Book Review: The Wild Silence, Raynor Winn

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The Wild Silence picks up where The Salt Path left off. Moth and Raynor are living in rented rooms in a chapel, Moth is studying, and Raynor continues to seek work while simultaneously becoming more and more socially anxious. Even within the safety of their home she struggles to sleep unless she is inside the tent. Transitioning back into a settled life proves more difficult than she had imagined, and with Moth at the University for the majority of the day she spends most of her time alone, worrying about how the sedentary lifestyle is affecting her husband’s health. She spends time trying to work out the science behind why his health improved during their months long walk along the South West Coast Path despite the fact doctors had advised him to take it easy. 

Decline and death are always on the periphery, and it is brought into sharper focus when Raynor’s mother is taken seriously ill. As she returns to the place she grew up and has to confront the imminent loss of a parent she begins to explore the past. Her parents never approved of Moth, this free-spirited young man who took her to the mountains at every opportunity. She looks back at their early relationship, the trips that didn’t go to plan, the difficult situations they’ve shared and survived, and the burgeoning love she felt for him, her reliance on him throughout, and her unwavering trust. She would follow him anywhere. And yet, in the difficult last days of her mother’s life she refuses to let him be there for her, she cannot bear to have him see death, to see his future laid bare. Perhaps even more so, she can’t allow the reality of that future to touch her, she has to keep them separate. Her honesty about the sometimes strained relationship with her parents is refreshing, letting us in on the realities of contemplating a lifetime connection at the very end. These passages are entirely heartbreaking - for those who have lost a parent it will likely feel all too familiar and for those dreading the day this loss comes for them, the stark honesty will make you want to hold your loved ones close.

As Moth’s health deteriorates so does his memory. Raynor is shocked to discover that he is losing memory of parts of their walk, a shared experience that feels so important to her that he remember. As a response, she writes a memoir about the walk as a gift to him. This eventually becomes The Salt Path, and in this, its sequel, we are privy to the disorienting process that led to its publication. For someone increasingly struggling to be around other people, and wanting to hide their former homelessness from the local community, their story becoming public and the demand for her to take part in publicity events is a challenge. However, the book proves a great opportunity for them, leading to contacts that have the potential to change their life. One such contact leads to them taking on a farm in an attempt to regenerate it. It is a huge job, and it seems wrong that they are expected to pay rent for a home that is uninhabitable while they sink their own money and a huge amount of time into not just the land but the home. Despite the challenges and the physical toll it takes, seeing the land begin to come to life, the local wildlife return, brings a sense of peace.

Constantly torn between desperately wanting to keep Moth moving, and fear that her insistence that he doesn’t rest is making him worse, by the end of the book they are on a challenging hike in the hostile wilderness of Iceland, on the cusp of winter setting in. Along the way they are surprised by how other hikers behave around them. They all seem to be in their twenties and don’t want to mix with the group of older walkers, but there is an underlying strangeness to the way they interact with them. It’s only later that Raynor realises how they already know their story.

A slightly meandering narrative that covers a lot of ground. This is a lot less of a hiking memoir than The Salt Path, more of a personal exploration of a marriage and the relationships that hold our lives together. The passages about having her first book published feel somewhat meta, but it is an honest portrayal of the joys and challenges that come with success. Winn never shies away from the difficult moments in life and lays bare intimate details of some of the most challenging experiences. An emotional read, and one that briefly re-caps her story to date so you could pick it up even if you haven’t read the first book, although it is definitely worth reading both. 

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Blog Tour: The Rabbits, A.A. Milne

This post is part of a blog tour. Thank you to Random Things Tours and Farrago for providing me with a copy of the book in exchange for an honest review.

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Today, best known for his delightful children’s stories based around Winnie-the-Pooh and friends, A.A. Milne published many popular stories for adults during his career. These new editions from Farrago give a new generation of readers a chance to discover them. Originally published as a series of sketches for Punch, the stories in The Rabbits centre around a group of friends in the early twentieth century. Their life is largely carefree, being in a position where money doesn’t appear to be a worry. We see them at intervals throughout their young adulthood, often playing games, teasing each other, and generally having a good time. As the book progresses we see them begin to settle down, marry, have children, and move into their own homes. It is heartening to see their friendship continue throughout these major life events, always there to support each other, but always with a sense of fun and irreverence. 

