Review: Hope: A Tragedy by Shalom Auslander

I thoroughly enjoyed reading this. The subject matter is appalling, but very funny, as the blurbs say, like early Woody Allen. I can't tell you much about it without giving the plot away. Underneath all the humour are some serious ideas for consideration. What if she had survived? What difference did the new edition make? I know that makes no sense unless you've read the book, but I don't want to give anything away. There was the odd saggy moment, but it's a quick read and full of startling ideas, great Jewish humour and... well read it!

Review: Joseph Anton by Salman Rushdie

It took me a good while to read this, pressure of work and all that. I'm not complaining about the length, unlike some reviewers. Rushdie, thanks to a not so subtle media campaign over the years, along with Martin Amis, seems to be one of those authors it's ok to be nasty about. Recent publications of a "takedown" of this book suggest that, in spite of everything that was revealed in Leveson, people will be obeying the Daily Mail in this for a good while. It's almost a "here is an Asian-looking person it's ok to hate" situation. Not that I'm saying he's perfect. But who is? The people who attack him? Those who say the silly man brought all this on himself by writing a book?
Here is a British citizen, writing a book with some satirical content, with a good deal of learning on the subject material, who was given a death sentence by some foreign power. British security forces protected him, kept him in hiding, while much of the media, many politicians decided that he wasn't worth protecting, preferring instead to appease extremists.
Anyway, the book! It's well written and honest. Yes, Rushdie does a fair bit of name-dropping, seems to compare himself with writers possibly greater than himself and has trouble staying faithful. But he has an important story to tell and he tells it very well. Some reviewers complain that not much happens, but as he was in hiding I'm not sure what could be done about that. This is Torquay, no plains of the Serengeti visible. He argues his case very strongly and is very moving towards the end, so stick with it!
I came across Fury in a bookshop a couple of days ago. It was published on the day of the 9/11 attacks, with a cover of a skyscraper with a black cloud over it.
So this is vital stuff. I might not agree with everything Rushdie says, but I defend his right to say it and write books. If he had any of my taxes to guard him, he's welcome!

Thank you William Golding!

Haven't posted for ages, sorry! Poor health in the family has meant I haven't been able to get out much. The amount of work I've had to do has meant I've had little time to read. I'm still trying to get through Joseph Anton by Salman Rushdie and Gulag by Annie Applebaum. These need to be finished before the end of term so I can tackle my reading list for the holidays.

Unable to do anything other than watch tv the other night, but also unable to find anything worth watching, I came across a documentary on William Golding. Although I haven't read his book for years, I seemed to know many of the passages read out by heart. I can't think of a more significant postwar novelist. His ability to enter a strange world and explain it fully - the last of the Neanderthals, the building of a cathedral spire - the lean, exact poetry of his prose, the great moral themes. It was reading Golding that led me to university: I found the opening pages of Free Fall hard to understand at times. I read and re-read, analysing, interpreting, and eventually broke through. This deeper ability to analyse gave me the confidence to apply to university to study Music and English.

Unfortunately, the admissions chap suggested that he had too many English students and would I mind awfully studying Russian instead? Will this decide whether you offer me a place I asked. Yes, said he, and I became a Music/Russian/French student on the spot. I'd done a term of Russian at the Burslem Delinquents High School and loved it. So I loved studying French literary theory, reading authors like Flaubert and Dostoevsky in the original language, all thanks to wanting to get to grips with Golding.

So my Christmas reading list will be his first 5 novels, I haven't read Lord of the Flies since I was 10, over 40 years ago, can't wait.

An Teallach retreat

We started visiting Scotland in 1986 - a week in Dunoon during Autumn, a week in Spring at Glenelg:

 the following Spring at Gairloch and then Summer 1987 in Ullapool:

 Each trip went further north, yet seemed to reveal endless landscapes northwards to be explored. I'll find some photos from those days and put them on here, with more details about those holidays, but for now, here's a quick description of our first attempt on a hill.

With the help of the wonderful Companion Guide to the West Highlands of Scotland, by WH Murray (still the only book you need for general exploration, and so beautifully written), we chose to try An Teallach from Dundonnell.

