leat open watercourse in or near a mine Cornwall, Devon
monek mineral-rich ground Cornish
scumfished feeling suffocated at depth in a mine Pitmatical (north-east England)
stenak tin-rich terrain Cornish
sump dip in the floor of a mine or cave in which water collects mining
wheal mine-works Cornwall
yeo a stream or drain (in mining) south-west England
Pits, Caves, Holes
berry group of rabbit holes having internal communication Exmoor
cave-pearls pearl-like pebbles of calcium carbonate that form around flecks or specks of grit speleological
choke jumble of boulders requiring careful negotiation speleological
cladd trench, pit, place where anything is hidden or buried Welsh
crundle thicket in a hollow through which a stream leads Hampshire, Sussex
doline depression or basin, often funnel-shaped, in a limestone landscape geological
dripstone calcium carbonate deposited by dripping water, often in elaborate ‘melted-wax’ formations speleological
dúlaoisc sea-level cave Irish
ear-dipper cavers’ slang for a passage that is low and almost full of water speleological
flowstone calcium carbonate deposited by running water, often in elaborate ‘drapery’ formations speleological
gaur terrace-like formation of flowstone that traps miniature lagoons of water within its banks speleological
gew hollow, cleft Cornish
gloup, glupe opening in the roof of a sea cave through which the pressure of incoming waves may force air to rush upwards, or water to jet and spout Hebrides, Orkney, Shetland
helictite coral-like stalactite that grows in a curved and twisted lateral formation, seeming to defy gravity speleological
helier cave into which the tide flows Shetland
hell-kettle deep black gulf or abyss; a name locally applied to holes or pools popularly supposed to be bottomless northern England
hwamp hollow in the ground Shetland
jaw-hole gaping fissure, abyss Yorkshire
jook-hole hare hole in a dyke Galloway
katavothron subterranean channel or deep chasm formed by the action of water geological
lunky gap in a fence or dyke (big enough to let sheep through but not cattle) Galloway
pluais underground hollow; cave; den Irish
plunge-basin deep hollow or cavity excavated at the foot of a waterfall by the action of the falling water geological
ruckle maze of stacked boulders in a cave passage, often dangerously loose speleological
scailp cleft or fissure; sheltering place beneath rock Irish
swale, swallet, swallow hole where a stream enters the earth southern England
talamh-toll opening in the ground, sometimes over an underground burn Gaelic
thorough-shutts hole burrowed by a rabbit through a hedge Suffolk
vuggy of rock: full of cavities Cornwall
weem inhabited cave or underground dwelling place Scots
wholve short arched or covered drain under a path Essex
Tracks and Paths
BOAT Byway Open to All Traffic: in England and Wales a (category of) public right of way open to all types of vehicle on the basis of historical evidence of vehicular use, but used chiefly as a footpath or bridleway official
boreen small, seldom-used road, usually with grass growing up the middle Hiberno-English
bostal pathway up a hill, generally very steep Kent, Sussex
cahsy, cahzy raised road or footway at a place liable to flood Essex
cansey, cawnie causeway, raised path Suffolk
carpet-way smooth grass road or lane Kent
ceuffordd holloway, narrow sunken road Welsh
ceum known path, often out to moorland shielings Gaelic
chase green lane East Anglia
ciseach improvised bridge or path across a stream Irish
cooms high ridges in muddy tracks, which rise between wheel-ruts East Anglia
drong narrow path between hedges south-west England
foylings deer tracks through a thicket Northamptonshire
ginnel long, narrow passage between houses, either roofed or unroofed northern England
holloway lane or path that has been grooved down into the surrounding landscape due to the erosive power of, variously, feet, wheels and rainwater Dorset
lagger broad, green lane Herefordshire
lich-way, lych way corpse-way, way of the dead: path along which bodies are carried to burial Devon
lopeway footpath not adapted to wheeled vehicles East Anglia
lyste-way green way on the edge of a field Kent
muxy-rout deep muddy wheel-rut Exmoor
perquage sanctuary path leading from church to sea by the shortest route Jèrriais (Jersey Norman)
popey stretch of road or lane allowed to become derelict, overgrown and unused Kent
prickings footprints of a rabbit Northamptonshire
pukkering kosh signpost Anglo-Romani
rack path made by hares or rabbits Cotswolds
ramper raised pathway through muddy ground Fenland
