. 

Towards the end of the book, Sam recommends a range of things we can all do to try and reverse (or at least slow) this, and his work with Extinction Rebellion is very inspiring to read. I did feel that the chapter on conservation and taking action was a little rushed - understandably, he wanted to get a lot of information and inspiration into a few pages. His worry for this beloved bird comes across crystal clear though. 

Oh hark, how the nightingale is singing

If you've never heard a nightingale sing, you are in for a treat. Not only are there wonderful soundscapes both on YouTube and Spotify, it also happens to be April - the very month that nightingales arrive in the UK. To get the comprehensive list of where you might find them, I'd urge you to buy this book - but I'm sure the RSPB also has some tips.

But most excitingly, the Nest Collective is actually streaming three live sessions this year on the 14th and 22nd of April, and one on the 1st of May (a dawn chorus no less!), so I'd definitely recommend tuning into at least one and giving yourself over to pure magic. You can find all the details on the Nest Collective website.

And as for this marvellous book - if you're like me and hope to keep a sense of wonder and curiosity that doesn't disappear with age, buy this, read this, read it again. And it's only the beginning of the journey. With so many songs and stories to discover, you can go on your own nightingale 'pilgrimage': seek out the songs, seek out the birds, organise your own nightingale journey. 

I certainly plan to.

Horizon | Barry Lopez | Book Review

 

When the film 'A Life on Our Planet' with David Attenborough came out in 2020, it was signposted as his witness statement. Horizon by Barry Lopez is very much in a similar vein.

I first came across Lopez's writing through Robert Macfarlane, who considers Lopez a 'friend and inspiration', and through buying a copy of Arctic Dreams. Of similar length to Horizon at over 500 pages, it is a beautiful exploration in the Arctic, and any and all life within it. It reads, indeed, like a dream, covering so much territory and offering beautiful, intimate glimpses into this remote world. Lopez was always drawn to the most remote places of the planet, and held a special place in his heart for Arctic landscapes - something that is crystal clear from his writing, whichever page you happen to open Arctic Dreams on.

Horizon is slightly different in that it seems to carry a warning that cannot be ignored. Its deep dive into certain places, peoples or histories all look to the same issue - of climate change and the imminent threats we are facing if we don't change our ways. And yet it still offers respite every now and again through its lyrical, often tongue-in-cheek but always humble descriptions of breath-taking scenery and sights. 

I am nowhere near qualified to review, let alone completely understand all the deep ideas and thoughts that have gone into the creation of this book. But I hope I can give you a glimpse, and hope that you come away from reading this piece with at least one reason why you might pick up Horizon.

"To triumph. To win."

In this last message to us, Lopez doesn't circumvent difficult topics. He questions governments, our constant drive towards betterment, our refusal to stop and consider. He asks whether progress really is the only, the ultimate and at the same time unachievable aim for humanity - whether there's not so much more that we should be, and need to be, focusing on. "... are these questions now thought to be anachronistic, questions no longer relevant to our situation?" he asks. 

There is often a desperation that comes through his writing, grown out of many years of travelling the world - over 80 countries in his lifetime - getting to know its peoples, and observing first-hand the hand- and footprints that humans are leaving on the environment. Cultures disappearing, knowledge evaporating, and the value of those he refers to as 'elders' no longer taken into account. "History tells us," he writes, "that with every great empire comes great barbarism, that the two are inseparable ... This forces the question of what, really, civilization brings to people that they did not already have. And why is civilization so hard on the people who turn it down?" This is a recurring idea throughout the book, from observing the forced extinction of certain species on the Galápagos Islands to revisiting the prisons of Port Arthur and considering its living history that many would be all to happy to bury and label as 'of the past'. Lopez, on the other hand, makes the connections that are too uncomfortable to point out - those to modern-day concentration camps, of arms sales, of how little we have changed on certain fronts to this day. History, he argues, isn't to be buried. It is - and this, I think is the central plea of the book - to be learnt from.

