Tag Archives: books

So long, and thanks for all the fish…

My Year of Random Reading is over – I tried to prolong it, but it was a project designed for a single year, and that was how it worked best. It coincided with a period of injury and recovery, and now I’m back working as usual.

That means that I’m just not reading as much, or as generally. I’m reading for research (nobody ever read The Chicago Manual of Style for fun – or did they?), and that means that when I read for pleasure, I’m reading what I choose to read not what the dice select.

Admittedly, that means detective stories (working my way through Donna Leon, want to move to Venice), histories (or maybe Renaissance Paris), or cookery books (want to tour all Michelin-starred restaurants). At least the latter choice is reflected in my food blog, Twelve Miles from a Lemon.

And of course I’m still blogging about my everyday work as a writer and editor, for anyone who really cares about words and grammar and punctuation – I know it’s not just me and Stannis Baratheon – on my website at katesanton.co.uk.

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On not being able to read (comfortably)

readingTo sort-of quote Arnie, I’m back.

I can say that with some confidence because I have finally shed my nasty neck collar – which I was only wearing for some exercises, admittedly – and now have what the physio described as ‘a good range of movement’. Painful movement, sometimes, but movement. And I am no longer getting dizzy all the time when I look down. Some of the time, still, but it is soooo much better. For the first time in months I have been able to sit in a chair and read. Am putting out the bunting now…

I’ve been trying not to grumble because I know that, neck injuries being neck injuries, things could have been a lot worse. It seems churlish to chunter about not being able to read anything other than a light paperback when my fall – wet walking boots + wet slate = not good – could have been so much worse, involving the air ambulance and a quick trip to Stoke Mandeville. I have also gained enormous respect for neurologists. It seems to me the medical discipline most close to quantum physics, mixed with a healthy dash of philosophy, alchemy and the doctrine of signatures. Very strange and very amazing.

What I have not gained any respect at all for is the ******* Kindle. Just as awkward for the neck-injured me as a book but without any of the sensory appeal, and – well, let’s just say that people gave up scrolliing through books centuries ago when printing got going. They gave it up for a reason. Grumble. I can see the advantages of using one if travelling or stuck in hospital, but happily I was neither. Very glad to return it whence it came.

The whole experience made me consider something I really take for granted, as do – I suspect – most of us who enjoy reading. It’s just there, right? You don’t really need to think about it. Well, we are very fortunate indeed. Since everything clicked at the age of four and the world of books made it possible for me to run away from home without actually leaving (not that there was anything wrong with home, she added hastily; I just fancied other possibities), I’ve read everything and almost anything. I used to read the back of my father’s newspaper while he read the front; cereal packets held a deep fascination; I could find myself boating with Swallows and Amazons, going through the back of a wardrobe, sitting at the Round Table (who says girls can’t be knights, eh?) or fighting off goblins whenever I wanted.

I never lost that. Admittedly the adventures changed – I stood beside Jonathan Harker and watched Dracula crawling down a castle wall rather than hunted after the Holy Grail beside some Monty Python numpty in armour – but the allure of being able to escape into a book never, ever faded. I no longer needed to read under the bedclothes with a torch, though there have been times when using a torch seemed useful (where’s that Kindle?). And a book can transport you like nothing else, through time as well as place, and into worlds that, strictly speaking, don’t exist and (possibly) never have. I could climb the rigging on a ship of Nelson’s Navy with Jack Aubrey, reluctantly listen to Mary Bennet play the piano or walk the night-time streets of Ankh-Morpork with Samuel Vimes if I wanted. I could read David Simon on crime in Baltimore, Patrick Leigh-Fermor on walking through pre-War Europe or Cecil Woodham Smith on the Great Hunger. I could look at a whole range of Ottoman Carpets, photographs by Magnum members, check out the history and folklore of plants.

And then, suddenly, I couldn’t.

After a few days it became apparent that I was going to have to adapt. If I watched broadcast television all the time my brain was going to melt and run down my nose, and using my laptop was difficult, so I worked my way through my DVDs. The risk of brain liquifaction – another re-run of Escape to the Country when I finished them? I think NOT – was becoming all too real. So I managed to rig up a sort of reading platform I could use lying down, with lightweight books (and the damn Kindle) supported by pillows. That meant paperbacks, and it worked – I could read, not for long, but in relative comfort, and so I did. After a little while I noticed that my apparently unconscious choices had started to develop a clear theme. Novels were, by and large, out. I had to read something I could put to one side, something which wouldn’t lead to me ignoring the pain and just reading on to see what happened, but with one exception. Crime. It had to be familiar crime, though, crime where I knew who did it, roughly, even if I couldn’t remember exactly why. This stage went on for a while, until ‘they’ finally worked out what had happened to me and decided what they were going to do about it. Not surprising, that timing, perhaps – a problem, solved.

