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

The White Ladder: Triumph and Tragedy at the Dawn of Mountaineering by Daniel Light | Book Review | Oneworld Publications

 

Perhaps even those only remotely interested in the history of mountaineering have heard the names of George Mallory and Andrew Irvine who (as the debate still carries on today) may or may not have been the first to reach the summit of Mount Everest, shortly before disappearing into the clouds and never seen alive again.

But what makes The White Ladder: Triumph and Tragedy at the Dawn of Mountaineering by Daniel Light thrilling is that it uses the fateful 1924 British expedition as its endpoint – something the narrative builds up to, starting from the very early days of mountaineering and giving a panoramic overview en route. As Light shows in vivid, involving detail, summiting wasn't always about glory and fame; in fact, mountaineering wasn't even always about summiting. The how and why of modern mountaineering turns out to be absolutely fascinating.

The White Ladder is a truly novel-like history. What especially fascinates me is how the initial interest in climbing mountains – purely scientific – evolved into sport, conquest and global power. From surveyors to naturalists, young aristocrats, rich protégés and even the odd occultist, the cast of mountain literature is as colourful as any novel, and Light gives an easy to follow chronological history of the evolution of high-altitude exploration. All the while, it is engrossing, written in a way that makes the reader feel like they are there with these great men (and even a woman), lighting pipes, breathing in the chill mountain air, eating Irish stew straight from the tin when the stove wouldn't light, 'slowly melting the lumps of white frozen grease in our mouths, and then swallowing them'.

Light doesn't just recount records, names and dates, but looks at key developments too, such as the gradual discovery of mountain sickness, the invention of crampons and using supplemental oxygen for the first time – small details that add colour and life to the cold upper reaches, and all in vivid, theatrical detail. I am so drawn into the book, in fact, that I don't want it to end: it truly allows me to live vicariously, with each chapter telling the story of a single person or team, and an expedition that moved the development of mountaineering forward, one way or another. Notably, I believe failed attempts actually outnumber successes, making it feel like a fuller, more realistic narrative.

It's a complete surprise to read about Fanny Workman Bullock, one of the most decorated Himalayan mountaineers – man or woman – of her time (though of course, the truth is that, as Light describes her, she was an 'ugly extension of British colonial rule' in attitude towards the locals, which may explain why she isn't as celebrated today as she might be). Equally, the eccentricities of late Victorian climbers are always a delight: from surviving on nothing but 'champagne and Danish butter', to Aleister Crowley arguing with Oscar Eckenstein about bringing his hefty poetry volumes to the top of K2 with him, because 'I would rather bear physical starvation than intellectual starvation'. 

Light doesn't shy away from sharing the often repulsive truths behind the glorified expeditions, including beatings, starvation, death and ugly gossip. But all that adds up to an intriguing history, one that pokes gentle fun at the white masculine heroism of the time, all the while giving credit where credit is due. It is thoroughly researched, very well written and highly recommended for anyone looking for an armchair escape into the cold peaks of the Himalayas. 

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.