The years covered are 1909 through to 1914. This is not historic fiction, Milne was publishing these short pieces in real time, and so as a modern reader we are very aware of the imminent disaster of war approaching in a way the characters are not. At one point a new mother mentions that her child will be a soldier. It is a harsh reminder to us what that would mean, how the next generation of young adults would have such a drastically different existence. 

Their lives are so very different to ours in many ways, and the book captures the lives of the upper middle class at a very particular moment in time, yet as we watch them grow together, the way they interact, the ease with which they tease each other, and their hopes for their own lives and those of their children, we see that there is so much that is familiar.

This is an incredibly easy book to read, even as someone who doesn’t read quickly I found the pages flying by. The episodic nature of the stories might be off-putting to some but many will revel in the snippets of life we’re privy to. It makes for a light, entertaining read, and you’re able to delve in to each section, feeling satisfied before returning to find out what japes the Rabbits have got up to next. 

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Book Review: Brian, Jeremy Cooper

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Brian tracks the life of a solitary man named Brian through his late thirties to retirement. He lives in Kentish Town and works for Camden Council, eats at the same Italian restaurant every day, and is thrown when his normal launderette is closed when usually it would be open. He lives a life of routine and repetition, feeling safe in the knowledge that he knows what’s coming. There is a sense that he longs for belonging, and he suspects he may find it if he joins the BFI and becomes a regular, something that needs some consideration before committing. Once he’s taken the step to join he soon goes every night, aware of a group of regulars who get together in the foyer to discuss the film after the showing. With time he becomes one of them and although he feels very anxious at the thought of saying the wrong thing he gradually feels confident enough to express his opinions, and becomes something of an expert in Japanese cinema.

The book is equally, if not majority, short critiques of the films he watches. In the early days of his membership it feels at times like simply a long list of films without much story development which can be a little tiresome, especially for readers not familiar with the films, but as the book progresses we see more and more of Brian and the sections describing his responses to the films he watches tells us almost as much about him as the film. In the beginning he watches films with a fairly closed mind, too conscious of protecting himself from any kind of emotional hurt that might arise from the themes presented to him, but with time he becomes more open. He remains guarded of his own heart, developing techniques whereby he can be moved by a film but without relating it to his own life however closely it might align. He’s aware that he has missed out on many things in life, and has never engaged much in politics or religion. Film gives him the opportunity to explore new avenues and experience things he doubts he ever will in real life. He goes through a phase of watching sexual content, at first deeply uncomfortable but fascinated, never having had a romantic relationship and not expecting to. We see in his developing passion for cinema the way in which it opens his mind to new possibilities, and offers him the opportunity of companionship with others whose interest in each other goes little deeper than what they thought of the film they’ve just watched. 

From the first pages of the novel we get a real sense of Brian and his personality. Nothing particularly dramatic happens throughout the course of the book, and he does not suddenly become a spontaneous extrovert, but we witness the slow growth of someone who has spent many years alone, subtle changes that indicate he is willing to cautiously let people in a little more, to consider the world beyond his flat and office. The passage of time is not clearly noted, with no chapter breaks it is a continuous piece of prose in which you are only aware that time has moved on significantly by mention of global events or his imminent retirement. It can be somewhat disorienting to realise that decades have passed since you last noted the time frame of the book, which is reflective of life, time slipping by largely unannounced. His retirement is a big moment for him, a possible point of crisis as his routine will be irretrievably changed. Similarly, medical changes that come with age prove a challenge, but he finds ways to adapt, and retirement proves an opportunity to indulge his interests further.

He had made attempts to find somewhere to fit in before braving the BFI, and sadly they always fell apart. The consistency of the screenings and the regulars, even if they change over time, is reassuring and allow him to find a sense of belonging. One regular, Jack, reaches out across the distant familiarity of the foyer discussions, suggesting they meet outside of the BFI. With time, they become friendly and Jack opens Brian’s eyes (or ears) to the depths of film scores. Brian is aware that many of the regulars would be considered outsiders by many, with their unkempt appearances and over-used plastic bags, and he finds Jack’s proclivity to talk to strangers embarrassing. Indeed, you can imagine that Brian is the kind of person people would find a bit odd, but this book reminds us that everybody is just doing their best, everyone has their own history which has shaped them, and that there are precious communities where social norms can be thrust aside and people can bond over a shared love of art.

There are many allusions to traumatic and difficult events from Brian’s past, in particular his childhood. We are drip fed information about his family life, his mother who finally took them away from his father, a brother who he hasn’t seen in 40 years, who lived in Northern Ireland, and yet who Brian is so determined not to see he frequently mistakes strangers in London for him and crosses the road to keep away. We understand that some of his behaviours stem from difficult early experiences, but it is not dwelt upon. For Brian it is merely part of his life’s story. 