rudge deep wheel-rut Northamptonshire
sarn causeway, paved way of long usage Welsh
scort footprints of horses, cattle or deer Cotswolds
sheer-way bridle path or permissive way through private land Kent
strodi lane between two walls Shetland
tacks zigzag way up a cliff or hillside Isle of Man
twitchel narrow path between hedges Midlands
twycene fork in a road, a forked way Old English
walks unenclosed lands and commons Suffolk
wattery-lonnin neglected lane where water is allowed to run undrained Cumbria
wence centre of a crossroads Kent
wilsome of a way or path: leading through wild and desolate regions Scots
Ways of Walking
bamble to walk unsteadily and awry, to shamble East Anglia
beetle-scrunchers large feet Suffolk
bonnleac sore on the sole of the foot, often caused by walking barefoot Irish
buks to walk with difficulty, as if walking through water Shetland
crabhsganach awkward on one’s feet, owing to their being sore Gaelic
currick cairn of stones to guide travellers Cumbria, Durham, Northumberland
dander to stroll leisurely Ireland
dew-beater trail-blazer, pioneer East Anglia, Hampshire
dobbles hard snow or mud collected under the heels of boots Suffolk
doddle to walk slowly and pleasurably Northern Ireland
fleggin, lampin walking with big steps Galloway
flinks to ramble in a rompish manner, as a frolicsome girl might Shetland
fuddle to potter around Herefordshire
haik, hake to tramp, trudge or otherwise effortfully wend one’s way Yorkshire
hansper pain in the muscles of the legs after long walking Shetland
harl to drag or trail oneself, to go with dragging feet northern England, Scotland
hippit stiff in the hips Scots
hirple to hobble, walk with a limp Northern Ireland
hit the grit to start a journey on the road Suffolk
hochle to walk in a slovenly way Northern Ireland
honky donks heavy boots Suffolk
milestone inspector tramp, gentleman of the road Herefordshire
nuddle to walk in a dreamy manner with head down, as if preoccupied Suffolk
pad to make a path by walking on a surface before untracked, as in new-fallen snow or land lately ploughed East Anglia
peddel to walk in a hesitating manner, as a child Shetland
plutsh to flap with the feet in walking, as seafowl do Shetland
poche to tread ground when wet Herefordshire
prole stroll, pleasurable short walk Kent
scimaunder to wander about, take a devio
us or winding course Yorkshire
scrambly of rough terrain: necessitating scrambling or clambering hill-walking
shulve to saunter with extreme laziness East Anglia
slomp to walk heavily, noisily Essex
soodle to walk in a slow or leisurely manner, stroll, saunter (John Clare) poetic
spandle to leave marks of wet feet or shoes on a floor, as a dog does with its pawprints Kent
spangin’ walking vigorously Scots
spurring following the track of a wild animal Exmoor
stravaig to wander aimlessly, unguided by outcome or destination Scots
striddle to walk uncomfortably, with an unusual gait Northern Ireland
talmraich noise of footsteps on the ground Gaelic
troll to ramble, walk Cambridgeshire
vanquishin aimless visiting around on foot Galloway
yew-yaw to walk crookedly Suffolk
yomp to march with heavy equipment across difficult terrain military
7
North-Minded
In certain regions of the far north, where the dust content of the atmosphere is close to zero, light is able to move unscattered through the air. In such places, under such conditions, faraway objects can often appear uncannily close at hand to the observer. The lichen patterns on a boulder can be seen from a hundred yards; cormorants on a sea-stack seem within reach of touch. Distance enables miracles of scrutiny; remoteness is a medium of clarification.
I am, and have been for as long as I know, north-minded: drawn to high latitudes and high altitudes, and drawn also to those writers and artists for whom northerliness is a mode of perception as well as a geographical position: Matsuo Bashō’s Narrow Road to the Deep North (1689); Philip Pullman’s Northern Lights (1995), with its armoured bears and cold that bites to the bones; Farley Mowat’s Never Cry Wolf (1963); Ezra Pound’s translations of classical Chinese frontier poems; the boreal phases of Eric Ravilious’s art; the maps and type-works of Alec Finlay; the fiction of the Hebridean sailor and storyteller Ian Stephen; Margaret Atwood’s explorations of ‘the malevolent north’; W. H. Auden’s poems of jetties, night-sailings and the simmer-dim … Most powerfully, though, and for years now, I have been drawn to the northern prose of Barry Lopez, which I first met in 1997, the year I turned twenty-one.