Then there were the travel books. I have a lot and I read almost all of them. I developed a particular fondness for the ones where the authors end up in revolting / dangerous / overly smelly / ludicrous situations. Chased by wild bears, hanging off a mountain by your fingernails, being very ill in some yurt? Oh, yes. Travelling around the UK? Nah. Once I’d read through my own selection I hit the local libraries and worked my way through theirs too. And then I moved on, into history. There are some books which blur the boundaries – like The Cruellest Miles by Gay and Laney Salisbury on the original dog-sled relay to Nome which led to the development of the Iditerod race – so that was to be expected. And then, joy of joys, I discovered I could manage a hardback, which added more to my repertoire since I’d abandoned the ***** Kindle – why pay for something you already own, anyway? (The first ones? Ah, Terry Pratchett’s latest Discworld books from Going Postal to Snuff, Simon Winchester’s Krakatoa and Iain Banks’ Raw Spirit, on whisky – and I can contemplate alcohol again; the physio must be working!)

Next, I’m going to be testing illustrated books. I can’t bend my neck completely without the vertigo returning, but I can manage with it slightly bent. So it’s down to whatever can be balanced safely on a crossed leg or a little table without slipping, and there are plenty of those. But I’m going to give the ‘throw the dice, see what it gives you and then blog about it’ thing a rest. I shall blog about what I’m rediscovering without the element of alleged chance. I know how my life works. If I threw the dice I’d just get the travel books again…

Normal service will be resumed…

… as soon as I can read properly and comfortably without hurting myself.

neckieOW. An old neck injury – which I didn’t know I had – has flared up and is giving me all sorts of problems which are far too boring to go into here. I’m in diagnostic limbo, waiting for my appointment with the neurologist (only ten days to go), and while everyone assures me it can be dealt with, they all want further investigations to make sure that no further damage is going to happen. While I applaud this – but of course – it is also extremely frustrating.

And one of the main reasons it is driving me insane is that reading has become extremely awkward as I cannot bend my head without dizziness setting in. I end up lying down with a book supported by pillows and my head by even more pillows, and then I have to change position frequently and lie on the other side. So the ‘reading what the dice select’ game has had to be suspended, as the dice kept selecting large art books. All I can manage are paperbacks. Dice not cooperating.

So what have I been reading? Well, not my comfort books, which is interesting. I’ve been travelling vicariously, since I can’t do too much of that physically, and I’ve been travelling in both space and time. At least you have to do the latter vicariously, whatever your state of health.

WreckersFirst off, Bella Bathurst’s excellent book The Wreckers.  Neatly combining history and travel (and enough accounts of stormy seas to make my dizziness appear comparatively trivial), it’s a very good, well-written read. My only quibble, really, is that the very last section on the ship breakers of Alang doesn’t sit very neatly with the rest, which is confined to the seas around the British Isles. But if you don’t know it, read it. It’s so often better to travel vicariously, and this book is a good example of why that is so.

rubiconNext, Rubicon by Tom Holland. Ah, narrative history. And for anyone who was hooked by that splendid TV romp, Rome, this is the real deal. What really happened. Maybe what really happened. Possibly – after all, can you really trust sources, especially if they were sources dependent for their living – and their life – on the emperor Augustus? But it is crammed with fascinating information (I didn’t know that Caesar was a notorious dandy; how could that have escaped me?) and – yet again – is an excellent read. Very diverting, and intelligent.

Torrid ZoneOne of my favourite authors next, and no way would I have wanted to follow Alexander Frater on this journey – series of journeys, really – neck or no neck. Tales from the Torrid Zone is a mixture of travel, autobiography and history, centred on the tropics, and I’m too much of a northern lass to really enjoy the tropics. I get off the plane somewhere excessive and I want to get right back on. Not Frater. Born there, he loves them – and this book is a paean of love and affection and exasperation. I didn’t get it at first, and this is only my second reading. Boy, have a got it now. Lovely book.