An unusual, gentle book. Brian is a fascinating character to spend time with from his quiet, unassuming life, to his repeatedly confusing an accident he was in with having been a victim of one of the London bombings. From early on you want for him to find a sense of belonging. This is a book that can be enjoyed by non-film buffs, but I imagine it might add an extra layer of depth if you’re familiar with the films he discusses. It is an interesting reading experience to be eager to learn more about the protagonist, but instead to have pages of film critique. Overall a heartening read which makes you appreciate the things in life that bring us all joy, whether that be film or books, good food or games, it is to be treasured.  

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Book Review: Unwell Women, Elinor Cleghorn

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Cleghorn’s acclaimed exploration of the gender inequalities in the medical sphere is a fascinating, horrifying read. The period covered is broad but we see how there is still such a long way to go. For many centuries women were excluded from medicine, healers and midwives were burnt as witches, ostracised and their knowledge ignored, to the detriment of the women they were helping. Female experience of pain has repeatedly been dismissed, more weight being given to the opinion of male ‘experts’. Symptoms have been brushed aside as hysterical or all in the patient’s head. To this day, women are more likely to be prescribed anti-depressants than painkillers. Men don’t have the same problem. 

Keeping women from knowledge about their own bodies led to centuries of embarrassment and misunderstanding. The sexual revolution allowed women to have the words to describe what they were experiencing, and to feel ownership over their bodies. In the nineteenth century it was particularly common to carry out procedures on women without their knowledge or consent. Clitoridectomies were common, with Isaac Baker Brown being their most enthusiastic practitioner. He believed that female masturbation was the cause of many health issues, and clitoridectomy would be the cure. His barbaric surgery was carried out on women we would now recognise as suffering from the likes of endometriosis, epilepsy, or MS. Naturally, it wasn’t successful. Even at the time his practice was considered barbaric, he drew the line only at operating on girls under the age of ten(!) but performed huge numbers of operations on women and girls who hadn’t consented. The other side of this was that girls and women who had been raped were also subjected to this ghastly procedure, indicating the social view that the blame landed squarely with them. As with many of the practices described in the book, the ‘treatments’ were not really designed to help those suffering, but to control them, ultimately making their lives harder.

Control was also wielded in sterilisation practices. Forced sterilisation was legal in the US from 1907 and it led to young women under the age of 18 who were suffering with mental illness or epilepsy being sterilised. Again, it was also used on those who had been victims of sexual assault. There were racist undertones to forced sterilisation, with women of colour being subjected to it in far higher numbers. It is sad that the rise of birth control, ostensibly a positive move for women, giving them more control over their reproductive rights, was turned against them to such a horrifying degree. Cleghorn does not shy away from the racial disparities in the treatment women receive, with worse outcomes much more likely in maternity care for women of colour. She explores the history of racism in medicine, discussing the horrific experiences enslaved women endured as they were experimentally operated on repeatedly without anaesthesia. Only recently has the misconception that people of some ethnicities have a much higher threshold for pain been questioned. 

In a sea of shocking tales of mistreatment and abuse, one that stands out is the prevalence of lobotomies in the twentieth century. Again, used as a form of control for any woman who didn’t conform to the happy housewife image that was considered their natural state. There was no argument that it would cure their ailments, merely that it would sever the emotional tie. The measure of success was how obediently they went back to their domestic roles. Sadly, many women became suicidal as a result of this barbaric practice, and even those who didn’t would often die within a few years of the surgery. A truly chilling practice that is hard to believe was ever sanctioned.

This is a well researched book which covers a lot but acknowledges what has been omitted. If you are an unwell woman struggling through the healthcare system it might help you feel less alone, but also acutely aware of the need to persist and be your own advocate. Having studied some medical history, especially related to mental health, during my undergraduate studies, a lot of what was included was familiar, yet still shocking. Cleghorn draws out the voices of women who were silenced in their own time and highlights the sacrifices of the past which have brought us as far as we have come now. Essential, albeit difficult, reading.

