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.

An Alphabet for Gourmets | M.F.K. Fisher | Book Review | Daunt Publishing | Introduced by Ella Risbridger

'There must, for me at least, be a faint nebular madness, dignified no matter how deliberate, to a dinner that is exquisite.' 

Reading M.F.K. Fisher's books is like taking a plunge into some non-existent nostalgia, memories I've never had. Perhaps better referred to as daydreams: friends sat around tables heaped with exquisite food, good wine that's matched perfectly, perhaps on a French hillside (or Swiss, like Fisher's), overlooking a French (or Swiss) sunset, orange rays painting the vines, seemingly endless across the green hills, ripe grapes sagging. Rituals: a drink before dinner, perhaps a dry Martini or a 'rye', Scotch and soda for the men; starters, soups, salads (never after main), dessert, coffee – not too strong so as not to lift the post-dinner reverie. 

Or perhaps feasting on a tray of oysters in Manhattan (or are we crossing over to Consider the Oyster?), at some swanky restaurant with velvet booths and dimmed lighting, where the maitre d' comes to say hello, tops up our Champagne (which has been carefully chosen, the perfect age and would never overpower the food). 

Or even enjoying a 'rained-on burger', as Fisher puts it, but still with a cinematic quality somehow – perhaps we've had a horrendous day, and just on the verge of desperation, a burger truck shimmers in the half-darkness, the pouring rain. Salvation by a sloppy patty.

Oh, I love spending time with M.F.K. Fisher – from the first pages she is unashamedly her; an almost forceful grab of my hand, and we're off. By the time we reach 'C' for Caution in this alphabet, we're exploring Calf's Head à la Tortue, which is by and by the most complicated and terrifying dish I've ever heard of. There are oysters, of course, 'en caisses', though neither her nor me know what that means. Oysters, nevertheless, and buttered paper in pots to keep the steam in, and 'whole peas fragrant as flowers'. And sauces! So many sauces in one dinner, and wines paired with each dish. That, as I say, before we've even passed 'C'.

And oh, to have a meal in such style, pre-ordered, as it is, by this gourmet of gourmets, whom people are too afraid to entertain in their own home, lest their simple tastes offend her (though it breaks one's heart to read how much, in fact, Fisher pined for such invitations. Although whether she would actually enjoy the meal, or just the romanticism of it, remains unanswered): 'smoked salmon, a small rack of lamb, potatoes Anna, Belgian endive salad, and a tray of Langlois Blue, Rouge et Noir Camembert, Wisconsin Swiss, and Teleme Jack cheese; Scotch or sherry first, and then Louis Martini's Gamay Rosé.' 

I relish and revel in the atmospheres she evokes, though I've never experienced them myself – therein lies the power of her writing. Of an egg sandwich, prepared by neighbour Aunt Gwen (not an aunt at all), the recipe makes one drool; but she also lists physical and spiritual ingredients ('equal parts of hunger and happiness'), and under Prescription, she directs the egg sandwich 'to be eaten on top of a hill at sunset', and 'preferably before adolescence and its priggish queasiness set in'. 

In this abcedaria, she touches on all the crucial aspects of life, from wooing someone with food (and whether that's even possible), to being hosted by good-willed but incompetent cooks, to Xanthippean gastronomy (i.e.  food served at home with an unhealthy dose of complaining, whining or accusing by a sour wife). There is also the question of squabs (young pigeons), how food can taste better on an Atlantic cruise, how to best cook trout, and a long treatise on the value of salt. Just to name a few.

So now, reader, hand me a sizzling casserole so that I may toss hot buttered spaghetti in it, topped with humble parmesan and generous gratings of black pepper! A bottle of Zizerser, to be opened at altitude, otherwise the pink champagne will not froth! Or even just bread and 'sweet' butter (as she always calls it – doesn't it sound much better than just 'butter'?), a simple omelette cooked with care for half an hour, or anything cooked in consommé and fat, 'for hungering people who have had no fat at all for too long a time become moody, shiver easily, and grow sick.'

God forbid!