HareAnd another is The Hare with the Amber Eyes by Edmond de Waal, one of my more recent purchases (but before the whole dice thing kicked in). Again, this was only its second reading, but I know it’s going to merit more. De Waal tracks a family collection of netsuke – and his family, the Ephrussis – from a purchase in nineteenth-century Paris to their residence in his studio (he’s a potter), via Vienna – and being hidden from the Gestapo in a mattress – and Japan. Along the way he learns much of his own history, but also illuminates much of recent European history. Wonderful.

And now I have to choose the next book. Wonder what it will be, other than a paperback? If anyone has any tips for coping with irritating neck injuries, do let me know (head transplants and all). And, in the tones of Arnold Schwartznegger: I’ll be back…

Witness to chaos

THE PAST IS MYSELF by Christabel Bielenberg, originally published 1968 (first edition)

Bookcase 4, shelf 4, book 7

I have been a bad blogger. The truth is that after a whole year of reading from stock (as it were), I just wanted to read a few new things. But I didn’t break my resolve of cutting down on the purchase of new books – I went to my local libraries instead. And discovered just how good even small libraries in small Welsh towns can be, even in these straightened economic times; long may they last. Go Gwynedd Libraries!

Now I’m back on track, reading my ‘backlist’ books, though I’m not giving up on the libraries. They need support, and that support is gauged by borrowing, so I’m borrowing. But I am also reading through my own library, and the books in this blog will continue to be from my excessive (can such a thing be possible?) collection.

What a treat the roll of the dice gave me, too.

Christabel BeilenbergThe Past is Myself is one of my favourite books of all time, and there’s no cover shot, because my first edition has unfortunately lost its dust jacket (probably why I found it lurking cheaply in a dusty corner of an otherwise expensive second-hand bookshop in Cambridge). I probably re-read this every year, so it’s not a surprise rediscovery or forgotten jewel. What it is, undoubtedly, is a remarkable memoir, intelligent and humane, written by someone who got caught up in the nightmare that was Germany during the Third Reich.

rallyWhen Christabel Bielenberg died in 2003, one or two of the obituaries made me see red. One in particular was quite snotty about this book, and I suspect the writer hadn’t actually ventured beyond the first few pages. Yes, CB was a well-connected deb – her uncles were press barons – when she married Peter Bielenberg in 1934, but though she may have been naive at times, she was no empty-headed, upper-crust bimbo. And this particular obit described Peter as ‘apolitical’. Maybe a little, maybe at the start but, like his wife, his naivety disappeared and they moved from fighting their way to the back of a Nazi rally – where they discovered other like-minded, slightly incredulous watchers – to more active participation.

outside gestapo hqHis real awakening came when he saw one of his freed clients (he was a lawyer at that stage) leave the court only to be seized and bundled away in an anonymous green van. Her politicisation was more gradual, an accumulation of individually disturbing incidents. But it’s probably inevitable that they would have been anti-Nazi: Adam von Trott was an old friend of Peter’s and, completely coincidentally, their neighbour was Carl Langbehn. Peter himself was arrested in the aftermath of the plot to assassinate Hitler and ended up in Ravensbrück, from where he was freed in the last days of the war.

So credentials have been established, but what of the book? Well, it’s episodic, moving from those early days of a disappearing doctor – he was Jewish, and fled to Holland – to CB’s life in the Black Forest with the children while PB was in Ravensbrück. There is narrative flow, but the book covers many years and I personally find the episodic nature completely satisfying. The small sketches of life under the Reich are so evocative, from the story of her gardener, party small-fry, to the time fate in the shape of two Jews seeking a hiding place came literally knocking at her door one night.

There’s almost a quality of Greek drama about some of them: the Latvian SS man she encounters on a blacked-out train, seeking death as some retribution for what he has done ‘in the East’; her encounter with the Gestapo interrogator – she volunteered to be interrogated to support Peter’s bodged-together account of his involvement; the women’s tea party uniting in the face of an informer; and, indeed, the difficult life of her gardener, battered by the winds of economics and history.

JugendHe was an innocent, really, and the embodiment of the joke about Hitler and the gifts of four fairies. The first told him that every German would be honest, the second said every German would be bright, and the third said that every German would be a member of the Nazi party. And then the fourth spoke up, and said that every German could ‘only possess two of those attributes. She left the Fuhrer then with Intelligent Nazis who were not honest, honest Nazis who had no brains, and honest and intelligent citizens who were not Nazis.’ Herr Neisse fell into the middle category, never uttered any word about anything untoward he observed (he may not have understood the implications, but nonetheless he evidently said nothing), ‘passed on no incriminating titbits, such as other zealous informers had thought fit to do.’ He’d been hanged from a lamppost when the Russians arrived in Berlin.