The humility in his writing is comparable to none, and it inspires reckoning within ourselves too. He is all too conscious, at all times, of his privilege, his outsider status, and tries to handle this with as gentle a hand as possible. He never exempts himself from the philosophy he is exploring. And this connectedness, the idea of us forming part of one large community rather than being islands on our own, cuts especially deep during his time spent camping near the Turkwel River in Kenya, looking for fossils in the ground. Where his team, five Kamba men and himself, meet representatives of the Turkana people, ancestral inhabitants of the land. The clash of the modern and of ancestry come into sharp focus during a short exchange about the team's right to camp. "He [a member of Lopez's team] listens patiently while the other man explains the tenets of traditional hereditary land ownership among the Turkana people ... One senses he and his ancestors have been losing this argument for more than a hundred years now." He finishes the section: "The only ethics I really needed to probe in this situation, anyway, were my own. What were my own reasons for not asking permission? For not having knocked?"

And why don't we, dear reader, tend to knock?

"We are darkness as we are, too, the light."

Besides the philosophy, of course, the scenery is breathtaking. Lopez travels from near his own home at Cape Foulweather to the Canadian High Arctic, to Africa and Australia, to the Arctic circle and the Galápagos. He dives under sea ice, assists in archelogical efforts, visits zircon crystals dated as over 4.27 billion years old, and lays eyes on an immense emperor penguin colony on a polar expedition. These unbelievable sights, sounds and experiences are carefully intertwined with his musings on human history, often taking the examples of well-known explorers - Cook, Amundsen, Scott and Darwin, to mention but a few. His extensive reading and knowledge of these lives gives a deeper shade of colour to the ideas and images presented to us, helping to leave a lasting impression.

A long-term view

"What if the perspective you could imagine for yourself, the foundation for your ethics and your politics, was not the condescending now of right now?" Lopez asks. This is what this book can do for you, what it did for me - it looks forwards and back, it brings the then into the now to give a better perspective on today. Why is the history of our species' development relevant here? How does an encounter with a bear, observed through an indigenous perspective, give us better insight into the knowledge we are losing?

Lopez helps shift our focus and questions the obvious to change our priorities. It's as if he's placing a virtual reality lense on our eyes, giving us sight, sound, experience as if we were in it - and in reality, we're reaching into the void around us, helplessly. 

This is a vital call to action, a stark reminder of our place in the universe, written in gorgeous, lyrical language and composed almost like a piece of music. 

It is best read slowly.

White Fever | Jacek Hugo-Bader | Book Review

 

I'm terrible at reading translations. It shouldn't make a difference, but it does. I wonder if you're familiar with this feeling - that fear of the avid reader that by not reading something in its original, intended language, you're losing out on something vital. That perhaps something important gets lost in translation.

It's not fair, really. Translations have been winning prizes left, right and centre over the past few years - Flights by Olga Tokarczuk comes to mind which, after winning an International Booker prize, went on to win a Nobel Prize in literature for Olga and which, by the way, I still need to read. And I have no doubt that thousands of brilliantly translated books keep appearing on the market that, due to this ungrounded fear, so many of us miss out on.

This is a convoluted way of telling you that White Fever: A Journey to the Frozen Heart of Siberia by Jacek Hugo-Bader is translated from the original Polish, and it is an exquisite work that took me by surprise. 

In a modified Russian jeep, Jacek sets off on a journey of nearly 13,000km from Moscow to Vladivostok, documenting the people, lives and customs he encounters on the way. With a sharp eye and an even sharper interview style, the author gives a clear glimpse into not only the country as it is now, but the traumas and history it continues to grapple with 30 years on from the collapse of the Soviet Union. Through fragments of conversations and insights, he creates a full picture.

Snapshots

The author presents a wide range of lives, from the stereotype of what an ignorant Westerner like me imagines life in Siberia to be - viewed through a lens of American films and the perceptions I scraped together over the years - and all the way to the other end of the spectrum where, for example, shamanism and religious cults reside. He explores a dying hippie culture, the music scene (from hip-hop to anarcho-punk and fascist rock) and the AIDS epidemic in Russia, moving on to meeting Mikhail Timofeyevich Kalashnikov - yes, him, and a shocking encounter it turns out to be - and travelling on to villages in old nuclear testing grounds, religious congregations and the isolated indigenous communities.

