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.
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