The Past is Myself is a remarkable and wonderful book. I will go on re-reading it for ever, I suspect, getting something new out of it each time I do so. It’s essentially a celebration of humanity, at a time when, in the words of Bonhoeffer: ‘…we now have the black storm cloud and the brilliant lightning flash. The outlines stand out with exaggerated sharpness. Reality lays itself bare. Shakespeare’s characters walk in our midst.’ I’ll say.

(The photographs of Third Reich Germany are courtesy of the Imperial War Museum)

Almost good timing – Christmas with Dylan Thomas

A CHILD’S CHRISTMAS IN WALES, by Dylan Thomas, illustrated by Edward Ardizzone; this illustrated edition originally published in 1978

Bookcase 9, shelf 2, book 3

The book-selecting dice are evidently not quite running on the same calendar as me, but I am very glad I got this in November and not, say, June – that would have been completely wrong. This nostalgic, romantic, poetic and occasionally deeply surreal evocation of Christmas past would have been impossible to read in warmth and sunshine, but snuggle up next to the stove on a dark night – perfect. And that’s even if I can’t read anything by Dylan Thomas without hearing Richard Burton’s voice in the background at the same time. Or my own – it’s a wonderful book to read aloud.

There is a sort of narrative to A Child’s Christmas in Wales, taking readers through memories of the Christmas season, starting with one of the most evocative opening passages I can think of:

One Christmas was very much like another, in those years around the sea-town corner now and out of all sound except the distant speaking of the voices I sometimes hear a moment before sleep, that I can never remember whether it snowed for six days and six nights when I was twelve or whether it snowed for twelve days and twelve nights when I was six.

It moves from ‘the afternoon of the day of Christmas Eve’ with Thomas (or his narrator, perhaps that should be) in Mrs Prothero’s garden waiting for cats – (‘It was snowing. It was always snowing at Christmas. December, in my memory, is white as Lapland, though there were no reindeers. But there were cats.’) – being diverted by Mrs P frantically calling ‘fire’,

to him going to bed on Christmas night:’I said some words to the close and holy darkness, and then I slept.’

Ardizzone’s illustrations run throughout my childhood like a thread, as does this book – despite my growing up 250 miles from the nearest part of Wales; my father adored Dylan Thomas – and it’s such a perfect combination. The frantic Mrs P, the boys and the cats: they’re just right. It’s tempting to see Ardizzone as a literal ‘translator’ and so he is, but his versions of the time of Thomas’s childhood – ‘when there were wolves in Wales’ and the boys ‘chased, with the jawbones of deacons, the English and the bears’ – are equally literal:

The use of language is, as you’d expect, absolutely magical. It’s impossible to describe; it has to be quoted:

‘Our snow was not only shaken from whitewash buckets down the sky, it came shawling out of the ground and swam and drifted out of the arms and hands and bodies of the trees; snow grew overnight on the roofs of the houses like a pure and grandfather moss…’

The year before last, we had heavy snow right over Christmas, even here on the west coast of Wales where we normally get very little. As I forced my way out of the house and up the hill, trudging through the woods, I thought of this so clearly. I’d have liked to declaim it to the few sheep I passed, but I couldn’t remember it well enough (sheep are such sticklers for poetic accuracy – oh dear, I think it’s catching).

More realistically, I love the family get-together (brought hilariously and touchingly up-to-date by Mark Watson in the 2009 BBC film ‘A Child’s Christmases in Wales’), the aunts and uncles – ‘There are always Uncles at Christmas’ – around the fire:

This book is frequently described as a ‘modern classic’, and so it is, but it’s more than that. It’s a delightful read, an amusing, diverting journey into the past, into Christmas family traditions and foibles (‘Auntie Hannah laced her tea with rum, because it was only once a year’), into a partly imaginary but completely believable poetic world. There’s even a possible ghost. What else can I say but a rather early Nadolig Llawen?

Of course, the classic version of this book is read aloud not by Richard Burton but by Dylan Thomas himself; it’s worth digging it out. And if you’re inspired to find this lovely illustrated edition, be aware that there is a minature version about; delightful but impractical. You need to see the deacon’s jawbone and the bishops in the belfrey. Didn’t I mention them?