There is no 'everywhere' in this book. Each new place or peoples Jacek meets, the revelations, opinions and reactions differ widely. And yet through these snapshots, a feeling starts to emerge, a sense of Russian values and mind sets. A stubbornness, perhaps, or 'their languid way of waiting for disaster to happen before getting on with anything', as he describes it. 

Self-preservation is a recurring theme, a priority especially in these harsh conditions. When Jacek suffers an accident in his car while driving, the lorry driver he was trying to overtake makes sure Jacek is alive, then drives away hurriedly without giving him a ride. The book also opens with telling the reader that in Siberia, no one will stop for you at night if your car breaks down. They are afraid of bandits. People die of hypothermia out there, setting their cars on fire as a last effort to keep warm. Without success. But they know no one will stop.

It is not an easy read by any measure. Alcoholism, suicide, terrorism and death occur much more often in this work than love or even satisfaction. With temperatures reaching minus forty in winter, with no cities - and often no electricity - around, with a police culture that is only there to protect if you can buy that protection (the 'impunity, rapacity and corruption' of the militia is legendary), this is as desolate a landscape as it gets. Jacek has a masterful style in selecting what is relevant for the reader to get some kind of an understanding of why things are the way they are, without holding back. 

Jacek often employs a brilliant toungue-in-cheek approach to coax people to talk to him. He provokes, takes small stabs and waits for the reactions. He gently mocks and questions, and this kind of witty approach to all the horrors he encounters allows us not just to be truly horrified by what we are reading, but to really engage with it. He puts a hand on the subject matter saying 'look, it's fine to touch'. 

'The technical term is delirium tremens'

White fever itself is a condition that can set in after a few days of boozing, even once the person has sobered up. It is an after-effect, a sort of whiplash after days of heavy drinking. Its effect is delirium, often with hallucinations - hearing or seeing demons and voices. 

'One day he ran out of the tent in the middle of winter without his jacket and hat. He was entirely sober, but this was soon after a tremendous, four or five-day drinking spree. He ran blindly ahead without stopping for two days and nights.' (Later, when discussing this story: 'He wasn't running, he was fleeing.')

It is discussed in what is perhaps the hardest part to read in the book, a chapter about the Evenks, one of the indigenous peoples of the Russian North. Jacek spends a week or so with them, recounting a truly staggering amount of death and suicide, narrating the story of Brigade Number One, a collective of seventeen reindeer herders, falling victim to the white fever one by one. 

The story of the ex-nuclear test sites comes close. Here, he explores the shocking effects and attempted cover-ups of nuclear testing in the 1950s. The cancer that still affects those whose parents or grandparents lived here during that time. When bombs were tested not 50kms away from villages. 

Let it be enough to say that the chapter is constructed according to the nine circles of hell.

'Are you happy?' 'I don't know. But I don't feel sad.'

I'd like to think things must be different now, over there in this strange and far-removed world. But this was written in 2008. 

Often it is crazy, absolute madness, outrageous. Something inside me screams the whole way. How are these things possible in today's world? But the people might just shrug at me if I asked them. 'How should I know?'

Some of the scenes casually recounted in this book will continue to haunt me, but it's possible to see beauty too. It's as bittersweet as Russian music sounds to me, the sad notes somehow constructing a slightly more upbeat melody. An enlightening read, for sure, and an excellent piece of reportage. 

8/10

Underland by Robert Macfarlane | A Deep Time Journey | Book Review

 

I've waited for so long for Robert Macfarlane's Underland to come out in paperback. Several times I'd wander through bookshops in the past 18 months, longingly picking up the hardback but ultimately putting it back again. Soon, I figured.

There are many reasons for my waiting. It was a huge and heavy book. I have all of Robert's other books in paperback. I could delay the pleasure of reading his latest by working my way through his backlist first. But finally, after more than a year, here I am.

In a recent interview on Front Row, it was pointed out that Robert started his writing up in the peaks and slowly made his way down over time. From Mountains of the Mind, through The Old Ways and The Wild Places, he has finally descended into the Underland: a 'deep time journey' into the deepest, darkest recesses of the world. And I, reader, finally got to follow him down into the dark.

