Coming soon (update)… The Vespas Blog Tour: Ailsa Craig Island Discs

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So here’s the deal. To celebrate the publication of The Rise and Fall of the Miraculous Vespas we’ve stranded our author, David F Ross, on Ailsa Craig, with nothing but basic rations, a copy of the works of Burns and the Evening Times Wee Red Book for 1984, eight records and a luxury item of his choice. Now we’re going to ask him a few questions.

Trust me, the answers are going to be worth reading. As for the record choices, from the man who created Max Mojo, expect some great sounds…

Watch this space on 9 March…

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Of making many books…

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Robert McFarlane is an author that I was bound to get to fairly rapidly when I started reading books about landscape (see previous posts). Whether I was right to start with his latest, Landmarks, or not, remains to be seen. It was a fascinating read in many ways, but perhaps didn’t quite live up to the blurb (and while he writes very well, I’m not sure I’m going with the John Banville quote on the cover that says his prose style will make novelists ‘burn with envy’. Then again, Banville’s a novelist, and I’m not.).

This is probably more about my expectations than McFarlane’s book, which once I’d settled into it did introduce me to a group of key nature writers and encourage me to explore them, especially Jacquetta Hawkes, Nan Shepherd, Roger Deakin and J.A Baker, as well as reintroducing me to old favourites Richard Jefferies and Henry Williamson. These are the ‘landmarks’ of the book’s title, and that I suppose was my problem, as I was expecting a book about the land itself, rather than a guide to other books about the land. On that level it works brilliantly, but I kept wanting McFarlane to stay with whatever he was looking at (the Cairngorms, birds of prey, waterways and so on) for a bit longer and give me some more of his own insights. This, I think, is unfair of me. This is essentially a book of essays on McFarlane’s key influences, and that’s a role it fulfils very well.

A major component of the book is the glossaries. These are collections of words relating to landscape collated by McFarlane on his travels and from submissions by acquaintances. They’re loosely grouped by topic area and are not in any way systematic. While McFarlane makes no bones about that, it caused a bit of a problem for me. Each word has a brief explanation but they’re essentially without context. Some are regional or dialect and some are different languages but there’s no sense of etymology or of how they might be used in speech. For example, he lists the Cornish root word mena (a hill or high point) which I’m certainly aware of being used in place-names, such as Menabilly (the home of Daphne du Maurier). But as a child in Cornwall I never heard anyone say they were off for a walk ‘up the mena’. Maybe that’s just because it wasn’t used in my part of Cornwall, but my point is that the glossary doesn’t help me with where and how it might be used. Again, perhaps I’m being unfair here as a detailed etymology is clearly not the purpose of the book, but it left me feeling slightly cheated. Where John R. Stilgoe leads us gently through the development of landscape words and terms, McFarlane throws them at us and leaves us to make of them what we will.

I enjoyed this book. But it leaves me with a strangely incomplete feeling. Perhaps that’s the point. Perhaps I should just get out there and complete the story myself by reading the landmark authors, experiencing the places and hearing the words for myself. Perhaps I will. Perhaps I’ll also find more of what I’m looking for in McFarlane’s other books. Reading this one has certainly left me keen to read more of his work. It’s just that this one, for me, is a bit of curate’s egg. For balance though, you should read the review of a proper critic, Horatio Clare, who loved it.

To end on a good note though, without reading this book I might not have discovered the existence of The Pebbles on the Beach by Clarence Ellis, which is going with me on my next trip home to Cornwall…

Walking on water

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Reading books about landscape seems mainly to generate a lot of references to new books that you then want to find and read. This is a good thing in every sense except the financial. The book I reviewed in the previous post, John R Stilgoe’s What is landscape? is no exception. In talking about the practice of the deep exploration of landscape Stilgoe references Donald Maxwell’s A Detective in Kent and thanks to the speed of the internet, I was able to acquire and read a copy as near to instantly as makes no difference.