Walking away…

CLEAR WATERS RISING: A MOUNTAIN WALK ACROSS EUROPE by Nicholas Crane, published in 1996

Bookcase 10, shelf 8, book 1

What a hiatus – lots of work meant that I was only reading recipe books, and they don’t make for the most exciting posts. Oh, all right, some of them do – Claudia Roden’s fabulous Jewish Food, for instance, which is as much about social history as it is about stuffing your face. But they’re outside the scope of this project – for one thing, I’d need three dice to get as far as the cookery books, and I’ve only got two. But the two dice I have got gave me a lovely read to make up for the increasing sameness of cookery books.

Clear Waters Rising is a wonderful vicarious walk from one end of Europe to the other, from Cape Finisterre and Santiago de Compostela right through to Istanbul, following the watershed over various mountain ranges as much as possible. It was undertaken in the mid-90s by a thoroughly entertaining writer, Nicholas Crane. Some people will know him from the BBC’s Coast series, always accompanied by an umbrella on his back and a TV crew. This comes from before then, and indeed starts even before the acquisition of the umbrella (though that is bought early on). When he undertook this solitary walk he hadn’t been married for long, fortunately to a very understanding person, another traveller. He’d done many other difficult journeys, but never anything by himself – and that was exactly what he decided to do in this project, which he optimistically thought might take a year.

Keeping in contact by phone – phone boxes assume a lot of importance; this is before ubiquitous mobile technology – and with some pre-arranged meetings (either with his wife or others) enabled NC to travel comparatively light in a journey that spanned the seasons. Its length, both physically and temporally, paint a changing picture. As he sets off, for instance, the mountains he travels through begin to fill with other climbers and walkers then gradually empty as the time wears on. Mountain cafés and campsites empty:

‘This is the last meal I cook at Cortalets this year,’ he announced.
‘You are going to the valley, then?’
‘Tonight…’

and rough camping (it saves him money, plus is more enjoyable – generally, except when wet, snowed upon or being thoroughly spooked in the Vercors) becomes more and more difficult. There are detours – a quick sideways trip to climb Mont Blanc, for instance – and an always entertaining commentary on the places and people he encounters. It’s a very well-written book; In some places it’s straightforwardly amusing; in others it catches a universal feeling…

‘Darkness had fallen when I walked into St Maurice Navacelles. Water shone in the light cast from a window. Inside, an elderly couple were pulling up trays of food before a fire. The warmth and sheter of their secure little haven … was on the other side of an unbridgeable gulf. I was comfortable with my tramp’s life, for it brought freedom and full-time relief from restlessness, but it was still difficult to pass a lit window at dusk without wanting to be in on the warmer side of the glass.’

And the photographs are good, as well.

As Crane moves eastwards, the nature of the people he encounters changes: there are more shepherds, for instance, and fewer people walking in the hills for pure enjoyment. And if this sounds a little like Patrick Leigh-Fermor’s journeys across pre-War Europe, then that’s hardly surprising. Their tracks converged in Vienna, where Crane’s resolve really wavered for the first time. The thought of the young Leigh-Fermor was one of the things that kept him going: as he says, ‘he wouldn’t approve’. Plus, of course, there was consistent support from his family, not least his wife, and he did manage to do most of the journey by himself, except when obliged to take a companion by the authorities in the Ukraine. One was fine, a kindred spirit; the other was not, but the problem resolved itself. And there was really only one occasion (apart from the mystery sounds of footsteps approaching a shelter in the Vercors, footsteps with no apparent owner) when he felt in any danger.

Clear Waters Rising is such a good read. There’s not a cat in hell’s, or a ghost in the Vercors, chance that I would ever be able to do something like this – certainly not now, Achilles tendon injuries being what they are, and probably never. I’d have given up at the first campsite, I suspect. But books like this broaden horizons as well as entertain, and sometimes they bring you up short with a realisation about something you may have taken for granted.

(As a spinner, I had to use this double-page spread – even though I can’t spindle-spin and never wear headscarves or – phew – socks with sandals)

Ahem. Take art, for instance. I’ve known about the glorious painted churches in Romania for years, but the sheer impact they might have had on their original audience never really occurred to me. NC, however, having been on a journey ‘where “art” had been an occasional iconostasis or the pattern on a flute barrel’, was utterly blown away by them. ‘Christianity in freeze-frame covered the entire exterior and interior … saints and priests and claocked philosophers (Plato crowned by a reliquary of bones) floated in ranks above an earthly landscape of mesas and buttes, cityscape and forests…’ In short, a ‘carnival of the grotesque, the allegorical and the saintly, reaching as tall as the trees…’. It must have felt a lot like that many centuries ago, too. And without Clear Waters Rising, I’d not really have given that fact a second thought. Not just a walking book, not just a mountain book, not ‘just’ a travel book – but a damn good read, and a very thoughtful one.

