Monthly Archives: July 2016

Seeing Double

Faerie Tale & The Stolen Child

A Double Review

I read these books in quick succession and they are interesting looking at in tandem for their affinities and differences. The first (in order of reading, and also in publication date) was Raymond E. Feist’s Faerie Tale (1988) which I’d known about for a few years but only got round to reading recently. I sort of expected it to be a bit of a guilty pleasure kind of a book rather than anything too high-brow, and I wasn’t mistaken. It was like watching something on Netflix – with the usual contemporary quota of sex, violence and special FX. Feist transposed fairy folklore motifs to New York State in a similar way to De Lint’s fictionalised Canadian town. A ‘perfect’ family – a successful writer father, beautiful and intelligent mother, young scampish twin brothers, and a step-daughter from a former marriage – move into a ‘characterful’ old place once belonging to an eccentric German emigrant. You just know things are going to go weird. The fun here is seeing what an American author does with European fairy and folk motifs. It’s an uneven mix – in some instances, Feist gives them a darker edge, for examples, a shape-changing Puck-type who rapes the daughter; in other ways, the cutesy corny iconography of little beings with wings remains. There is the Wild Hunt, vividly imagined, especially by Geoff Taylor’s masterful cover (fans of Robert Holdstock will recognise the cover artist’s style – and I suspect Taylor was chosen to win over fans of the recently published Mythago Wood (1984) and Lavondyss (1986), with this coming out in 1988 originally), given an almost Terminator 2-ish makeover, glistening with silver fire. But then Feist unconvincingly adopts a pseudo-Shakespearean register in some of the later scenes, a slippage of tone which threatens to undermine the narrative – gripping in other ways as it reaches it denouement. As a page-turner, and a pot-boiler, it is fit-for-purpose, a schlocky bit of comfort reading. The boys are resilient and their intimate sibling world is well-evoked, as is that of the annoying teenage ‘princess’, heiress to a fabulous fortune. Old Barney, an Irish-American living close by, is the stuff of stereotype but has a certain charm about him – an Old World evocation of the Fairy Faith. The occult author, Blackman, is in many ways less likeable and convincing – he seems little more than an expositional device for info-dump research into the narrative. The whole artifice of the novels feels a bit flimsy, as though Feist is playing dressing up with these tropes – a bit of a literary tourism – rather than writing about them in an embodied, felt and authentic way. It is a curiousity more than a work of any lasting literary values – but it probably paid the bills. And for any creative following their bliss that’s an achievement not to be sniffed at.

