The Wild Places - Robert Macfarlane. Review on The Wild Places - Robert Macfarlane

The Wild Places - Robert Macfarlane

I spotted this book in my local Ottakar’s/Waterstones. It was part of a table display of similar titles, and I was drawn by the front cover. I was intrigued by the commendation by The Times on it: “A wonderful evocation of Britain’s natural beauty and a reminder of our need to connect with the wilderness.”

The back cover bore similar comments. As a nature lover for as long as I can remember, I decided to buy it, I confess to being a little bit concerned that its style might be rather too florid or convoluted for my tastes.

My concerns proved entirely unfounded. Almost as soon as I began to read I was spellbound. I’m certain the book’s content or style aren’t unique. But the book is quite unlike any other I have read.

What this book ISN’T.

It isn’t an exciting read. It isn’t a page-turner, nor is it a book that I will sit up late at night reading, kidding myself that I will read just the next page, or just to the end of this particular chapter. Nor is it full of detailed observations of places, wild flowers or wild animals.

But I did find it enchanting.

What this book IS.

It’s hard to better The Times’ commendation on its front cover. It is an evocation. It isn’t so much an account of journeys undertaken and of what happened on them; rather it is a record of visits to wild places, and the emotions and thoughts that passed through the author’s mind while he was there.

To me it’s a book best read slowly, a book to ponder and to savour. I read just a few pages at a time. It’s a book to pass time WITH rather than a book to pass time reading.

It contains historical allusions as well as geographical, geological and other natural history references. It consists first and foremost of the author’s empathetic, almost symbiotic relationship with the places he visits.

This may all sound a bit “New Age”, and if that is your thing, this book would almost certainly appeal to you. But it isn’t a book of New Age thought, nor of a specifically New Age stance and viewpoint. As I have tried to explain, it’s a book of connection with wild surroundings: panoramic views, sun, storm, trees and sea. It’s a book if an emotional near-immersion into one’s surroundings. And of feeling better for doing so. Infinitely better.

There is a double-page spread at the front showing a map of the British Isles in landscape format but with the text at ninety degrees to it. Probably an age thing but it took me a few moments to latch onto the map’s identity! The book also contains some black-and-white photographs which haven’t turned out well at all on the paper;

Pictures of The Wild Places - Robert Macfarlane

a slight pity that these pages weren’t higher quality as the reproductions don’t do the scenes justice at all.

Spoiler alert?

There are a few details and quotations in the rest of this review, and of course this always sparks off the “spoiler” concern when writing. Having given careful thought to this, and in view of the “evocation” nature of the narrative, I don’t feel that what I’ve included would spoil the read at all, as it constitutes a very tiny part of the book’s content. Also, equally lovely quotations and examples abound throughout its pages!

I’ve included this heading to cover myself though – no grounds for litigation here!

The author

I haven’t Googled or Wiki’d the author’s name to write this paragraph, nor have I read any of his other books(yet!) What I am writing here is my view of Robert Macfarlane based on what he says about himself in this book.

He has never outgrown his childhood love of climbing trees. He isn’t a tree-hugger; he simply appreciates the climb involved and the elevated viewpoint it provides. He has a collection of finds that are somewhere between mementos and an almost organic encapsulation of this or that trip he has undertaken. He describes some of these objects that he clearly cherishes; a kestrel feather, a buzzard’s wing, a smoothed pebble, a piece of driftwood whose shape resembles that of a dolphin.

He is primarily a man who takes extraordinary delight in what he sees. In one chapter he describes a trek he undertook with a friend that incorporated limestone pavement. “Their form was exquisitely complex, and the ridges and valleys induced brief losses of scale, so that they could have been satellite maps of mountain ranges or river deltas, ” he says.

He and his friend then lay down on their bellies to inspect the fissures(“grykes”) at closer quarters. “[We] found ourselves looking into a jungle. Tiny groves of ferns, mosses and flowers were there in the crevasse. The plants thronged every available niche, embracing one another into indistinguishability. Even on this winter day, the sense of life was immense.”

In the chapter relating a visit to Cape Wrath, he recounts leaving the shelter of an empty cottage and heading into a storm with his bivouac bag and sleeping bag for the sand dunes – out of choice!

“From where I lay I could see out to the sea, its black skin heaving and white waves curling out of the darkness to break along the beach. The noise of the storm made sleep difficult. But I was happy to be there, sleepless inside the storm. For it was an extraordinary night. In its first few hours, the darkness was so absolute that it seemed to have become a black fluid.”

In another chapter(“Grave”) based on travels in the Burren in Ireland, he speaks of wading out to a sandy island close to shore and sleeping there. He recounts his child-like delight at waking up, alone, on an island, relating it to many people’s “Swallows And Amazons” inspired dreams:

“This gentle place had allowed me to use it as its home, and although I knew that such anthropomorphic fancies were absurd, I felt briefly as though I had been guarded or cradled in some way by the place.”

In “Storm beach” he describes finding and a flint arrow-head which, he feels, must have caught his eye subconsciously amongst the millions of stones on the beach. Suprrisngly he writes not only of his intention to take it home, but also, at some future time, also to return it to where he found it.

The contents

The book is illustrated with a number of black and white photographs. Unfortunately these are printed on the same paper as the rest of the pages, which hasn’t done them any great favours. I can’t really deduct any points for this, though.

Each chapter deals with a separate trip to a wild place within Britain and Ireland. I’m not going to provide any comment or explanation on them, simply list the chapter headings. Some are intriguing, I know – if you want to know more you’ll have to jolly well buy the book, though!

Beechwood

Island

Valley

Moor

Forest

River-mouth

Cape

Summit

Grave

Ridge

Holloway

Storm-beach

Saltmarsh

Tor

Beechwood

I rather like the way that sections of each chapter are divided and marked off by a bird footprint. It doesn’t add massively to the book, but it is nevertheless a nice extra touch.

=Personal reflections

Without wishing to sound moralising or preachy, I genuinely found it life-affirming. I’m far from an expert on wildflowers, but a few years ago I was given a hand lens for a birthday present. In my schooldays I always thought the ones in the biology labs were really cool, with the hinged lens that swung out of its protective metal frame. I had mentioned that I’d like one for a gift so that I could use it, though. It sits in my camera bag and I often take it out to have a close look at a flower or leaf. Sometimes the tiniest native wildflowers have exquisite markings when magnified.

I haven’t yet lain on my belly to view at close quarters a mini-“forest” of ferns and mosses, though!

However, as I read this book it struck me that even a walk through a familiar park, down an often-travelled country lane, or through a field or wood, can be something of an adventure if we allow