Descending

To me, the most gripping aspect of all of Robert's books - and especially Underland - is his ability to see through layers - of time, of rock, of soil. Travel writing, nature writing, adventure writing only really seems to work when there is more to the story than travelling in space, and with every place that Robert visits, there is a clear intention not just to see, but to understand: be that travelling in space and time, too, to Bronze Age burial rituals in Somerset; or exploring the incomprehensible, incredibly remote and powerfully strange locations that hunter-gatherer-fisher people in the Lofoten archipelago in Norway chose to decorate with cave paintings ('made in some of the harshest country in the world'). 

He has an ability to see with such amazement, such child-like wonder and imagination that I feel myself seeing with his eyes, too, as I read his words. His writing reawakens in me the child who believed in magic and relished the strange. He draws on the mystical, hints at the surreal: 'there by the glimmering birches is a figure standing dark on rising ground, where no figure should be'.

Although Landmarks was an ode to the joy of words, Underland puts this joy to use. It is with pure love of language that Robert scatters alliterations and musical phrases: 'Cold sleet on old slate', 'A gravel beach is reached', 'A light is struck, lifted, shifted', and this from the very first passage of the book: 'Late-summer heatwave, heavy air. Bees browsing drowsy over meadow grass. Gold of standing corn, green of fresh hay-rows, black of rooks on stubble fields.' No word carelessly placed, no rhyme or resonance accidental. This is poetry, bringing memories of Gerard Manley Hopkins.

And there, of course, is the fascination with the distant and the remote - in Underland, Robert travels across the UK to places no ordinary person would (or could, perhaps), and then heads north to Norway, Finland and Greenland, spending what feels like months on the remote fjords and glaciers, climbing unnamed peaks and descending into crevasses of deep time in the ice, playing harpoon water-polo in kayaks (as one does). He descends into deep, dark catacombs under Paris, a ghostly mirror image of the city above; and he visits a 'starless river' in the Abyss of Trebiciano. He even ventures into the underlands of Budapest. It is a true journey into deep time from the upper layers of our existence across the globe.

Ascending

Although ultimately uplifting, this is not light reading. Robert spends considerable time on exploring the threats to our existence: climate change, extinction, man-made ruin. He conveys warning messages and rings the alarm. It is not easy nor comfortable to be faced with these truths, and yet I'm incredibly grateful for it here. 

I say uplifting, but it's more of a liberation, a bubbling up of raw feelings that returns again and again throughout the book. After hours spent in a glacier 'Labyrinth', 'One of us cries briefly. We all feel hunted by this ice, haunted by it'. Or here, when locating those remote, painted red dancers in Lofoten: 'Suddenly, unexpectedly, my head begins to tingle and then my back and my chest start to shake, and I find myself crying, sobs shuddering my body in the teardrop-shaped rift, far from another human and so close to these generous figures . . . I cry there, surprised and helpless, deep in granite and darkness, weeping for feelings I cannot name.'

These passages don't leave you for a long while.

There is a masterful art in the structure of this book as it builds towards its conclusion. From Descending, through the three Chambers and finally Surfacing, each section is carefully placed and named, making the reading of this book a journey in itself. Here, again, the mystical and magical is evoked, with chapter names such as The Understorey, Invisible Cities, Hollow Land and the Blue of Time. Broken into three major sections - Seeing, Hiding and Haunting - we go deeper until we make our journey back to the surface, into the security of the light. 

Overall...

In Underland, unlikely as it may seem, Robert is often lost for words, feeling deeply the weakness of language compared to the majesty and all-encompassing presence of nature and the world around us. Writing this summary, or review, or call it what you may, feels that way when it comes to Robert's writing.

I urge you to read Underland if you hate the deep and the dark; if you feel claustrophobia. If you worry about the direction we're heading, but are fascinated with a constantly changing landscape. Read it for escapism, read it for a wake-up call. Just read it.

10/10

Around the World in 80 Trains by Monisha Rajesh | Book Review | Bloomsbury

Continuing with the theme of travel books, because what else would you want to read during lockdown? Yes, we're still here, reporting from my London flat which, though I've recently left for a whole day for the first time since March, is still our permanent base.

Waterstones named Monisha Rajesh's latest, Around the World in 80 Trains, its book of the month (last month? This month? Last year? What is time?) so, me being a sucker for all things travel, I thought I'd give it a go, yearning for the promise of some much-needed escapism.