In contrast, Keith Donohue’s debut novel, The Stolen Child (2006), is literary fantasy of real quality. You can tell from the exquisitely crafted prose that this was a labour of love about a subject the author clearly had an obsession with – indeed it feels at times as though it is semi-autobiographical in part. It relates the story of a Henry Day, a malcontent pianist languishing in small-town mid-America, who turns out to be not Henry Day at all but a changeling, that is a fairy who has stolen the identity of the original Henry, while the human child has been lured away to the ‘waters and the wild’, as in WB Yeats’ classic poem. The drama is primarily created by the tribulations of this ‘cuckoo’ and his attempt to fit in to the Day ‘nest’. His father intuits something is awry and suffers as a consequence, haunted by the gnawing uncertainty that the child is not his own for years. Donohue deftly alternates this life in the ‘daylight’ with the demi-monde world of the changelings, which the author as imagined as a kind of tribe of ‘lost boys’ (and girls), living an anarchic, feral existence on the fringes of the human world. These fairies are charmingly human – albeit with the odd supernatural ability (e.g. shape-changing). They are also doomed to remain the same age they were when abducted – on the outside, at least, resulting in an uneasy collision of adult foibles and desires in a child’s body. Many of them look on with envy at the human world – its range of cuisine, clothing and literature. It drives some of them to make a den beneath the public library – and indeed the changelings seem bound the human world, rather than dwelling in another world, which doesn’t seem to exist. None of the usual pantheon from the Fairy Tradition seems to exist beyond these rather sad strays. It’s a lonely, impoverished life which makes the changelings adult-children pitiful, more than fearful. The human imposter, ‘Henry Day’, is far more sinister, yet even this unlikable anti-hero becomes redeemed somewhat by a girlfriend, and by his music. Through the latter he attempts to make amends, by creating a symphony which gives voice to the dis-enfranchised stolen children. In some ways, the novel’s dramatic arc is one depicting the creative process. From the creative tension and cross-fertilisation of worlds, art is born. But not without cost. Donohue’s ecosystem is closed one of ruthless reciprocity. Everything comes at a price. The tighter focus of The Stolen Child makes it claustrophobic, but more effective and convincing. The writing is more finely-crafted than Feist’s – sentences not just being utilitarian, relentlessly driving the plot forward like script slug-lines, but actually an aesthetic pleasure to read. This is an author with an eye for detail – the minutiae of both worlds. The uncanny is framed within a sharply rendered American setting. The tone is one of realism, not fey whimsy. And there is successful inter-textuality. Here, Donohue delightfully has the changelings glutting on Shakespeare and other poets, revelling in any writing that references them, that makes it feel as though they exist. Art gives them voice, even agency. They can have an existence beyond the narrow confines of their world. Donohue has clearly done his research, but here weaves it in with elfish skill. The only slip is in the strangely clunky beginning – when he info-dumps unnecessary etymologies on us. There is a sense of a fledgling author finding his feet, or voice – but when he does, the prose takes flight. I look forward to more from this promising and clearly highly-accomplished author.

 

Kevan Manwaring 23 July 2016

Ballads Across Borders

Off by yourself you could sing those songs to bring yourself back.

Gary Snyder, ‘Good, Wild, Sacred’

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Offa’s Dyke Path, descending southwards from the Jubilee Tower, 1821 ft (555 m) .                   K. Manwaring 2016

Inspired by my experience of walking the West Highland Way last year, when I found myself bursting spontaneously into song (see ‘Let the Mountain Sing its Own Song’, The London Magazine, Oct/Nov 2015) I decided to pack in my mental rucksack some ballads to warble as I hiked the Offa’s Dyke Path from north to south earlier this month (6-16 July). I chose a different ballad for each day of the walk, creating ‘A Walker’s Songbook’, which I printed off to help me learn the lyrics on the hoof. Every morning in my tent over porridge and a cuppa I would cram the lyrics into my skull, and then off I’d set, sticking in hand and song in my heart.

I felt very much like a pilgrim – a bit crazy and off the beaten track of reality. I was delighted to discover in Thoreau’s iconic essay on walking (slipped in with my other essentials) that the word ‘Sauntering’ is derived “from idle people who roved about the country, in the Middle Ages, and asked charity, under pretense [sic] of going a al Sainte Terre’, to the Holy Land. Apparently children used to call out, ‘There goes a Sainte-Terrer!’ a Saunterer, a Holy-Lander. Thoreau notes that some derive the word from ‘sans terre’, without land or home, ‘which, therefore, in the good sense, will mean, having no particular home, but equally at home everywhere.’ This, Thoreau suggests, is the secret of successful sauntering, something I bore in mind as I wended my way southwards. Inspired by my experience of walking the West Highland Way last year, when I found myself bursting spontaneously into song (see ‘Let the Mountain Sing its Own Song’, The London Magazine, Oct/Nov 2015) I decided to pack in my mental rucksack some ballads to warble as I hiked the Offa’s Dyke Path from north to south earlier this month (6-16 July). I chose a different ballad for each day of the walk, creating ‘A Walker’s Songbook’, which I printed off to help me learn the lyrics on the hoof. Every morning in my tent over porridge and a cuppa I would cram the lyrics into my skull, and then off I’d set, sticking in hand and song in my heart.