That summer I spent several weeks in north-west Canada, climbing in the Rockies and hiking the wilderness trails of the Pacific coast. I was alone for long periods of time, with many hours to kill in tents, so I got through a lot of books. Whenever I came back to cities between trips, I would head for the nearest bookstore to restock. I was browsing shelves in Vancouver when I found a copy of Lopez’s Arctic Dreams. There were good reasons not to buy it. One: I had never heard of Lopez. Two: the book’s subtitle – ‘Imagination and Desire in a Northern Landscape’ – struck me as Mills & Boony. Three: it was expensive for my budget. Four, and above all: it was heavy – almost 500 pages long and printed on thick paper. Because I had to carry everything I read, I’d taken to assessing my books according to a pemmican logic: maximum intellectual calorie content per ounce.
But for some now-forgotten reason I disregarded these objections, bought the book, and read it while I walked the Pacific Rim path on the east coast of Vancouver Island, camping on surf-crashed beaches, and suspending my food from trees in compliance with the bear-safety code. I read it then, and it amazed me. I read it again, lost my copy somewhere near Banff, bought another copy, gave it to my father as a present, borrowed it back off him and read it again, and again, and again. I still have that copy (with a red-ink inscription from me to my father, dated 18 August 1997): the spine is cracked, the uppers ripped, the margins dense with annotations, and the pages are held together with Sellotape, now brown.
Arctic Dreams changed the course of my life: it showed me how to write. Its combination of natural science, anthropology, cultural history, philosophy, reportage and lyrical observation revealed that non-fiction could be as experimental in form and beautiful in its language as any novel. Its gyres from the phenomenal to the philosophical proved to me that first-hand experience could be related to broader questions of place-consciousness. And the other lesson that it taught me – though it would take me longer to understand it – was that while writing about landscape often begins in the aesthetic, it must always tend to the ethical. Lopez’s intense attentiveness was, I came later to realize, a form of moral gaze, born of his belief that if we attend more closely to something then we are less likely to act selfishly towards it. To exercise a care of attention towards a place – as towards a person – is to achieve a sympathetic intimacy with it. His prose – priestly, intense, grace-noted – is driven by the belief that ‘it is possible to live wisely on the land, and to live well’, and by a conviction that the real achievement of place-writing might be to help incorporate nature into the moral realm of human community.
Before writing Arctic Dreams, Lopez had travelled for several years in the Canadian north. He passed through the diverse territories of the region: the orange-and-ochre badlands of Melville Island; the deep-cut canyons of the Hood River; Baffin Bay, where big bergs jostle slowly; and Pingok Island in the Beaufort Sea, where the tides are so slight that one can ‘stand toe-to at the water’s edge, and, if one has the patience, see it gain only the heels of one’s boots in six hours’. His sustained contact with these places brought him to a subtle understanding of the region. It also produced his austerely particular style as a writer. The Arctic, Lopez observes early on, has ‘the classic lines of a desert landscape: spare, balanced, extended, and quiet’ (one notes with admiration the adjectival balance – short-long-long-short – of that second clause). The same is true of Lopez’s prose. Of all the great modern landscape writers, his style seems most purely to enact the terrain it describes.
When he began to write about the Arctic, Lopez was faced with the challenge of making language grip a landscape that is both huge and ‘monotonic’. How was he to depict a realm of immensities and repetitions: ‘unrelieved stretches of snow and ice’ and ‘plains of open water’? How was he to bring this stark and enigmatic landscape within reach of words, without trivializing or compromising it? Northern regions possess surfaces – stone, light, snow, ice, bright air – to which words will not easily cleave.