Can I go back to the beginning and read it again?

Back to the trees

MYTHIC WOODS by Jonathan Roberts, published in 2004

Bookcase 8, shelf 2, book 17

I do love trees. I spent a large part of my teenage years up in an old tree, reading. Now I’ve got quite a few in the garden (er, 20 at the last count, though they’re not all huge), and more than a few books about them on the shelves. Some are field guides, some focus on a particular tree, some are tours of specific trees – but this is the only one which focuses on woods. Well, on a perhaps surprising interpretation of ‘woods’.

OK, I admit it, I’m a sucker for books on trees. Some of the books I’ve bought on impulse and the strength of  a few positive words on Amazon have made their way to the charity shop fairly quickly, and for a moment this one nearly joined them. I’m not quite sure why, but it found its way back onto the shelves, where it remained unexamined until I rolled the dice and got it. Now I have read it and looked at it properly, I’m very glad that I changed my mind. This dice-rolling thing is having all sorts of unexpected benefits…

One reason why I nearly got rid of Mythic Woods was because of the fact that it is illustrated with what are, essentially, library shots. I’d hoped for a unified vision, and rather snottily decided that this wasn’t it. I was wrong. Yes, the photographs do come from a variety of photographers, but the photo editing is excellent, and there isn’t really a sour note.

I do think, though, that the title is misleading as well as being a little ‘away with the fairies’ with the ‘mythic’ tag. If it was full of legendary woods, woods like Sherwood, perhaps, redolent with stories and tales, then I wouldn’t have much of  a problem with it as an echo of the book within. But this book isn’t like that at all; it’s much more down to earth than the title implies. It’s also about forests than woods, and that’s forests in the old sense of the term – where a forest can be a bleak area of upland with a few trees dotting the hills, as in the Atlas Mountains,

or an ancient petrified / fossilized forest in Arizona, or a wilderness of kelp off the California coast. Oh, I know I’m quibbling, but I am an editor and that’s my job. Time to ignore my inner nit-picker and just enjoy the book, because it is eminently enjoyable. Here’s the kelp:

More conventionally, the book moves across the whole world in a way that some books of this type just do not. It includes, for instance, Canada’s Great Bear Forest (boy, would I like to see that some day) and the Kauri forests of New Zealand (ditto). I suspect that this is one of the reasons for the mix of photographic sources: it would have been extremely expensive as well as time-consuming – hang on, the Inner Editor is out again. Go away.

But of course it’s not just about the photographs. The text is good, even if the font size is suspiciously large (a sure sign of trying to spin text out – go away, Inner Ed, I said). There’s a strong environmental message. This wasn’t, however, what Jonathan Roberts originally intended. He is quite open about it: saying that the green agenda wasn’t what he wanted to focus on at the start. However, as work progressed, that attitude became impossible to sustain. The sound of the chainsaw rang through many of the woods he visited, and there were clear signs of destruction caused by logging (napalm has even been used to clear the ground after the removal of trees, so that’s not surprising). As he says:

‘Trees can barely keep up with axes. With chainsaws they do no stand a chance. A thousand years a-growing destroyed by fifteen minutes with a chainsaw.’

There’s also a focus on those who have fought or are fighting for the forests, people like Lyautey with his aim of re-foresting the Atlas Mountains in Morocco just after the First World War. His civil servants had protested that old-growth forest, such as that which had once covered the Atlas, would take thousands of years to establish. Re-establish. Apparently he responded with ‘That, gentelmen, is why we will start immediately’. Quite. Go out and plant trees – though I, perhaps, should stop. At least in my own garden.

But I really, really warmed to this book when I found a quote from an old, completely inspirational archaeology book, one that turned me on to the whole idea of European archaeology in the late 70s, and provoked my deep and abiding obsession with the Mesolithic.

It’s probably too small or faint to see, certainly on a mobile device, so here goes:

“‘If one could have flown,’ wrote J G Clark in 1952, ‘over northern Europe during Mesolithic times [c 5000 BCE] it is doubtful whether more than an occasional wisp of smoke from some camp fire, or maybe a small cluster of huts or shelters by a river bank or old lake bed would have advertised the presence of man: in all essentials the forest would have stretched unbroken, save only by mountain, swamp and water, the the margins of the sea…'”

Hmm. Maybe ‘mythic’ isn’t that bad a word. The forest here, by the way, is the wonderful Black Wood of Rannoch. Now that one I do know.