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Halfway from nowhere. K. Manwaring 2016

Some of the songs I selected explored and expressed issues to do with land rights and freedom of access, rites of roaming, if you will. This was inspired, in part, by the show ‘Three Acres and a Cow: A History of Land Rights and Protest in Folk Song and Story’, by Robin Gray and friends, which I saw in Stroud, in June. That came with its own songbook and, in the spirit of the ‘creative commons’ philosophy of the show (which encourages other productions through its online wiki), I cannibalised some of it.

My first day was spent singing the Sydney Carter classic, ‘John Ball’, about the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381. This was inspired by Ball’s motto: ‘When Adam delved and Eva span, who then was the gentleman?’ There was no hierarchy or class system in Eden, between humans, at least. Indeed, there seemed to be ‘democracy for all beings’ – human and animal living in harmonious equality. ‘John Ball’ is a great song to sing at the break of day striding out into the world, making one feel as though it is possible to sing creation into existence. As the Venerable Bede says of the poet Caedmon: ‘Sing me Frumsceaft’. The parable is worth relating here in full:

One evening when Caedmon was feasting with his friends he saw the harp being passed towards him around the hearthfire and, feeling shy about his lack of skill in singing, he gave some excuse about having to look after the animals and slipped away. Out there in the barn he fell asleep, and in his dream an Angel came to him and said, “Caedmon, sing something.” He answered and said, “I cannot sing so I left the feasting and came here because I could not.” He who spoke to him again said, “Nevertheless, you can sing to me.” He said, “What shall I sing?” He said, “Sing me the Creation.”

(cited in Sing Me The Creation, Paul Matthews, Hawthorn 1994)

In a way, this mirrors my own experience. Told as a young man I was ‘tone deaf’ and discouraged by my peers at the time, I gave up trying to be musical for many years, until recently when I’ve started to learn the guitar and joined a community choir. I found it a lot easier to sing in a crowd and this bolstered my bruised confidence. However, it’s still hard to sing in front of people. Away in the middle of nowhere, it’s a different matter. I can sing my heart out from the hilltops. And here I was, away from the circle of community like Caedmon, walking the Offa’s Dyke and finding my voice amongst the animals … and over the next few days I had several profound non-anthropocentric encounters which affirmed something ‘Caedmon-ish’ was happening.

On the third day, I sang ‘Brimbledon Fair’ as I hiked from The Griffin Inn where I’d camped back to the acorns (the white acorns which delineated the national trail). I had to pass through a field of cows, frisky young bulls, who rushed over to me, looking like they were intent on stampeding me to death. Quickly, I turned on them and increased the volume of my voice. My singing seemed to stop them dead in their tracks. They huddled around, placid, curious, spellbound. I sang them ‘John Ball’ too, changing the lyric to ‘John Bull’. When I finished they followed me to the edge of the field. I crossed the stile and they lined up at the five-bar gate, watching expectantly, as though waiting for an encore.

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‘Sing John Bull…’ Animal magic on the Offa’s Dyke, K. Manwaring 2016

Another day, setting off after a wet and windy night from a wild-pitch (and a bracing strip-shower by a cold tap) I sang Blake’s ‘Jerusalem’ as I passed through a flock of black-fleeced sheep. On the Dyke you pass hundreds if not thousands of sheep, and you get used to them panicking as soon as they see you, as though they’ve never seen a human being before – even though their field is on a national trail. They always bolt. But not the ewe and her lambs before me on the path. Mothers with their lambs are especially skittish, but not these three. They seemed to listen even closer as I sang ‘And was the Holy Lamb of God/on England’s pleasant pastures seen?’ The ewe came up to me and sniffed me hands. One of the lambs let me give it a scratch behind the ear and run my hands through its soft fleece. They were not afraid.

