Landscape and nature are not there simply to be gazed at; no, they press hard upon and into our bodies and minds, complexly affect our moods, our sensibilities. [loc. 4120]
A thoughtful, fascinating book about walking the land, especially (though not exclusively) the 'old ways' of the British countryside. I'd already read Macfarlane's account of walking the Broomway, the invisible path over the sands and mudflats between Wakering and Foulness: I grew up nearby, and am as captivated as he was by the shifting skies and the marvellous light. (Here's a piece I wrote twenty years ago, about the light ...) Macfarlane's travels take him to the Gogs near Cambridge, Sula Sgeir (a small island off the north-west coast of Scotland), Minya Konka (a mountain in Tibet), and the holloways of Dorset. He is as curious and informed about folklore as he is about geology, and he considers the many ways in which landscape affects thought and mood.
I was very aware of a privilege that Macfarlane has and I envy: the ability to be drawn into all-male groups as a peer. I might manage the roaming but the journeys' ends, the conversations and camaraderie, are closed to me.
Macfarlane's chapters on the poet Edward Thomas, interwoven with his experience of walking the South Downs way and his evocation of Thomas's last days on the Western Front, were the high point of The Old Ways for me: beauty, poignancy, and a compassionate account of the experience of depression. It made me want to walk the Downs again: it made me want to be in a landscape, rather than a city.
At times, though – at the worst times – nature’s beauty and exuberance feel to him like accusations. ‘I am not a part of nature. I am alone. There is nothing else in my world but my dead heart and brain within me and the rain without.’ [loc. 4079]
No comments:
Post a Comment