Today, in Caithness, the sun is shining and the air is clear. I'm sure it will come as no surprise to anyone reading this blog that, certain weathers and certain times of the year ignite certain music in me. And, on late winter days which are filled with sunshine, I am usually to be found singing the songs of The Spinners . Inevitably, I start humming different ones of their songs (and of course adapting them to be about Orlando and Jess) as I go around doing different things. But I remember almost all the words to them. I haven't heard a lot of them in years, but they are all there, rooted in my memory. It is truly fascinating to think about how these songs have passed through history. They are part of my own nostalgia, which is why crisp sunny mornings make me incapable of ignoring the temptation to sing them, but they are part of something much bigger. There are songs amongst them which are a newer step in the folk music movement. Songs like Silver in the Stubble are amongs...
Settings and Locations. Rural Landscape.
How to weave words into settings? The temptation is to be a bit heavy-handed with the adjectives - but then you end up with one of those bumpy rugs instead of a neatly woven delight to walk on! George Eliot, in The Mill On The Floss, brings alive the landscape and setting and soon conveys the importance of the river without the use of clunking adjectives. I'm reminded of the Lucy Boston stories about her beloved Hemingford Grey. In The Children of Green Knowe she explains that the river is a lively inhabitant. If a writer is able to animate aspects of the countryside, then there is little need for poetical description. Once a river, a tree, or any other part of the landscape comes alive, then the story/account is accessible without the need to unravel unnecessary packaging. Don't get me wrong - I've played games with poetic prose so that music sings from the page but I'm also aware that the same music drowns out what I'm trying to say. Before I know it, I've missed a trick. Another rug with knots.
Although we think of the countryside as idyllic, we know well what a struggle it has often been to live and work there. The February hedger cursed the bitter cold at the same time as feeling an essential part of the system. Aspects of the rural landscape are seen as cohabiting with the subject. This approach in writing gives a raw edge to a piece and, as such, is close to the nerve of the reader. Any writer who can tap into that sense of connection has my respect. In her chilling book, The Woman In Black, Susan Hill is able to convey the reader to Eel Marsh with ease. It is almost as though each of us has a connection with a terrible wilderness and writers like Susan Hill, with an economy of language, are able to transport us there in a moment. Susan Hill's autobiographical book, The Magic Apple Tree, is presented in a far more lyrical way but what a joy it is to dip into it and become at once a wanderer amongst its hedgerows and orchards.
My final word must go to Elizabeth von Arnim. April may have been wonderful in Paris but how enchanted was April on the Italian Riviera under her astute and generous penmanship. The Enchanted April oozes colour and a gratitude for the power of a break in the country.
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