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‘And was the Holy Lamb of God on England’s pleasant pastures seen?’ The music-appreciating ewe and her lambs. K. Manwaring, 2016

Was something Orphic going on? Who knows, but it would appear not to be a unique phenomenon, as Gary Snyder points out in The Practice of the Wild: ‘All the little critters creep in close to listen when human beings are in a good mood and willing to play some tunes.’ However it worked, I continued my ‘talking across the species boundaries’, as he put it, in intuitive, unexpected ways.

Another day, I came across a rabbit by the side of the path. I was still and as non-threatening as possible. It gave me an inquisitive glance, then carried on nibbling not a yard from me. A shrew I nearly trod upon reacted in the same way, its tiny pip eye clearly registering no threat. I sang to a donkey that insisted on blocking my way; to a trio of ducks who invaded my tent every half an hour in the hope of crumbs; to horses and their foals; and to the skylarks trilling above the meadows and the birds of prey circling and swooping over the rocks and roots.

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Mind your step! Esglwseg Crags, a friable path on the Offa’s Dyke, K. Manwaring 2016

 

All the while I walked the Offa’s Dyke Path, which at one time delineated the border between England and Wales. Now it wove back and forth like a slippery caduceus. The songs carried me over the border, connecting me with other cultures, countries, or times; and they carried me over the border of species too, and seemed to facilitate inter-species communication. It was a sole/soulful way to travel. As Gary Snyder says: ‘Our ‘soul’ is the dream of the other’. It extends the borders of the self until it connects with all of creation.

On a practical level, the songs I sang really helped to keep me going: they kept my morale up and put a spring in my step. Whenever I sang a song with gusto, fatigue was forgotten, my feet took care of themselves and the miles melted away.WP_20160708_17_00_48_Pro

And it was empowering to sing songs of protest, of commoners’ rights, of victories won by the people (e.g. the Countryside and Right of Way ‘CRoW’ act, which the mass trespass on Kinder Scout and the campaigning by the Ramblers’ Association and others finally achieved in 2000 for England and Wales). Could the sharing of ballads be used to help heal division across wounded communities? We need to hear one another’s songs. Listen and share. Nothing breaks down barriers better than a good singalong. If there is an organisation like Médecins Sans Frontières (one of many reasons why the great humanitarian nation of France deserves our respect and support in its difficult time) then why not Songs Sans Frontières? Perhaps there are initiatives out there of a similar spirit already doing good work – if so, I salute them.

The healing or the re-enchanting of the land by song has been happening for a long time.

In Australia, the Songlines demarcating the Dreamtime windings of the Rainbow Serpent, tribal territories, hunting grounds, springs, sacred lands and so forth were and are maintained by Aboriginal elders singing their linear narratives while on ‘walkabout’.

By repurposing Offa’s geomorphic act of hubris as a songline for the Welsh/English border, it can be turned from a military power statement to a conduit of harmony between cultures, communities, and even species.

One day I would love there to be a ‘Mabinogion Way’, connecting all the associated sites across Wales (perhaps along four ‘branches’), enabling one to cross Cambria reciting the tales and poems of its ‘national’ cycle (as conjured into being by Lady Charlotte Guest); but for now, I had cobbled together my own psychomythic songline – the Animals of Albion Amble perhaps.

As if to confirm this, on the last day, when I concluded my walk on the Wye Bridge, Monmouth (having walked the final section to Chepstow several years ago), foot-sore but satisfied with my partner, the folk-singer, Chantelle Smith (who had joined me for the last two days, augmenting my modest repertoire with her extensive song-bag and beautiful voice), I cast into the turbid waters of the Wye a stone I had picked up from Prestatyn beach, at the start of the Offa’s Dyke Path. The noise of passing cars and my partner’s somewhat debilitated state (understandable after thirty plus hard miles in two days…) threatened to diminish what should have felt like a euphoric moment – the goal of eleven days achieved – but then, just as we turned to leave, I noticed a ring of ripples where I had cast my stone. In a flash of sunlight, the most gigantic salmon I’d ever seen leapt out of the water a good three feet, flipping over like Tom Daly in mid-dive, before plunging once more into its liquid mystery.

