The Living Mountain

by Nan Shepherd

  When I can find a language for my feelings I can own them and not be owned by them. I can be enriched as mind and emotion work together instead of against each other. Art, all art, is good at this essential relationship, but literature finds us the words we need. And we need words. Not empty information. Not babble. Not data. We need a language capable of simple, beautiful expression yet containing complex thought that yields up our feelings instead of depriving us of them.

  You only get that kind of language-possibility through reading at a high level; that doesn’t mean difficult or abstruse – quite the contrary. What we think of as difficult is often only unfamiliar, so it can take a bit of time to get into a book. Reading is becoming a casualty of the surf-syndrome of the Web. Reading is not skimming for information. Reading is a deeper drive.

  Or a high climb.

  Nan Shepherd talks about the exhilaration of altitude. The air is thinner. The body is lighter. But you have to acclimatise. You have to acclimatise yourself to books.

  I am aware that reading is new. Mass literacy didn’t really start until the mid-nineteenth century, and we have had an uneasy relationship with reading ever since. Lots of people don’t really read and don’t want to read.

  I think that is to do with education and cultural expectation. There is a wonderful group called The Reader Organisation, run by Jane Davis, who is a cross between Bob Geldof and Florence Nightingale, with a bit of Nanny McPhee thrown in. Her reason for living is to take reading into places where reading does not go – prisons, housing estates, children’s homes, etc. She works in Liverpool with people who have often had no real schooling. Her results are incredible. Kids calm down, guys grow up, harassed mothers find themselves mirrored in Sylvia Plath and Shakespeare. There is no dumbing down offered. Against received wisdom, by which I mean received stupidity, her crazy project works. The Reader has no direct government funding.

  When I left home I didn’t find hope in realistic docu-drama narratives of deprived kids with no choices or chances. I found myself in Aladdin, Huck Finn, Heathcliff, the Little Prince, Henry IV. I identified with Hotspur because of course I identify with the outsider. And soon enough I found Albert Camus. L’Etranger.

  I should add that my father could not read without running his finger along the line and saying the words out loud very slowly. My mother was very bright but had left school at fourteen. We had no books at home, and anyway I tried not to be at home. I was always in the Pennines, where we lived.

  So it is not quite true that I am not a hillwalker.

  Reading was not so important to my working-class community, unless it was the Bible. Reading the Bible means that you can read anything else – and it makes Shakespeare easy because the language of the King James Version is also the language of Shakespeare. We had a strong oral tradition in the north of England, and people often forget that not being able to read, or not reading, even fifty years ago, let alone a hundred years ago, was very different from not reading now.

  We live under 24/7 saturation bombing from enervated mass media and a bogus manufactured popular culture. If you don’t read you will likely be watching telly, or on the computer, or listening to fake music from puppet-show bands.

  When the families I knew in my northern textile town didn’t read – and they didn’t – they were in the brass band, or in the choir, telling their own stories down the pub or on the greyhound track, finding the quiet pleasure of mending kit or working the allotment, or walking for miles in the Pennines. I am not glamorising this working-class life; it was hard and short, and I could not stay there and I would not want it back. But it had a genuine culture of its own – roots up – and it was not force-fed adverts, consumerism and The X Factor.

  The consequences of homogenised mass culture plus the failure of our education system and our contempt for books and art (it’s either entertainment or elitist, never vital and democratic), mean that not reading cuts off the possibility of private thinking, or of a trained mind, or of a sense of self not dependent on external factors.

  A trained mind is a mind that can concentrate. Attention Deficit Disorder is not a disease; it is a consequence of not reading. Teach a child to read and keep that child reading and you will change everything. And yes, I mean everything.

  Back to the mountain.

  Powerfully argued in The Living Mountain is the need to be physical, to be in the body, and to let the senses and the soul work in harmony with the mind. This seems a long way from lying in bed and reading a book. But it isn’t far at all.

  Reading stills the body for a while, allowing rest without torpor and quiet without passivity. Reading is not a passive act. Engaged in the book, in company with the writer, the mind can roam where it will. Such freedom to roam reminds us that body and mind both need exercise and activity, and that neither the mind nor the body can cope with confinement. And if the body has to cope with confinement, then all the more reason to have developed a mind that knows how to roam.

  In the last months of her long life Nan Shepherd was in hospital, unable to climb her beloved mountains. But her mind went on climbing. She could not be trapped.

  Reading is a way through, a way in, a way out. It is a way of life. The rewards are immense.