I haven't read Monisha's first book, Around India in 80 Trains (I'm picking up on a theme here) and I know little about her work, except that she's a journalist who has written for the New York Times, the Guardian and other outlets, and that she lives in London with her now husband and daughter. But then, you don't need qualifications necessarily to devise an epic train journey that cris-crosses the world through the US, China, Russia, with a detour to North Korea too, and that ultimately finishes back home in ole' St Pacras station. Which is the story of the book, as you may have guessed - we follow Monisha and her fiancé, Jem, across the world as they experience the highs and lows of train travel across the world, seeking that old-school romance that, spoiler alert, is definitely not dead yet.

What did I like about it?

I was surprised to see the destinations of choice in this book. Far from the usual South America, Europe with a hint of Asia combo, Monisha's book is heavily weighted towards Asia, with only a short chapter dedicated to the US and really not much of Europe at all. It's quite refreshing, actually.

I especially enjoyed reading about their trip to North Korea - much like her, I wasn't aware this was even an option. We learn it's a crime to take a cropped picture of any of the Kims' statues, for example; and, as Monisha reflects, "the Kims had taken pains to be viewed as an enigma by rarely speaking in public, having no known official residence and appearing around the country unannounced"; which means that often, foreigners are not allowed in certain places or events, due to the possibility that Kim Jong Un might be present. (Also not allowed anywhere else by themselves and not allowed in most of the country, but oh well.)

The book really thrives when Monisha lets her sentimental side speak. I felt truly touched when she tries to hide some tears after a Tibetan monk gifts her a scarf, as a thank you for travelling so far to see Tibet. I love her immediate emotional attachment to Karen, a fellow traveller "with Dame Edna glasses and a blunt brown bob", their discussion really reflecting - to me at least - how connections made on trains are something altogether different and special. What are the odds of receiving some genuine life affirming advice and taking it to heart anywhere but a train? "You have to live with no regrets. That's all." Noted, Karen. Noted.

What was I not massively fond of?

On the whole, unfortunately, this book did not provide that much-needed escapism. Much like I felt about Paul Theroux's Great Railway Bazaar, I got annoyed by the feeling that they were mostly having a miserable time on this trip. There are too many complaints of red wine headaches, the wrong shoes, getting lost and generally being unprepared for me to give the author credibility. "That morning, we'd set out on foot to find the Forbidden City, and returned two hours later having managed to get no further than buying bubble tea and a cardigan from Zara." How, I ask?

For me, Monisha seems to place emphasis on the wrong things. She is fascinated by oppression and catastrophe - we spend an inordinate amount of time on the Hiroshima bomb, the 'death railways' of Vietnam and the Chinese oppression in Tibet - but not so much by natural wonders or the real people in the places she visits. I still can't get over her ignorance in relation to the Terracotta Army in China, mostly because she'd entered the room from the back and the warriors were facing away from her ("It didn't bode well that I was standing witness to apparently one of the greatest modern discoveries, but wishing I'd stayed in bed at an inner-city Ibis"). 

In general, there is a lot of judgement and bias in her writing, which is hard to ignore if you don't agree with her opinion. A glaring example from North Korea when she sees an abandoned rail carriage that's been occupied by a family by the tracks - "This was a wonderful example of the juche ideology of self-reliance established by Kim Il Sung. It made perfect sense. Inside was warm, protected from the elements, and there were sleeper berths for all the family." Personally, that's not really the first thing that comes to mind.

To her credit, she does try to talk to the local folk (though it's actually mostly her fiancé who seems to strike up conversations) but when she does, I often felt uncomfortable by the interrogating nature of her discussions. Whether that's just her writing style, or whether these interviews were indeed conducted in this way, I'm not sure.

Overall...

Parts of this book are absolutely wonderful - there are beautiful descriptions of British Columbia, of the mountains of Tibet, of Vietnamese bridges and delicious dishes across the world. And if, like me, you view trains with an endless romantic fascination, you will also see the beauty of it.

But there is a lot to be desired. Perhaps this review is very subjective - perhaps I just had different priorities for Monisha's trip, and I'm the one being unfair. So take this with a pinch of salt. In either case, kudos for her seven-month trip and for really trying the highest and the lowest of trains. I am extremely jealous of their journey home on the Venice Simplon-Orient-Express - if you only have time for a moment of escapism, it's worth a look.