The Salmon of Llyn Llwyd or not, it felt as though my effort had been acknowledged. That my ‘song line’ was complete.

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Perfect pitch at Pampwnton, K. Manwaring 2016

A Walker’s Songbook compiled by Kevan Manwaring

Day 1. John Ball (Sydney Carter)

Day 2. The Manchester Rambler (Ewan MacColl)

Day 3. Brimbledon Fair, or Young Ramble Away

Day 4. The Wild Rover

Day 5. Jerusalem (William Blake)

Day 6. The Lincolnshire Poacher

Day 7. Spencer the Rover

Day 8. Carrick Fergus

Day 9. John Barleycorn

Day 10. Caledonia (Dougie Maclean)

Day 11. Crazy Man Michael (Thompson/Swarbrick)

 

 

Thank you to the songwriters, the Offa’s Dyke Association for maintaining the path, to the animals, the nice campsite owners, and to my intrepid partner and fellow songwalker Chantelle.

 

 

 

 

 

Walking an Imaginary Line

Boundary: imaginary line between two nations, separating the imaginary rights of one from the imaginary rights of the other.

The Devil’s Dictionary, Ambrose Bierce

 

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Offa’s Dyke Path, K. Manwaring 2016

I decided to go for a walk. To mark the end of the academic year and the start of my summer holidays and as a kind of detox from teaching, technology and the ‘unbearable shiteness of being’ (in 21st Century little Britain), I have, over the last three years, cultivated the habit of going for a long distance walk.  In 2014 it was Hadrian’s Wall (84 miles); last year the West Highland Way (96 miles); and this year, to go one better, I decided to tackle the Offa’s Dyke Path (177 miles, or 168 or 182, depending on which sign you read!). I was drawn to this route for a number of reasons: I’m fascinated by borders and how cultures cross-fertilise across them; I was going to be in the north, giving a paper at a conference at Lancaster University (on ‘Loving the Alien’), so could travel from there to the start (or, for many, the end) of the walk in Prestatyn; and also I liked the idea of walking homewards, towards Gloucestershire, and being joined by my partner for the last couple of days at Hay-on-Wye. Also, in the light of the EU Referendum the notion of borders (and the fallacy of trying to keep the ‘other’ out) seemed very resonant. And so I packed my rucksack and off I loped.

When I would create myself, I seek the darkest woods.

Henry David Thoreau

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Go south, young-ish man! 

Offa’s Dyke is an earthwork consisting of a ditch (up to six feet deep) and a rampart (up to twenty five feet high) stretching from north to south, from the Irish Sea to the Severn Estuary. It was constructed around 757-796 CE at the instigation (and probably brute force) of Offa, an 8th Century Mercian king, of whom it was said approximately a century afterwards:

There was in Mercia in fairly recent times a certain vigorous king called Offa who terrified all the neighbouring kings and provinces around him, and who had a great dyke built between Wales and Mercia from sea to sea. (from Bishop Asser’s Life of King Alfred of Wessex,  893 CE)

