‘I am haunted by
waters.’ Olivia Laing begins in her travelogue-come-historical musing To
The River. ‘It may be that I’m too dry in
myself, too English, or it may be simply that I’m susceptible to beauty, but I
do not feel truly at ease on this earth unless there’s a river nearby.’. It
is a sentiment many, I’m sure, can identify with and one expanded with grace in
Laing’s wonderful book.
To The River follows Laing’s own journey along the River
Ouse, a river made famous by the death of Virginia Woolf and, in much earlier
days, the Battle of Lewes fought between King Henry III and Simon de Montfort.
Following both the physical tracks of the Ouse and the tracks of Laing’s own
musings, the book focuses heavily on the life and writings of Woolf and has seeded
in me an unexpected interest which has turned me towards a reading of her
diaries. As Laing shows, Woolf was a fascinating woman who leaves more to be
remembered than pockets weighed down with stones and a few difficult but
brilliant novels.
Laing’s story begins at the source, her own motivation for
the journey. A bad break up and the loss of her job turn her mind towards a
restorative journey, and as she identifies at the beginning the path to her
ease is alongside a river. So she decides to walk the Ouse Way, a journey that
will take a week or so. Along the way Laing reflects on many different things,
all connected in some way with the river itself or rivers in general. She tells
the story of Mary Anning and Gideon Mantell, early palaeontologists who
discovered the first iguanodon and ichthyosaurus skeletons though neither,
initially, received the recognition these discoveries deserved. She reflects on
the sad story of Kenneth Graeme, writer of Wind in the Willows who too bore a
fondness towards rivers. There are legends like those of Cherry of Zennor, and
the Greek hero Odysseus, both of whom travelled into underworlds through the
mediating waters of a river. In this way Laing reveals both the past and
present of the river, and both mans’ impact upon it and its impact upon man.
The river rushes towards its end, to its inevitable absorption by the sea, and
yet remains the same, continuing to refill and renew itself.
There is more, much more, and too much to detail here. What
is wonderful about this book by Laing is how much is covered, how her mind
wanders and associates and draws in so many stories and ideas that in some way
link to the river. Besides the outward looking, searching nature of Laing’s
mind, she also has a wonderful way with words and the sheer poetry of her
writing means it is both mesmerising and simultaneously hard to take in. It is
important to note, you understand, that I say this not as a criticism but as sincere
praise: in this way the book meanders like a river, reflecting what is outside
and revealing, in its clear waters, what is within. And it is beautiful and
mesmerising. Like here:
‘The track to Piddinghoe
led past Deans Farm before breaking uphill across the dry chalk bed of a
winterbourne. I climbed past tussocky banks of wild thyme stitched with yellow crossword
and the pale flowers of heath bedstraw. Selfheal and birdsfoot trefoil, which
as children we called bacon and eggs, were also growing to profusion, and
between them the bees moved in their drunken drifts.’
It is a book with a very meditative quality to it, which yet
reveals the intelligence behind it. I finished reading this with a heavy
respect for Laing and her curious, explorative mind, the journey it took me on
and how much I learned along the way. It made me realise, for example, how
commonplace it is to think in fluidic terms. On reading the book I found myself
wishing to immerse myself in the
writings of Virginia Woolf, but perhaps realising that in truth I would only
ever skim the surface. Similarly
Laing’s book is awash with watery
metaphors, revealing the way in which we rely upon the waters to wash our cares away and flood us with light and clear hope.
To The River is a wonderful book and one which I would like
to read again and again, and know that I could do so easily. I feel lightened
after reading it, unburdened from the ordinary troubles of my everyday life and
instead I find myself wondering about that great old forest the Andredesleage, the curious properties of
pollen and the way in which man has shaped the very landscape which we feel
most wild permanently scarring our past and present. It is everything great
non-fiction writing should be.
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