Why go fishing? Why not? Photograph: Getty Images
Show Hide image

There are many destinations, even if we are all travelling on the same open road

Ed Smith's "Left Field" column.

Breakfast in Otago, southern New Zealand, with the country’s former poet laureate. Brian Turner is an essayist, poet, fisherman, climber, hunter and conservationist. Sixty-nine years old, trim, wiry and enviably fit, Turner’s craggy looks and white beard perfectly reflect his career. A surgeon friend once told Turner that he was “built out of Meccano”. That captures something of his resilience; it is a body that has been pushed and more than occasionally deprived.

We sit overlooking the cricket ground in Dunedin, drinking black coffee, talking about writing and landscape, sport and families. The ground is a natural amphitheatre, carved into lushly grassed hills that are today lightly covered by mist. By Turner’s standards, they scarcely qualify as real hills, mere undulations that lead to serious peaks, the real challenges beyond.

We were introduced by Brian’s brother, Glenn, one of New Zealand’s greatest batsman. While Glenn was scoring 103 first-class hundreds – for Otago, New Zealand and Worcestershire – Brian was hiking in New Zealand’s “back country”, the wilderness of the South Island. The two journeys had much in common. Both Turners explored the limits of their self-reliance and resourcefulness, both tried to figure things out for themselves, both prized experience and reflection over conventional wisdom.

Dressed in dark jeans and a black outdoor jacket, Turner is smart enough to fit into most places. But the conservative clothes barely conceal a strong sense of restlessness, as though he would be much happier turning away from society – like Walt Whitman who, in “Song of the Open Road”, “afoot and light-hearted” took “to the open road . . . The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.” “At the end of the open road,” Turner has written, “we come to ourselves.”

Turner brings up the subject of luck, a theme that runs quietly through his own work. “I’ve taken great pleasure in taunting people who congratulate themselves on having ‘made their own luck’, as though they deserve all the credit, and people who say ‘anything’s possible if you want it enough’. I’ve always thought some people have simply been shit out of luck, others dead lucky.”

Out on the field, where England face New Zealand, some of the players saunter through the back-slapping rituals of conspicuous bonhomie and positive “teamwork”. Turner is not impressed, adding impishly, “If someone had rushed over and tapped Glenn on the back after he’d done something utterly unremarkable, he probably would have wanted to tell them to fuck off.”

Alongside his warmth, Turner is unmistakably iconoclastic. The title of his memoir is Somebodies and Nobodies. “Because most people you meet who are ‘somebodies’ are in fact nobodies,” Turner explains, “and many ‘nobodies’ are in fact somebodies.” Only once does Turner glance at me suspiciously. While describing his admiration for the poet Edward Thomas, Turner focuses momentarily on my formal blue jacket (I’m in New Zealand commentating on the cricket for the BBC). His eyes go from jacket to my face, then back to the jacket again, as though he can’t quite censor the thought: “How odd to be talking about lyric poems and the open road with a man wearing what is suspiciously close to a blazer . . .”

My first column in these pages was called “In praise of idleness”. Turner was there long before me. In two sparkling essays, “Wasting Time” and “Why go fishing?”, Turner discusses what Henry David Thoreau called the great art of sauntering: “He [Thoreau] knew that sitting, lolling was not a waste of time, it was making good use of time. Perhaps it was actually stilling time, apprehending moments, opening windows on illumination . . . Part of that is a need to feel the warmth of the sun, the flitter of the wind, hear the murmur of insects, the rustle of leaves as the breeze shuffles them, a breeze that acts as nature’s generous croupier.” So-called “idleness” is recast as a central part of the creative process, a way of opening up to serendipity.

Turner feels that the open spaces of South Island have been too easily encroached upon by “economic necessities” forced on them by the North. What some call progress, he calls despoliation. He cherishes places where the human footprint is lightest. “A lot of people were and are put off by Fiordland, but not enough,” he says of an especially inaccessible region where he has wandered and hiked.

Talking to Turner reinforces my sense of frustration at opportunities missed. After eight days in New Zealand, I’ve been unable to venture beyond the sleepy town of Dunedin. I’ve managed just one solitary trip to the ocean and failed to climb a single mountain. South Island is defined by wonderful landscape and unremarkable towns. I’ve experienced only the latter.

England cling on for a draw in the Test match. The following day, I’m lucky enough to get a window seat on the flight up to Wellington. The territory we fly over is the subject of Turner’s work and I switch between looking out of the window and reading his collected essays, Into the Wider World: a Back Country Miscellany, two impressions of the same landscape – one from above, the other from within.

It is a beautiful book to hold as well as to read. One paragraph makes me sit up and reach for my notebook. “[It] is about remaining relaxed yet alert. It’s not about patience, it’s about learning to pay attention; about scheming, plotting, gulling. About confidence, concentration, caution. About care and caring; couthness and consideration; tolerance and humility; acceptance and good grace and judiciousness and stealth.”

Turner’s subject is fishing. But to me, on first reading, it superbly captures the art of batsmanship. Reading it again, it seems just as relevant to writing. There are many destinations, even if we are travelling on the same open road.

Ed Smith is a journalist and author, most recently of Luck. He is a former professional cricketer and played for both Middlesex and England.