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Book review: An English Library Journey, John Bevis

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After health issues force Bevis to shift his work focus, he finds himself driving his wife around England for her work with prisons, and setting up in the local library to work on his writing, now his full time occupation. From here he has the idea of trying to collect library cards from every authority in the country, allowing him to access the resources of each of them. There are stumbling blocks along the way - the quirks of local authority administration, consortiums that restrict his ability to collect cards, and the fact that he doesn’t live locally. He opts to keep his true purpose hidden as he tries to persuade librarians to allow him to sign up with varying levels of success. Many will allow him visitor status, others have quirky methods for proving he is at least staying locally (posting a postcard to the address supplied for him to return on his next visit brings in the help of a kindly B&B owner). His quest introduces the reader to towns that don’t usually make an appearance in guidebooks, and makes you think about the true value of libraries and their sad decline with chronic underfunding.

If the concept for the book sounds repetitive and perhaps unexciting, Bevis’ writing style and witty observations, reminiscent of Bill Bryson, keep you engaged. He comments on the architecture of the library buildings and how well they serve their purpose once inside. Some, he surmises, spent all their resources on creating striking buildings without much thought as to how the space would be used. Others may look unassuming from the outside but manage to create perfect havens inside for those who want quiet study alongside the myriad other uses libraries offer. Some, most dispiritingly, consist merely of a few bookshelves on the edge of a cafe, an afterthought with empty floors above that could happily house a well-stocked library.

Not only are the library buildings commented upon but the library cards themselves. Some offer a choice from a selection of designs, others go for a more utilitarian design while others still feel more like a ticket to the local football team, the small print revealing that it is indeed a library card. He carefully plans his days to maximise possible library visits, yet on some, reaching the heady heights of six in one day, he admits that it is not all that satisfying. Part of the joy of collecting is going in and using the space, browsing the shelves, and encountering the other users. 

The book opens with a dramatic tale of a fire at a local library in his youth, the community coming together to help salvage as many books as possible. This leads into a brief history of public lending libraries, including the surprising (to me) fact that Boots used to run one. The book, which tracks his pursuit of library cards over roughly ten years, also examines how library provision changes. Sadly, in most areas the number decreases, with yet more being shifted to community run services, run by volunteers with a qualified librarian available to assist for short periods each week. Libraries are increasingly moved into buildings that house other public services, decreasing the space for books and quiet contemplation. It is a sad decline of a provision that is so incredibly valuable, as anyone who has ever worked in or used a public library will know. 

This is a light, enjoyable read which will make you appreciate the value of the local library, it certainly made me miss my closest one, closed indefinitely due to the discovery of RAAC. It is informative yet conversational, with little snippets of life witnessed on his visits and in the local areas. Each library receives no more than a page or two of space, some even less, yet Bevis manages to bring them to life. A wonderful read for any book lover, and a bright beacon calling us all to do whatever we can to keep these wonderful institutions open and accessible. 

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Blog Tour: The Sleeping Beauties, Lucy Ashe

This review is part of the blog tour for the novel. Thank you to Random Things Tours and Magpie Books for providing me with a copy of the book in exchange for an honest review.

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It’s 1945 and Rosamund Caradon is escorting the last of the evacuees that she has cared for during the war back to London, her daughter Jasmine enjoying her last chance to boss them around. Their journey back to London is disrupted when Briar Woods, a young ballet dancer, chooses their carriage to travel in. The children are delighted, having taken some basic ballet classes during their stay at Gittisham Manor, but Rosamund is suspicious. Why choose their carriage, noisy with excited children, when there are plenty of empty spaces? Her discomfort around Briar only grows as she encourages Jasmine to increasingly enter her world. Why is Briar so insistent that they become close, and why does she seem hostile to Rosamund?

The early chapters set up the scenario in a way that the reader is unsettled by Briar, seeing her through Rosamund’s eyes, but also have reason to suspect Rosamund may be being overly cautious. She repeatedly mentions how she’d like to be able to stay in the safety of the grounds of Gittisham Manor with Jasmine, away from the world. Could it be that the bustle of London and the sad memories it holds for her are influencing her response to this young woman who is being nothing but accommodating? The focus then shifts to Briar and her history and we follow her for the majority of the book with a few different time jumps to drip feed her story. 

Alongside her friends Martha and Vivian, Briar is a dancer with the Sadler’s Wells Ballet. We get a sense of the wonderful camaraderie between them, an intimacy from living and dancing together. You feel the excitement and promise of young lives, living on their own for the first time, travelling the country and meeting exciting new people. Unfortunately, this comes with a dose of heartache for some, and difficult situations that will have far-reaching consequences. We are reminded that although these young women seem to have freedom and independence, the age they’re living in is still very much stacked against them, and they are held to a very different standard than the men they encounter.

