Holloway by Robert Macfarlane, Stanley Donwood and Dan Richards: Where does all this rhapsodising over badgers and briar get us?

Since Roger Deakin and Robert Macfarlane's success, it is now even possible to take an MA in “wild writing” at the University of Essex. Along with Mumford & Sons, The Great British Bake Off and real-ale microbreweries in Shoreditch, it feels like a sympto

Holloway
Robert Macfarlane, Stanley Donwood and Dan Richards
Faber & Faber, £14.99, 48pp

Sometimes, as I trail around Ikea in Edmonton, I think it would be rather nice to run away from modern life. I could build myself a little bothy on top of a mountain. I would spend my days foraging and, at night, instead of sitting in my flat listening to joyriders screeching down the road on stolen pizzadelivery mopeds, I could watch the stars.

Then I think . . . come on. It would be ever so damp. For idle dreamers like me, nature writing is the answer. Without having to leave my sofa, I have experienced the windy peak of Binn Chuanna and the Black Wood of Rannoch and revelled in words such as “moschatel” and “foot-querned” without needing to know what they mean.

The granddaddy of contemporary nature writing was the late Roger Deakin, a founder member of Friends of the Earth and author of Waterlog (1999), a witty and wonderful account of a year spent wild-swimming in Britain’s rivers, tarns and lochs. Robert Macfarlane was his friend and protégé and he has picked up where Deakin left off with a trilogy of books – Mountains of the Mind, The Wild Places and The Old Ways – that have been garlanded with prizes and critical praise.

In the wake of these two big fish swim many minnows; it is now even possible to take an MA in “wild writing” at the University of Essex. So popular has the genre become that, having been a fan, I am beginning to feel weary. Where does all this rhapsodising over badgers and briar get us? Along with Mumford & Sons, The Great British Bake Off and real-ale microbreweries in Shoreditch, it feels like a symptom of our collective nostalgia for a more wholesome age.

This general sense of disillusionment may have affected my response to Holloway, the latest book by Macfarlane, with the writer Dan Richards and the artist Stanley Donwood. In September 2011, the three men spent the night in a “holloway” or sunken path in Dorset. Macfarlane had discovered the place with Deakin in 2005 (this journey is documented in The Wild Places). They took with them “a hip flask, two penknives, matches & candles”, “a bottle of damson gin” and a book called Rogue Male by Geoffrey Household, in which the fugitive hero hides out in a holloway.

The book was first published by Quive-Smith, an imprint founded by the three authors, with a print run of 277. It is now being reissued by Faber. Donwood’s black and white drawings are lovingly reproduced in the Faber version but while Holloway might have worked as an art object (the original was painstakingly printed using an old-fashioned letter press), it now feels insubstantial. A cover price of £14.99 buys you less than 25 pages of text, several of which are simply abbreviated chunks of The Wild Places. It reads like a notebook of poetic and rather pretentious jottings: “No moon above the whispering fields, low service in the crosshatched apse and every outside sound an ambush. Amphidromic points of faith.”

Its greatest failing is its lack of humour. Deakin, in contrast, was a funny writer; he had a keen sense of the absurd and, as well as telling us about the wildlife he encountered, he was interested and amused by the other people he met. There is nothing wrong with escapism: it is lovely to read about beautiful places and wild adventures, especially when you are stuck in a slightly too small flat trying to assemble flat-pack furniture. But there is a danger in it, too, because no matter how long we hide in a hedge, the rubbishstrewn world will be waiting for us when we dare to peer out.

Woodland near Cheddar Gorge in Somerset. Photo: Matt Cardy/Getty Images.

Alice O'Keeffe is an award-winning journalist and former arts editor of the New Statesman. She now works as a freelance writer and looks after two young children. You can find her on Twitter as @AliceOKeeffe.