Giraldus Cambrensis (Gerald of Wales), somewhat later (1145-1223) said of him: ‘King Offa shut the Welsh off from the English with his long dyke on the frontier’. Offa feels like a very topical figure, a Johnsonish, Faragesque, or Trumpist Cnut-type, trying to shut out the inevitable tide of alterity. If the dyke was designed to ‘shut the Welsh off’, it an ironic and ultimately futile endeavour. The Welsh, the Waleas, the ‘strangers’, were the original British, and it was the latest wave of incomers, the Saxons, who were evicting them from their own land. The other was scapegoated, seen as the root of all evil. Plus ça change. Whether the dyke was intended to be defensive (although it was lined by a palisade and the rampart on the English side gave them some advantage, to defend 177 miles of line 24/7 for years seems an unrealistic proposition in what would have been a very underpopulated Britain at the time); designed to control trade; a power statement, or, more likely, a bit of all three, nobody knows for certain. The fact that it often follows the ridge of high places, giving it maximum visibility to the west, suggest it was designed partly to be seen by the surly Welsh as a constant reminder of Mercia’s might. One idea, however, suggests Offa simply took the line of least resistance and augmented existing earthworks, joining up the many hill-forts, and possibly existing routes, along the way. Certainly walking it over 11 days what really came across to me was how it made travel between such sites swifter and more discreet, for it allows you to move across high country without being seen, if you follow the ditch (although today that would be almost impossible unless you wanted to run the gauntlet of miles of nettles and thistles and brambles, for much of it is overgrown). Though it might have originally demarcated the line between England and Wales, now Offa’s Dyke weaves back and forth between the countries somewhat slyly. It slips between worlds. Without knowing it sometimes, you’ve crossed the border. It is only when you come to a gate or sign do you find out which country or county you are in. For much of the route it feels like a place between worlds and outside time. I often walked for hours without seeing a soul. Most hikers traverse the ODP from south to north. I met only one other hiker going southwards. I often seemed to walking faster than most I met, so I would have overtaken any going in my direction at some point. When walking the West Highland Way last year, and Hadrian’s Wall the year before that, you kept overlapping fellow hikers, or vice versa. Some become familiar figures on the trail over several days. But that didn’t happen this time, and that was fine with me as I enjoyed the solitude. After a year of teaching and being responsible for several groups of students, it was soothing to be in a non-verbal, non-technological space. One focused on the daily goal – the next campsite –and core needs – water, food, shelter, warmth, safety. One’s daily effort was reciprocated by the view achieved, the progress made. Life becomes simpler, less cluttered, more focused. Going south. One foot step after another. Breath and sweat. The wind and rain. Sunlight and birdsong. As Gary Snyder said (I took his classic work, The Practice of the Wild, with me, so apologies if I cite him a lot):

The wilderness pilgrim’s step-by-step breath-by-breath walk up a trail, into those snowfields, carrying all on the back, is so ancient a set of gestures as to bring a profound sense of body-mind joy.

I have to ‘fess up at this point, I didn’t lug all of my campsite with me as I saw some poor souls doing, but used local taxi firms to take my main enormous rucksack from pitch to pitch, leaving me with a 25 litre daysac to carry, more than adequate for me needs. I took this approach last year (although then I was able to use a single firm which covered the whole trail) and it makes such a qualitative difference. Instead of it being a masochistic slog, one can actually enjoy the walk. A member of staff at Mellington Hall said ‘That’s cheating!’ but I disagree – there is no rule saying you have to take your house with you like a human snail when walking a long-distance footpath. I was walking the trail, the same as everyone else. Just using my smarts, is all. As Thoreau said:

The only obligation which I have a right to assume is to do at any time what I think is right.
On the Duty of Civil Disobedience.

For me it’s about savouring each step, standing and staring now and then, enjoying the view, a pause for a cuppa, to feel the sun on your face, or savour the peace and solitude, not proving anything to anyone else. Some seem to tackle it like a race – I met one man doing it in 10 days – but I wasn’t doing it to break any records. If I made the campsite at a decent time of day, e.g. 4-or-5-ish, then that allowed me time to set up, for my usually wet tent to dry out, to have a shower, fix some food, write some journal, read a little, before nodding off ridiculously early. When one camps one usually starts to synchronise with the rhythm of nature, going to sleep when it gets dark and waking up at dawn. It’s hard to do otherwise, especially after a long and tiring day’s walk. I slept like a log every night.

Pick up your stick, put on your hat, and strike out with a pilgrim heart from your front door. Kevan Manwaring

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A 161 miles later… Finishing the walk on Wye Bridge, Monmouth (I’d done the final section between there & Chepstow before). But there’s more to share before then! Photograph by Chantelle Smith, 2016.

 

In my next blog I write about the ballads I sung every day along the Offa’s Dyke Path…