  Glossary

  aace ashes

  Ablach, tiny undersized creature

  anent, over against, concerning

  antrin, one here and there

  a’thing, everything

  aweirs o’, inclined to

  barkit, covered as with bark, peeled

  begeck, disappointment

  begrutten, tear-stained

  ben the hoose, inside, further into the house or next room

  besom, hussy

  bide bydin, stay, remain; staying

  bike, wasps’ nest

  birse, vb., to force, press upwards; n., to have one’s birse up, one’s temper roused

  birstled, cooked till hard and crisp

  bit, little, scrap of

  blake, cockroach, beetle

  blate, shy, diffident

  blaud, dirty, soil

  blin’ drift, drifting snow

  blithe, happy

  bog-jaaveled, completely at a loss

  bourrach, small group, swarm

  bow-hoched, bow-legged

  brear, first small blade appearing above the ground; brears o’ the e’e, eyelashes

  broch, halo

  brook, soot

  brose, oatmeal and milk or hot water

  buckie, limpet

  bung; ta’en the bung, taken offence

  byordinar, unusually

  byous, beyond the ordinary

  caddis, dust, fluff

  ca’ed, driven

  cairded, scolded

  canalye, Fr. canaille

  cantle up, brighten up

  cantrip, piece of mischief

  canty, lively, cheerful

  cark, care

  chappit, (thumb), hacked

  chau’mer, chamber, bothy

  chiel, lad

  cloor, dent, blow

  clorted, covered with mud

  clout, rag

  clyte, fall

  collieshangie, animated talk

  coorse, bad

  connach, devour, spoil

  contermashious, contradictory, obstinate

  crack, gossip

  craiturie, little creature

  a crap for a’ corn and a baggie for orrels, an appetite for absolutely anything and then some (literally: a bag for leftovers)

  creish, fat

  crined, shrunk, shrivelled

  curran, a number

  dambrod, chess-board

  dander, to have one’s dander up, temper roused

  dawtie, pet, darling

  deave, deafen, torment with insistence

  deemie, farm, kitchenmaid

  deil, devil

  delvin, digging

  dicht, wipe

  dingin’ on, raining or snowing hard

 
dirds, bangs (vb)

  dirdums, daein’ dirdums, doing great things

  dirl, ring, vibrate

  doit, small copper coin

  dour, stubborn

  dowie, spiritless

  drookit, soaked, drowned

  drummlie, physically upset

  dubbit, covered with mud

  dubs, mud

  dunt, a blow

  a dunt on the riggin, not all there (dent in the roof)

  dwam, faint, swoon

  (neither) echie nor ochie, not the smallest sound

  e’en, eyes

  eident, diligent

  ettlin’, desirous after

  f=wh

  fa, who

  fan, when

  fat, what

  faur, where

  fairin’, present from the fair

  fash yersel, put yourself to trouble

  fee’d, hired

  ferlies, wonders

  fey, peculiar, other-worldly

  ficher, fiddle, fidget

  fient, never! not a! (lit: devil!)

  flan, gust

  fleggit, startled

  flinchin, deceitful promise of better weather

  foo, how

  forbye, besides

  forty-fitted Janet, centipede

  forfoch’en, exhausted, fought done

  fleg, fright, frighten

  flist, storm of temper

  fou’, drunk

  ful, proud

  fyle, soil, make dirty

  gait, way

  gar, cause to

  geal-cauld, ice-cold

  geet, child

  gey, rather

  a gey snod bit deemie, a rather neat little maid

  geylies, considerable

  gin, if

  girn, fret

  girse, grass

  glower, scowl

  gomeril, fool

  gorbals, nestlings

  graip, fork (for land work)

  grat, cried

  greetin, crying

  guff, smell

  gumption, sense, vigour, initiative

  gype, stupid person

  gyte, ga’en gyte, gone out of one’s mind

  haggar, clumsy hacking

  halarackit, high-spirited, rowdy without offensiveness

  halfin, teenager

  hantle, a good deal

  hain, save, spare

  hairst, harvest

  hap, cover up

  havering, talking nonsense

  heelster-gowdie, upside down

  hine awa’/up, far away/up

  hippit, stiff in the hips

  hirple, limp

  hive, a skin sore

  hotter, boil vigorously

  hotterel, a swarm

  howff, draught

  howk, dig

  hurdies, hips

  ilka, each, every

  ill-fashioned, inquisitive

  inen, in among

  ingan, onion

  jaloose, guess, suspect

  jaud, (common) woman

  kebbuck, cheese

  keek, keeking, peek, peeking

  kink-hoast, whooping-cough

  kowk, retch

  kitties, calves (a pet name for)

  kittled, tickled

  kye, cattle

  lave, rest

  legammachy, long story without much in it

  leuch, laughed

  lift, sky

  limmer, hussy

  lippen, trust

  to lippen to, to trust

  loon, boy, lad

  louse, loosen, unharness

  lousin’ time, end of the working day

  lowe, blaze

  lugs, ears

  mavis, song thrush

  mim-mou’ed, primly spoken or behaved

  mishanter, mishap, disaster

  mommets, dolls, puppets

  mowse, right (with sense of Latin fas), nae mowse, nefas, uncanny

  my certies, indeed (emphasis)

  neips, turnips

  neuk, corner

  newse, chat

  nieve, fist

  nimsch, fragment

  nippit, pinched, narrow in outlook

  nowt, cattle

  nyatter, nag

  nyod (an exclamation, lit: God!)