This article first appeared in the 27 May 2013 issue of the New Statesman, You were the future once

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Ukrainian cooking shakes off the old Soviet fur coat

Forget the stereotype: Ukranian cuisine is about more than just borscht, as a new cookbook shows.

“Potatoes,” Olia Hercules fumes. “Everyone thinks I’ve written a book about bloody potatoes.” It must be said that there is the odd spud in Mamushka (Mitchell Beazley), her surprisingly colourful celebration of Ukrainian food (after all, how could you have an eastern European cookbook without borscht?), but potatoes are far from the only thing to thrive in the country’s famously fertile black soil.

In fact, Hercules – young, slightly built and rarely seen without a slick of dangerously red lipstick – bears as much resemblance to the archetypal babushka as her homeland does to the bleak, grey landscape of the popular imagination. Born close to the Crimean border, she spent many holidays at the beach by the Sea of Azov, “the shallowest in the world”, where the kids ran around smothered in kefir to soothe their sunburn and everyone feasted on mountains of home-made apricot doughnuts.

Southern Ukraine, it turns out, is a land of plenty – during its long, hot summers anyway. There are prickly cucumbers picked straight from the vine, “aromatic and warm from the blistering sun”, sour cherries that “just drop off trees in the streets in June”, and the best watermelons you’ve ever tasted: “huge, firm, stripy beasts”, Hercules says.

What isn’t eaten straight from the garden will be preserved carefully to see the household through the region’s mild winters. The conserves include some rather intriguing fizzy fermented tomatoes that promise to blow your mind and your taste buds. In Ukraine, she says, “Tomatoes are king!” Fresh curd cheese and barbecued catfish, warm, flaky pumpkin bread and saffron-spiked rice all sound a blessedly long way from that old Soviet favourite, herring in a fur coat.

Nevertheless, this sunny childhood was still spent under the rule of Moscow, with its power cuts and queues, and Hercules retains to this day a nostalgic fondness for margarine, a legacy, she says, of the USSR’s “perpetual credit crunch”. A family favourite of slow-cooked goose brings back memories of bribes her surgeon uncle received to grease the creaking wheels of an ageing Soviet health system, while the home-made silky egg noodles underneath were a necessity, at a time when the local shop stocked only the occasional packet of grey macaroni.

The Soviet Union can also take some credit for the diversity of Hercules’s family, and hence the food on which she grew up. When you have a Siberian grandmother, aunts from Armenia, an Uzbek father and relatives in Azerbaijan, impossibly exotic asides such as “My grandmother picked this recipe up when she lived in Tashkent” just come naturally.

In answer to my geographic puzzling, Hercules snorts that “Ukraine basically is eastern Europe”, but the country’s culinary horizons stretch far further – there’s even a significant Korean population in the south, which, in the absence of Chinese cabbage for kimchi, has contributed a pickled carrot dish to her book.

For most of us, thanks to long memories for those tales of endless queues and dismal canteen cooking, the curtain is yet to rise on the culinary delights of the former Soviet bloc. The television producer Pat Llewellyn, the woman who discovered Jamie Oliver and was
food judge for the 2015 André Simon Awards, described it as “a much-underrated food culture” when praising the shortlisted Mamushka (the author’s childhood nickname for her mother, which has come to signify, she says, “strong women in general”).

It’s anyone’s guess whether that means we’ll get to see Hercules, resplendent in one of her signature knotted headscarves, showing off her Moldovan giant cheese twists on screen any time soon. But we’ll be seeing a lot more of her beloved “mamushka cooking”, one way or another. Just don’t mention the P word.

Next week: Richard Mabey on nature

Felicity Cloake write the food column for the New Statesman. She also writes for the Guardian and is the author of  Perfect: 68 Essential Recipes for Every Cook's Repertoire (Fig Tree, 2011) and Perfect Host: 162 easy recipes for feeding people & having fun (Fig Tree, 2013). She is on Twitter as @FelicityCloake.

This article first appeared in the 11 February 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The legacy of Europe's worst battle