This article first appeared in the 18 March 2013 issue of the New Statesman, The German Problem

Show Hide image

An English hero for the ages: Ian Botham at 60

Botham blends his sportsmanship and deep-seated passion for cricket with a lust for life.

Begging W H Auden’s pardon, it is possible both to honour and to value the vertical man, and in the case of Ian Botham, who turned 60 on 24 November, it is our bounden duty. No sportsman has given Britons so much to enjoy in the past half-century and no sportsman is loved more. Two decades after he retired from first-class cricket, his reputation as one of life’s champions remains unassailable.

No mere cricketer is he, either. Botham is a philanthropist, having raised more than £12m for various charities, notably Leukaemia and Lymphoma Research. In December, 30 years after his first walk from John o’Groats to Land’s End, he will set off again, in South Africa, where England are on tour. And he really does walk, too, not amble. As somebody who accompanied him on one of his dozen walks said: “You can’t keep up with him. The man is a phenomenon.”

Of all postwar sportsmen, only Bobby Charlton and, at a pinch, Henry Cooper come close to matching Botham’s enduring popularity. But Charlton, a shy man who was scarred by the Munich plane crash of 1958 (and may never have recovered from its emotional effects), has never comfortably occupied a public stage; and Cooper, being a boxer, had a solitary role. Botham, by contrast, spoke for England. Whenever he picked up his bat, or had a ball in his hand, he left spectators in no doubt.

Others have also spoken for England. Bobby Moore and Martin Johnson, captains respectively of England’s World Cup-winning football and rugby teams, were great players but did not reach out to people as naturally as Botham. Nick Faldo, Lester Piggott, Sebastian Coe and, to bring us up to date, Lewis Hamilton have beaten the best in the world, but they lacked those qualities that Botham displayed so freely. That is not to mark them down. They were, and are, champions. But Botham was born under a different star.

It was John Arlott, the great cricket commentator, who first spotted his uniqueness. Covering a match at Taunton in 1974, he asked the young colt to carry his bags up the rickety staircase to the press box, where Arlott, wearing his oenophile’s hat, pulled out a bottle of red wine and invited Botham to drink. Forty years later Botham is a discriminating wine drinker – and maker. Along with his friend and fellow England great Bob Willis, and their Australian wine­making pal Geoff Merrill, he has put his name to a notable Shiraz, “BMW”.

Arlott, with his nose for talent and good company, saw something in the young Botham that Brian Close, his captain at Somerset, was beginning to bring out. Later, Mike Brearley, as England captain, drew out something even more remarkable. As Rodgers and Hammerstein wrote, you’ve got to be carefully taught. And Botham, a fine team man as well as a supreme individual performer, has never withheld praise from those who enabled him to find his voice.

If sport reveals character, then cricket is the game that reveals it most clearly. In no other sport is the individual performance rooted so firmly in a team context. Every over brings a contest of skill and intelligence between batsman and bowler but only a team can win the match. “A cricketer,” as Arlott said, “is showing you something of himself all the time.”

Cricket also reveals national character more than any other sport. Football may be the most popular game in the world but cricket, and cricketers, tell us far more about England and Englishness. It is instructive, in this regard, to hear what Philippe Auclair, a French journalist and author long resident in London, has to say about Botham: “He is essentially an 18th-century Englishman.” In one! It’s not difficult to sense a kinship with Tom Jones, Fielding’s embodiment of 18th-century life, who began his journey, as readers may recall, in Somerset.

A country boy who played for Worcestershire after leaving Somerset, and who lives by choice in North Yorkshire, Botham is an old-fashioned Englishman. Although nobody has yet found him listening to the parson’s sermon, he is conservative with a small and upper-case C, a robust monarchist, handy with rod and gun, and happiest with a beaker in front of him. He represents (though he would never claim to be a representative) all those people who understand instinctively what England means, not in a narrow way, but through something that is in the blood.

Above all, he will be remembered for ever as the hero of 1981. Even now it takes some believing that Botham bowled and batted with such striking success that the Australians, who were one up after two Tests, were crushed. Some of us who were actually at Headingley for the famous third Test – thousands who claim to have been there were not – recall the odds of 500-1 on an England victory going up on the electronic scoreboard that Saturday evening.

Botham made 149 not out as England, following on, beat the Aussies by 18 runs. For three hours the country seemed to stop. In the next Test, at Edgbaston, Botham took five wickets for one run as Australia fell under his spell. Then, at Old Trafford, on a dank Saturday afternoon, he played the most memorable innings of his life and one of the greatest innings ever played by an Englishman: 118 magnificent, joyful runs. Joy: that’s the word. Botham brought joy into people’s lives.

Yet it was the final Test at the Oval, which ended in a draw, that brought from him a performance no less remarkable than those from before. He bowled 89 overs in that match, flat out, continuing to run in when others withdrew with injury. That was the team man coming to the fore. Little wonder his comrades thought the world of him.

Modest, loyal, respectful to opponents, grateful to all who have lent him a hand, and supported throughout a turbulent life by Kath, his rock of a wife, and their three children, this is a cricketing hero to rank with W G Grace, Jack Hobbs, Wally Hammond and Fred Trueman. A feature in the lives of all who saw him, and a very English hero. 

This article first appeared in the 26 November 2015 issue of the New Statesman, Terror vs the State