5/10

One More Croissant for the Road by Felicity Cloake | Book Review | Sheer Foodie Perfection

In my humble opinion, everything comes down to food in the end.

Whether you're sad and in need of comfort; whether you're celebrating and wishing to do so in style; or whether you're travelling and in search of what might be deemed an authentically local experience - it always comes down to the food.

Not to mention foodie books. Thinking back to Pie Fidelity, which I loved so very much, or delighting in Nora Ephron's words on the joys of cooking, a well-written book about food brings me nearly as much pleasure as eating said food.

Before I start raving about One More Croissant for the Road, a word on the author's credentials...

Who is Felicity Cloake?

You might have come across her in The Guardian and her delicious regular column, 'How to Make the Perfect', which is an absolute gem. Here, she collects and tests recipes for a certain dish from many credible sources, from the top chefs to grassroots, and by testing them all she creates the 'perfect' overall recipe that incorporates the best from the source material. You might be skeptical, and I was too, until I tried her perfect patatas bravas recipe and I can tell you that it changed my life. It's an eternal truth that he or she who shares a truly foolproof recipe wins eternal trust.

One More Croissant for the Road

So now she has my eternal trust, and now I begin to follow her on Instagram, where she is a delight; and now I have ordered her book, One More Croissant for the Road, which tells the story of how she traveled around France on her trusty bicycle, Eddy, eating her way through the most legendary dishes of each region as she goes. So now, she has combined my two favourite genres in her book.

I approve of her dishes of choice 100%. From moules marinières ("huge pans of mussels in a heady, wine-soaked sauce with a great dollop of yellow crème fraîche left to melt on top") through tartiflette ("superior efforts like this are lubricated with the same refreshingly acidic local plonk we're glugging with it, with gently cooked cheese that runs over the potatoes like cream") and the obligatory boeuf bourguignon ("with a richly-savoury sauce and great hunks of gelatinous meat, served with not one, but two types of heavily garlicked carbs") she really knows her stuff, and armed with a Michelin guide, she knows where to get it too.

The beauty of her writing and general attitude, though, is crucial in making this such a jolly read. "Powerless in the face of hot garlic butter," (aren't we all?) "I start with yet more snails. Let no one ever say I don't suffer for my art." She never shies away from "pig snout, soft pink sausage and the best tripe" she's ever tasted; from starting almost every morning with a croissant (rated 1-10) and, most likely, another new type of pastry that she either finishes or crams, half-eaten, into her pannier. She stops often, for drinks, for photos, for elevensies. She enjoys herself. (Most of the time. The going gets tough for everyone sometimes, especially when her booked hotel is on the other of the two identically named roads after a day that's already been really long.)

I must also mention that she includes her own recipes for these most famous of dishes in the book, which I have earmarked and will be cooking - especially her clafoutis aux cerises, her tarte Tatin and her ratatouille, all wonderfully doable, even when so reliant on sad Tesco produce.

The book is a combination of beautiful scenery, delicious dishes eaten the right way, honesty about the ups and downs - rain and hills and the occasional indigestion - and the joie de vivre without which this book would be nowhere near as entertaining. As it happens, Felicity is an expert.

Overall...

I weep when I think about the tasteless vegetables UK supermarkets have on offer after finally finishing this wonderful book. But not to give up hope - after all, anything will taste much better with a good bottle of wine (some of which should probably go into the dish you're making).

Croissants are a different story. I'm delighted to report my local M&S does a deliciously flaky, buttery and crisp on the outside version which, although no idea how Felicity would rate it, I enjoy thoroughly when I head out directly after finishing the book to munch on in the sunshine. I must say I never rated croissants: they look too small, to bland to satisfy my usual breakfast cravings. But this seems to have changed with a bit of attention and mindfulness.

For these strange times, I cannot think of a better book to whisk my imagination away and all the way to sunny France, where tomatoes as big as my head grow and where salads are 80% bacon and 20% green ("as health insurance"). If you're an aspiring vegetarian, like me, the struggle will be real. You will be craving juicy meat. But that's okay sometimes.

10/10