Donald Maxwell published A Detective in Kent in 1929. It’s subtitle is ‘landscape clues to the discovery of lost seas’ and it is illustrated with his own sketches and maps. The book explores the evidence in the landscape for the seas around Thanet and the Romney Marsh in past times and how they gradually receded or were reclaimed as land by the inhabitants.

While being no expert I suspect that much of the methodology and the conclusions drawn from it have been superseded in the intervening century but that doesn’t invalidate the joy of reading this book. As with so many books from the first half of the twentieth century, the prose is from a more refined age and is elegant and plain, with an absence of complicated language and hyperbole. As with reading writers such as Chesterton and Conan Doyle, there is a simple pleasure to be had in the way Maxwell writes and also in the way that he leads the reader through his approach to assessing the landscape and reading the clues he finds there. The meaning of words and place names in particular is key to his conclusions as is the physical evidence he reads from the fields and hillsides.

The book also takes us back to England between the wars, a place which has disappeared for ever. Many of the rural areas Maxwell examines are decidedly less rural now although you can follow many of his landscape clues via the very modern medium of Google Earth. I also doubt that there is still a tollgate on the road from Tenterden to Rye that is ‘guarded by a gnome, who will open it got you for a modest sum’ (page 139).

Regardless of any contemporary opinions of Maxwell’s conclusions, he helps us look at landscape more deeply and with an eye to the way nature and man have shaped it, and he does this in a simple and elegant style which is also found in his illustrations. It’s also a reminder of a different age of publishing, when The Bodley Head produced a large range of fascinating books in a portable and well-made form. Well worth the few hours it takes to read, and the insight it gives. There are plenty of second-hand copies available online and I recommend the investment.

From going to and fro in the earth

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It’s very, very hard to find any genuine wilderness, at least in the UK. That’s wilderness in the sense of being in a place that is completely untouched by humans. Not a wall, not a pathway, nothing. Which leaves the majority of the space around us being described as landscape. As John R. Stilgoe puts it in his remarkable book, What Is Landscape?, the noun ‘landscape’ ‘designates the surface of the earth people shaped and shape deliberately for permanent purposes’. So that’s pretty much all of it in one way or another.

Stilgoe’s book is fundamentally about how we name our landscape, and how in parallel with the development of our occupation and shaping of landscape the words we use to describe it have developed. The book is a meditation on words and what lies behind them. It is not, says Stilgoe, a field guide. He’s right about that. This is a book to read by a glowing fire before a good night’s sleep and an early start to get out an explore the landscape around you with Stilgoe’s advice on how to look at it fresh in your mind. Though you will also be tempted to rush off to the nearest second hand bookshop to see if you can acquire one of the many ancient dictionaries he recommends as the sources of his vocabulary of landscape. Modern dictionaries you see, with the exception of the OED (the full version, naturally) just don’t cope with the range and depth of landscape words that permeate the countryside but which are falling out of use.

As a sample, here is Stilgoe in his chapter on ‘Ways’ exploring some of the lineage of ‘wharf’:

Waterfront terminology rewards the closest possible study: once spelled qwerf (at least in Scotland and the north of England), ‘wharf’ is probably kin to key and quay and hawe, the last meaning in Old English an enclosure, especially a churchyard, and evolving through the Scottish and northern English heigh into hoe, a word enduring now only in place names, Plymouth Hoe perhaps being the best known, designating a turning-in spot. (Page 170)

Stilgoe takes us through the precise terms that have over the centuries been required by sailors and farmers among others to describe very precise landscape phenomena and looks in details at the reclaiming of land from the sea. The main impact of his book though is to give us a sense of how to look deep into our landscape rather than across it. To see the layers and the shapes and the history. The prose is elegant and measured and Stilgoe is a companion who is always ready with another fascinating piece of knowledge. The best compliment I can give this book is that it’s the first time I can remember finishing a book and wanting to re-read it immediately.

Books on landscape-related areas have become a bit of an industry, especially when taken together with psychogeography, with the inevitable variability of quality and insight. For me, What Is Landscape? has the distinction of being the place you should start from, with the added benefit that if it’s the only book on landscape you read, it will be enough.