  ootlin, outsider, outcast

  or, before

  orra, odd, miscellaneous

  orrels, bits and pieces

  oxter, arm-pit, vb., to put the arm round

  pech, sigh

  penurious, particular, ill to please

  pi, pious, sanctimonious

  pilgate, quarrel

  pleuch, plough

  pliskey, trick, escapade

  pooches, pockets

  preens, pins

  puckle, a few

  puddock, frog

  pyet, magpie

  pyockie, poke, bag

  queets, ankles

  raivelled, confused

  rary, go about noisily, clamour

  rax, stretch

  reeshle, rustle

  rickle, a structure put loosely together, loose heap

  rive, tear asunder

  roarie-bummlers, (noisy blunderers) storm clouds

  roup, a sale or public auction

  rug, pull

  sair, sore

  sair weary, very tired

  sark, shirt

  scalin’, dispersing

  scran, scrounge

  scunnered, disgusted

  scutter awa’, do things slowly and not very thoroughly

  scuttered, fiddled about

  shaltie, pony

  shank, stocking being knitted

  sharger, half grown creature

  sharn, dung

  sheen, shoes

  sheepy silver, flakes of mica (in a stone)

  shog, push

  sic mannie sic horsie, like master, like man

  skellochin’, shrieking

  skirp, splatter

  sklype, clumsy worthless person

  smeddum, vigour of intellect

  smored, smothered (in snow)

  snod, neat

  sonsy, of generous proportions

  sooples, supples, softens

  soo’s snoot, pig’s nose

  sotter, untidy dress

  sowens, a kind of fine-meal porridge

  spangin’, walking vigorously

  speir, ask

  spoot-ma-gruel, any unappetising food

  spunk, match

  spurtle, a round stick for stirring porridge

  stap, stuff

  steekit, shut

  stew, dust

  stob, splinter under the skin

  stite, nonsense

  sumph, heavy lout

  swacker, more supple

  swage, loosen, make easy

  sweir, lazy

  tackie, tig (child’s game)

  tangle, icicle, seaweed

  tansies, ragworts (plants)

  teem, empty

  teen, temper, mood

  thole, endure

  thraw, to wring

  thrawn, obstinate

  thrums, scraps of thread

  thirled, bound, tied

  timmer knife, wooden knife (useless)

  tine, loose

  tinkey, tinker

  trauchle, n., trouble, heavy toil

  trig, neat

  tyauve, struggle

  wae, woeful

  wantin, lacking

  waur; name the waur, worse; none the worse

  warstle, wrestle

  waucht, draught

  wersch, without savour, insipid

  whammlin’, jogging

  whiles, at the same time

  whin, gorse, furze bush

  wrocht, worked, laboured

  yird,vb., to give a blow

  yon, that

  yowies, pine cones

  About the Author

  Anna (Nan) Shepherd was born in 1893 and died in 1981. Closely attached to Aberdeen and her native Deeside, she graduat
ed from her home university in 1915, and went to work for the next forty-one years as a lecturer in English at what is now Aberdeen College of Education. An enthusiastic gardener and hill walker, she made many visits to the Cairngorms with students and friends and was a keen member of the Deeside Field Club. Her last book, a non-fiction study called The Living Mountain, testifies to her love of the hills and her knowledge of them in all their moods. Her many further travels included visits to Norway, France, Italy, Greece and South Africa, but she always returned to the house where she was raised and lived almost all her adult life, in the village of West Cults, three miles from Aberdeen on North Deeside.

  Nan Shepherd wrote three novels, all well received by the critics: The Quarry Wood (1928), followed by The Weatherhouse (1930) and A Pass in the Grampians (1933). A collection of poems, In the Cairngorms, appeared in 1934, and The Living Mountain was published in 1977. She edited Aberdeen University Review from 1957 to 1964, contributed to The Deeside Field, and worked on editions of poetry by two fellow North-east writers, J.C. Milne and Charles Murray. She was awarded an honorary degree by Aberdeen University in 1964, and her many friends included Agnes Mure Mackenzie, Helen Cruickshank, Willa Muir, Hugh MacDiarmid, William Soutar and Jessie Kesson.

  This Canons edition published in Great Britain, the USA and Canada in 2014 by Canongate Books

  First published in Great Britain in 1977 by Aberdeen University Press

  Published as part of The Grampian Quartet in 1996

  by Canongate Books

  14 High Street, Edinburgh EH1 1TE

  This digital edition first published in 2011

  by Canongate Books

  Copyright © Nan Shepherd, 2008

  Introduction copyright © Robert Macfarlane, 2011

  Afterword copyright © Jeanette Winterson, 2011

  The moral rights of the authors have been asserted

  British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

  A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library

  ISBN 978 0 85786 360 7

  canongate.co.uk

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