My dad in this photo is younger than I am now. I'm wearing Hawkins boots (wonderful, no longer in business), cheap gaiters from a shop in Keswick, corduroy trousers, cotton shirt (I'm not sure if I was just being stupid here or if there just weren't outdoor shops and magazines telling me about base layers), jumper knitted by my mum, Parks dept. issue jacket and a £1 hat. Spot the map case, later lost in the Fannichs - I was slowly getting better prepared and equipped. The walk up was straightforward until we hit mist and snow. Then we were in a different world - white everywhere, no visible path, just occasional rocks looming out of the snow. We continued as far as we dared, but visibility got so bad that we weren't sure we would find our way back if we went any further. So back we went.

We were disappointed at not reaching the top, so after a quick meal back at Gairloch we walked up up Glen Grudie, trying to reach Coire Mhic Fhearchair. This was a great walk but this time, darkness turned us back before we could reach our goal.

Little Loch Broom and Dundonnell behind us

 An Teallach from the Destitution Road

Second Hill

I’d been to the Lake District before as part of a school trip. We’d climbed a few hills... but I couldn’t remember them, partly because of an outbreak of salmonella and partly because I was a teenager and not able to concentrate on anything other than girls, football and not getting hit. That disastrous trip to Snowdon had taught me something about being prepared. I now had a rucksack and, courtesy of Webberley’s of Hanley, appropriate maps and books on Lake District walks by Terry Marsh.

We decided on walk 4.4 – Red Pike, High Stile and High Crag from Buttermere. The car park was easy to find and so was the start of the walk, but somehow we managed to lose the path (years later I would laugh at an over-equipped walker on Coniston asking where the path was, when he was standing on it, yet there I was, having lost a 3 feet wide path). So we cut straight up the hillside and came across the path near to the tarn. I hadn’t learned how to pace myself – I kept charging off at full speed, getting out of breath and then having to stop. Meanwhile, children, pensioners, everyone else, overtook me. We eventually made it to the summit and took out our well-earned lunch. But I was wearing (and continued to do this for quite a few hills) a cotton shirt, soaked from my exertions and the wind on the ridge made me go cold very quickly. So we didn’t really stop until we were back at the car.

I’ve done this walk a couple of times since and thought: what was all the fuss about? Why did it feel like such a marathon? Wasn’t I young and fit? It was, nevertheless, a wonderful day, with great views and we were now addicted to hillwalking forever. There were lots of people around though – maybe Scotland would give us a greater sense of wilderness.

Ceilidh Place, Ullapool

A few weeks ago the greatness of the Ceilidh Place was reinforced by trying somewhere else to eat and drink in Ullapool. We had peeped into the Ceilidh Place but it seemed full. We only wanted a drink and all the tables seemed laid out for evening meals. So we thought we would try somewhere else. Along the road we went to the Caledonian Hotel. We found a table, had a look at the menu and went to the bar to order from the surly barman (he was there last time we tried this place a few years ago, we should have realised the futility of this adventure the moment we saw him).

“Two coffees please”

“We don’t do coffee”

“But it says you do on the menu”

“Machine’s broke”

“How about tea?”

“Machine’s broke”

Not a single smile or apology from the barman, just the general impression that the sooner we were out of his bar the better. So we obliged. 

We went back to the Ceilidh Place:

“Do you mind if we just have a drink?”

“Of course not, sit where you like and I’ll come and take your order”

The Celidh Place is the place to sit, eat and drink in Ullapool, in the whole of Scotland as far as I’m concerned. We’ve been going there for 25 years or so and their high standards have always been maintained. Great entertainment, excellent food, friendly, polite service, a fantastic log fire in winter, a bookshop open all night, relaxing accommodation. That’s why our house has 2 Ceilidh Place mugs and 3 T shirts, but none from the Caledonian.

Food – excellent

Service – excellent

Atmosphere – perfect

Accommodation – quiet and relaxing with a wonderful lounge to read in

First hill

I consider myself to be a fairly experienced hillwalker these days, but it wasn't always so. In the early 1980s we set out on a big adventure to Snowdon. You can tell it was a long time ago as there was plenty of space to park at Pen-y-Pass. We had no food or drink, a map but no compass. I'd recently bought a Lord Anthony coat from C&A. It covered some of my jeans. We set out on the Miners track but lost our way in mist after Glaslyn. We headed directly up the slope. We were young and fit so it seemed easy enough. Then the rain came and, near the ridge the most horrendous summit wind. Time for a hasty retreat. But that easy slope now seemed steep and slippery. So down on our bums we went. Luckily, we saw a group of walkers and followed them back to the car park. I was soaked and never wore that coat again. But I was hooked. Wales was too wet, how about the Lake District?