Planet Pop, Kilmarnock style…

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Not many novels come with their own single and an interview with one of the main protagonists. You can trust David F Ross to come up with a game-changer like that though. The Rise and Fall of the Miraculous Vespas picks up (sort of) where The Last Days of Disco left off. The novel tells the story of the band that rises from the ashes of a misdirected attack intended for Bobby Cassidy and his mobile disco and goes on to unlikely and brief stardom before its inevitable self-destruction.

But that doesn’t cover the half of it. Throw in an off-his-head manager and Svengali who just happens to be the son of one of Ayrshire’s leading crime bosses, a plot to bring down the fearsome Glasgow McLarty family and the emergence of Fat Franny Duncan as an unlikely Renaissance man (via the medium of video rentals and a big hoose in Troon) and you’ve got a real rollercoaster of a story that grips you from the off, neatly framed by and older and more reflective (if not less garrulous) Max Mojo being interviewed about how he created and destroyed the Vespas. Oh, and Boy George is in it too. And not in a good way.

The brilliance of David F Ross is his ability to plunge us into 1980s Ayrshire  in all its madness, violence and despair (with a smattering of hope). Pummelled by Thatcher, unemployment, crime and drugs but still full of great tunes, exciting bands and an awful lot of chancers. It’s a vivid and colourful world and could only have been created by someone who was there. Too many novels today are strong on plot and weak on prose. David F Ross is great with both, and that’s what makes it. The dialogue is muscular and spot-on, the locations come alive and the characters are believably flawed. There’s another novel to come and then Ayrshire has its own Barrytown Trilogy, and it’s long overdue. These books will last, because the stories and the characters really live and the place deserves its chronicler.

Orenda Books is establishing itself really fast as a publisher of great new fiction and they’re to be congratulated on hooking up with David F Ross – we’re all the richer for it. The difficult second album? Not in this case. Not at all.

The Joyful Kilmarnock Blues?

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To be honest, anyone who starts his first novel with a Formula 1 reference has me pretty much hooked, even if the context is a dream with a frankly disturbing climax. David F. Ross’ novel The Last Days of Disco, from new indie publisher Orenda Books, is a dazzlingly assured debut that has comedy, tragedy, politics and at its heart a crop of engaging and believable characters that you’ll want to spend time with and discover more about. Oh, and great music, lots of great music.

The setting is Kilmarnock in 1982 with the Falklands conflict as more than just a backdrop as Bobby and Joey abandon school to dive with ill-advised enthusiasm into the mobile disco scene, taking on Fat Franny Duncan the local gangster and disco king and his Godfather-inspired crew. Fortunately for Bobby and Joey there’s always a bigger fish in the pond, in this case Mickey ‘Doc’ Martin and his plans for a new Kilmarnock night club.

But the heart of the book is Bobby’s family, the Cassidys, and brother Gary’s quest to find himself via the army and, as it turns out, the Falklands. The family is beautifully drawn and utterly believable in its layers of secrets, strained relationships and genuine love and affection. The tragedies that hit the family and the strength of their bond draws us in and makes us care, and that’s what good fiction is all about.

There’s comedy too, lots of it. There’s also a distinct suspicion that some of this comes from personal experience, leaving me feeling that some people have led more colourful lives than me! The tennis club debacle and the rammy at the conservative club, to name but two, are wonderfully funny set pieces. David Ross can write comedy, take it from me.

This is a great book about what it was like to live in Ayrshire under Thatcher and in the shadow of war, but it’s also a universal story that transcends its location and time. The dialogue is pure Kilmarnock but the prose is pacy, lucid and witty. It’s a hard one to put down.

Read this book if you were a teenager in the eighties and it’ll bring it all back. Read it if you were the parent of a teenager in the eighties and you might finally understand. Read it if your parents were teenagers in the eighties and they might start to make sense to you. Heck, just read it. You’ll love it.