The fictional lives of Briar and her friends are intermingled with famous names from the ballet world (Margot Fonteyn, Ninette de Valois, and Robert Helpmann to name but a few) and events from the company’s history. They travel to the Hague as it’s on the brink of invasion from Germany, a difficult chapter from the past where fictional tragedy is inserted. Ashe seamlessly blends fact and fiction, and ballet fans will enjoy the references to well known figures and productions. There is no shying away from the challenges of being a professional dancer, especially during a time of war and rationing, but the splendour of their production of The Sleeping Beauty as they return to the Royal Opera House stands in stark contrast to the heartbreak of the characters.

This is a story of secrets and an examination of what it means to be a mother. It considers how the choices you make when young can have impacts far beyond what you can envisage at the time. It is a heartfelt, well researched novel. The ballet environment that forms the setting is enjoyable but the heart of the story could happen with any backdrop. The characters are well drawn and believable, and you’re left wishing you could see more of how the revelations play out. A great read, I’ll be going back and reading Ashe’s debut.

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Blog Tour: A Sign of Her Own, Sarah Marsh

This review is part of the blog tour for the novel. Thank you to Random Things Tours and Tinder Press for providing me with a copy of the book in exchange for an honest review.

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Ellen Lark was born hearing but an illness in childhood results in complete hearing loss. Her family develop their own sign language and communicate smoothly, but as she grows older and she must find a way in the world her mother considers her options. Originally she is intended to study at a deaf school where communication will be in sign language, but her grandmother has other ideas and she is forced to an oral school where the aim is to develop the student’s speech to the point where their deafness is unnoticeable. This is as a concession to hearing people rather than as a benefit to the students who find it much easier to communicate in sign. A repeated theme throughout is how difficult relying on lip-reading is and how much is missed. Eventually Ellen comes into contact with Alexander Graham Bell and his Visible Speech, a system where the movement of the mouth and tongue are symbolised so words can be formed without knowing what’s being said. The glaringly obvious problem with this is that it does not aid the person speaking it but merely creates a type of party trick, a way to make hearing people more comfortable. 

This dive into deaf history and the discrimination faced by those who wish to use sign language is the most interesting aspect of the novel, but the plot also focuses on Bell’s attempts to progress his inventions. There is some intrigue with a rival and the suspicion of spying that led to two patents being submitted on the same day. The narrative jumps between Ellen’s youth and several years later when Bell is leading up to demonstrating his new invention - the telephone. The period between the two timelines closes as the story progresses and the technique is not entirely successful. The switch in time is only denoted by the heading of a different city and it can be a little disorienting. I didn’t personally find it added anything to the story to know that things had become fraught later on before we reached it in the earlier narrative, and the closening in time made the jumps even less relevant. A straightforward narrative may have helped build connection to some of the characters, and given them more of an introduction than the slightly confusing structure allows.

Ellen becomes quite taken with Bell when he is teaching her, her youth showing through as she hopes to impress him and hold on to the belief that he shares things with her he doesn’t with his other pupils. He is impressed with her lip-reading abilities and so she is reluctant to admit how ineffective it is. She hates to think that he speaks to her more slowly than he does with hearing people, that he sees her only as a student. In time, she has to accept that his affections lie elsewhere, and ultimately, that he is not a true ally of the deaf community. When she meets Frank, a deaf printmaker who is steadfastly against Visible Speech she sees what life can be surrounded by people who sign. He also confronts her with some difficult truths about Bell who in turn reveals some unfortunate events from Frank’s past. Their relationship is difficult but it’s clear there is genuine affection between them, and it is a stark contrast to her relationship with her fiancé, with whom we see very little desire.

She often feels out of place in both hearing and deaf circles as her signing is not strong due to her oral education, and she comments on how unnatural communication is with hearing people. She misses out on side jokes and chit-chat. It is exhausting constantly trying to understand what is being said around her, and she even writes an essay on homophenes - words where the lip shape matches that of a different word. It really drives home the fact that lip reading can be useful to aid comprehension but is incredibly difficult to rely on entirely. Throughout we see people look on sign language as animalistic, unintelligent and uncouth. It is sad to witness this discrimination and refusal to allow people the ability to communicate in their own language. This is a very real part of deaf history, and one that is only recently being turned around.

This is a beautifully written novel which allows us to see the world through Ellen’s eyes. The descriptions of signs are written in such a way that those who know BSL will recognise them, and those who don’t will easily be able to picture the movements. This is a coming of age novel with Ellen trying to find her voice in a world which tries to silence it. A promising debut.

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