What Lopez understood was that detail anchors perception in a context of vastness. It is perhaps the defining habit of his style to make sudden shifts between the panoramic and the specific. Again and again, he evokes the reach and clarity of an Arctic vista – and then zooms in on the ‘chitinous shell of an insect’ lodged in a tuffet of grass, a glinting tracery of ‘broken spider-webs’, or ‘the bones of a lemming’ whose form resembles that of the ‘strand of staghorn lichen next to them’. The effect for the reader of these abrupt perspectival jumps is exhilarating – as though Lopez has gripped you by the shoulder and pressed his binoculars to your eyes.
So many great northern artists and writers are, like Lopez, distinguished by what Robert Lowell called ‘the grace of accuracy’. Thinking across their work, it becomes possible to deduce a shared metaphysics of northerliness: an exactness of sight; lyricism as a function of precision; an attraction to the crystalline image; shivers of longing, aurora-bursts of vision, and elegies of twilight. In the northern writers and artists to whose work I consistently return, the north represents not a retreat to an imagined distance, but rather a means of seeing more clearly and thinking more lucidly. Looking from afar – from present to past, from exile to homeland, from island back at mainland, mountain-top down at lowland – results not in vision’s diffusion but in its sharpening; not in memory’s dispersal but in its plenishment.
~
Lopez has long been vital to my understanding of the Arctic north. Vital to my understanding of the north of my own country has been the work of Nan Shepherd, and also that of the essayist and poet Peter Davidson. Davidson lives in what he calls a ‘removed and exceptional part of Scotland’: the wedg
e of land bounded to its south by the mountains of the Cairngorms, to its north by the waters of the Moray Firth, and that stretches eastwards to meet the North Sea between Peterhead and Aberdeen. A few miles from his house in the town of Turriff rises the five-toothed peak of Bennachie, on the slopes of which Agricola’s auxiliaries fought and defeated the Caledonians – the northernmost Roman action undertaken during the centuries of occupation. Further west are the Ruthven Barracks, that lonely outpost – a Camp Bastion of its day – built by Hanoverian soldiers after the Jacobean rising of 1715. Davidson’s latitude is a frontier latitude, then: around and beyond him issue the true ‘northlands’, whose cultures and landscapes have inspired his poetry, essays, scholarship and dreams for more than thirty years.
This is an ‘exceptional part’ of Scotland in that it has excepted itself from many of the conventions of British history and geography. Beaker inhumation is thought to have been practised there for two centuries longer than anywhere else in Europe. Catholicism thrived and was fomented there after the Reformation; loyalty to the House of Stuart persisted after the Revolution of 1688. It is a dissident region: not renegade, exactly, but fond of being able to mind its own business.
Like the landscapes out of which they chiefly arise, Davidson’s poems and essays – The Idea of North (2005), The Palace of Oblivion (2008) and Distance and Memory (2013) – are bound together by a tight web of qualities (reticence, allusiveness, unshowiness); by a repertoire of moods (elegiac, desirous); by a cluster of tropes (shadows, gleams, light and its gradations, ice, cusps, thresholds); and by a palette of colours (the green-gold of summer, the silver-blues of winter, the bronzes of autumn). Davidson writes in a northern vernacular, exactly responsive to its regions, in which the specifics of terrain and weather are internalized as a kind of grammar. It is a style fine in its granulation, subtle in its shadings – and tinged throughout with a gentle melancholy.
Davidson, like Lopez, practises an acute attentiveness to the shifts and flux of landscape. He is observant – both in the devotional sense of regular habits adhered to, and the phenological sense of recording natural details. Paragraph after paragraph of his prose about the northlands glint with details born of long acquaintance and repeated seeing: in May there is ‘a pencil-stripe of light beyond the pine trees on the northern horizon, the reflection of the brightness over Sutherland, relentless daylight over Norway’; a June evening brings ‘green silence’; on October afternoons ‘bright kingdoms … open in the Cairngorms’; soon afterwards ‘brilliant depths of frost and the returning cold’ signal winter’s ascent. Such observations seem at first like jottings, but on examination turn out to be images of intricate faceting, as in this single-sentence description of a lake: ‘A little stone jetty in still water: water like pewter, extraordinary water.’ The extreme stillness of the sentence is in part a function of its verblessness, but is due also to the reflection of water within itself (‘water: water’), an effect doubled again as the word pewter catches and supplely returns – with a ripple – the word water.
Landmarks Page 16
