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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Commons Confidential: George Osborne puffs away

Your weekly dose of gossip from around Westminster.

The Tory bouncer Iain Duncan Smith is licking his wounds after Labour’s sisterhood reclaimed the blokey bar of the House. The former army captain liked to glower at opponents with a gang of men by the line opposite the Speaker’s chair.

Before the summer recess, the front row was occupied by the MPs Jo Stevens, Tracy Brabin, Cat Smith and Yasmin Qureshi, who refused to budge when IDS tried to push through. Labour is determined to make life uncomfortable for the majority-less Tories.

Signs of Ukip’s tentacles extending into the tragic Charlie Gard case include the press officer Gawain Towler using the party’s official email account to distribute “for a friend” campaign statements. Meanwhile, the defeated parliamentary candidate Alasdair Seton-Marsden has surfaced as a spokesman. He is accused by TV news shows of tricky behaviour and of trying to exploit the tragedy. His big idea was to have Nigel Farage interview the parents. Ukip likes to keep everything in its own family.

The baronet’s son George Osborne – the vengeful sacked chancellor pretending that everything from Brexit to pay caps has nowt to do with him, now that he edits a London free sheet – is a secret smoker. My snout whispers that the Chancer favours Vogue Menthol, an appropriately upmarket brand of cigarette. He was always too grand for fags.

Many Labour MPs are reluctant to sit on select committees. An internal report from the Parliamentary Labour Party identifies one vacancy on science, two on public administration, Wales and petitions, plus three on environment.

The list shows Keith Vaz switching from justice to international trade. Jim the washing machine salesman would doubtless approve.

Parliament’s expensive programme to protect MPs after the assassination of Jo Cox isn’t going entirely to plan. Workers installing an intruder alarm at an MP’s home in northern England apparently caused £1,400 of damage drilling through a water pipe. The company responsible should brace itself for questions about subcontracting and unskilled labour.

The Tory right-whinger Peter “dry as a” Bone spent four nights on an inflatable mattress in a room next to the private bill office to table a forest of draft legislation that, fortunately, has no chance of becoming law. Mrs Bone probably enjoyed the break.

The party’s over for the SNP, with the Nats abandoning parliament’s Sports and Social Bar since losing 21 seats in June. Westminster staff celebrated with a drink. SNP MPs cheering for whichever country played England was an own goal. 

Kevin Maguire is the associate editor (politics) of the Daily Mirror

Kevin Maguire is Associate Editor (Politics) on the Daily Mirror and author of our Commons Confidential column on the high politics and low life in Westminster. An award-winning journalist, he is in frequent demand on television and radio and co-authored a book on great parliamentary scandals. He was formerly Chief Reporter on the Guardian and Labour Correspondent on the Daily Telegraph.

This article first appeared in the 27 July 2017 issue of the New Statesman, Summer double issue