Articoli correlati a Doubling Back [Lingua Inglese]

Doubling Back [Lingua Inglese] - Rilegato

Cracknell, Linda

 
9781908754547: Doubling Back [Lingua Inglese]

Sinossi

A fascinating and moving account of walking in the footsteps of others, and a masterwork of travel writing
 
In 1952, Linda Cracknell's father embarked on a hike through the Swiss Alps. It was the last walk he would ever take. Linda retraces that fateful journey 50 years later, following the trail of the man she barely knew. This collection of walking tales take their theme from that pilgrimage. The walks trace the contours of memories, following friends, writers, and relations along trails across mountains, valleys, and coasts from the Highlands of Scotland to Kenya. Each walk is about the reaffirming of memories, beliefs, and emotions, and especially of the connection that one can have with the past. This book celebrates life, family, friendship, and walking through mountain landscapes richly textured with stories. A masterwork of travel writing in the vein of Robert Macfarlane and Roger Deakin, this lyrical, poignant book contains stunning landscape descriptions.

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Informazioni sull'autore

Linda Cracknell writes short stories, drama for BBC, and creative non-fiction. She was shortlisted for the Scottish First Book Award for her story collection Life Drawing and the Robin Jenkins Literary Award for environmental writing.

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Doubling Back

Ten Paths Trodden in Memory

By Linda Cracknell

Freight Books

Copyright © 2014 Linda Cracknell
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-908754-54-7

Contents

The Opening Door Boscastle, Cornwall,
Dancing, Kicking up her Legs A hillside near Abriachan, Loch Ness,
Stairway to Heaven? Relleu to Valle de Laguart, Alicante, Spain,
Baring our Soles Ndumberi Village, Central Kenya,
Pappa's Shoes A Wartime escape route, Norway,
Outlasting our Tracks Finsteraarhorn, Bernese Oberland, Switzerland,
The Return of Hoof Beats Newtonmore to Kirkmichael, Cairngorms, Scotland,
The Dogs' Route A drove road between Perthshire and the Isle of Skye, Scotland,
To be a Pilgrim Saint Cuthbert's Way, Melrose to Lindisfarne,
Friendly Paths The Birks of Aberfeldy, Perthshire, Scotland,
Notes and Bibliography,
Acknowledgements,


CHAPTER 1

The Opening Door


Boscastle,
Cornwall
When I set out for Lyonesse,
A Hundred miles away,
The rime was on the spray,
And starlight lit my lonesomeness
When I set out for Lyonesse
A hundred miles away.

From When I set out for Lyonesse (1870), Thomas Hardy


The sea always draws me, especially where cliffs soar and plummet and birds are like shooting stars against dark rocky chasms. I'm at Boscastle in Cornwall, with a salt tang in my nostrils. The rhythmic company of wash and breaker, and the estuaries tamed by the retreating tide into mud flats seem to remind me of something. Perhaps it's my sea-faring ancestors, the Drakes and Chichesters, who from 50 miles east of here at Braunton ran the last sailing coasters of the early 20 century, delivering coal and slate.

But for now I turn my back on Penally Point, the gnarled headland that guards the serpentine entrance to Boscastle harbour. I leave the view out to the surf-skirted black bulk of Meachard to which ships too large to navigate into the harbour were once moored. I turn away from salt towards freshwater.

The Valency Valley beckons me inland, eastwards, across what I remember was a meadow behind the row of shops, and is now a car park. The ground is tightly netted and gabionned against the vandalfingers of water. I'm soon walking through an aisle of trees, alone on a quiet path that follows the north bank of the river. A duck flies low and fast ahead of me, embodying purpose. Like the jets I see skimming lochs at home, it adjusts its angle in expert increments to steer the central course of the winding river, then disappears around a bend. But this flight defines the landscape as miniature; a narrow valley with secret corners. A scale and nature that I'm here to re-learn.

The area of land defined by these waters and paths has swayed the course of English literature, and also shaped my own track. At least one love story gleams within its lush green crevices.


* * *

In 1976 I arrived in Boscastle for a week's painting holiday with the sullen steps of a post-glandular-fever, first-time-in-love seventeen year old. 'I've got here but feel terribly lonely and depressed,' I complained to my diary on the first night. 'Everyone is so cheerful and friendly but I'm very isolated. It always takes me so long to get used to a place.'

Bringing with me a 1:50,000 Ordnance Survey map and an instinct for exploration and recovery, I was soon enchanted. Over the week, letters to my boyfriend became less frequent as I wrote more lengthily in my diary, and at the end I complained: 'I really wish I could stay another week, to go on some more walks, and meet more people ... I can

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