He went for a walk one day and didn’t stop and never went back

My niece-in-law has just posted on her Facebook page an article about a "Mr Treagood [who] lectured in environmental studies in Yorkshire until he turned his back on mainstream life 40 years ago. He went for a walk one day and didn’t stop and never went back.... He walked to the Westcountry, bought a horse and wagon when he had saved enough money."

I like that. It reminds me of Sebastian Rennet who "the next morning walked [for the first time] on the left side of the street, saw a little path, which he had never noticed before as it could not be seen from the other side of the street. It seemed to lead across the fields up over a little hill and far, far away... and said to himself 'I will follow the little path and see where it leads me' ".

I like that - I figure I could do the same. Indeed if the miracle of falling in love with someone who actually wanted to live their life with me had not happened I think I might have - or else, more likely, become a very boring person. More than I presently am, I mean.

And even now my idea of a good walk or run or panorama is one that reminds me of the little path that leads over the hill and far, far away.

A long ago story

A tale of wonder... from the same little blue book (another one) that I mentioned in my post In a far country:

A long ago story

...The years fled away. And still the Great Tree stood among the mists, unharmed by time and the lightnings that felled so many of its proud neighbours. But still the years followed one another endlessly; and at last, old and withered, the Great Tree crashed and fell into the muddy waters of the swamp. Down to the bottom of the swamp it sank, crushed underfoot by the mighty reptiles that fought one another, bellowing and screaming and coughing through the short night hours ; or pushed and jostled, and rolled in the steamy ooze of the daytime, as they sought their prey. Deeper and deeper into the mud, at the bottom of the swamp, the tree was pressed, until at last it rotted and fell to pieces. But the ball of gum with the fly at its core was unharmed by the mud and the water. It was too small for the giant feet of the great reptiles to crush it, and so it lay there safely in the darkness of the thick slime. The years fled away in tens and in hundreds and in thousands. The sea broke over the land, and where the swamp had been, the little waves of a blue deep sea rippled from shore to distant shore.

Unnumbered and countless years flew by. Man appeared upon the earth, a little, helpless, naked creature, whose brain was to make him lord of all. And so, slowly, slowly, ever so slowly, man conquered the earth ; built upon it fair and wonderful cities ; and launched upon its seas his painted ships. And the great oozy swamps, the vast trees, and the crawling reptiles, were forgotten as if they had never been.

And then, but yesterday, a little boy walked along the beach, after a high spring tide had thrown the shells and seaweed a score of feet beyond the wonted tide mark. The sun shone, and the sand was warm and pleasant to his bare feet. Suddenly his bare toe touched something hard and round, and as large as a sparrow's egg. He picked it up, and gave a little cry of delight. It was amber. But it was rough and dull, and he did not dream of the treasure at its heart.

He took it up to the tiny shop upon the windy cliffs. And there the little old man, who spent his days polishing and cutting stones, set to work upon it. The little boy's fair hair and the old man's scanty gray were very close as the polishing proceeded rapidly. And then the little boy screamed out, and pointed to the piece of amber now as yellow as gold and as clear as glass. The little old gray man gasped. There in the very heart of the amber lay the body of a beautiful blue fly, with one glittering gauzy wing outstretched ; it was the fly that had died so suddenly in the young, young days of the old world.

Fly in amber

And now, set in gold, the fly-in-the-amber, that is older than the hills, rests in a case in a great building for all the world to see. And day by day folks passing by stop to stare at its wonderful beauty.

But the proud tree that boasted, in those far off ages, of its long, long life, was lost and forgotten before ever man came upon the earth ; little, naked, defenceless man, who was one day to be lord of all.

Stephen Southwold

In a Far Country

It is father's day and I got a surprise phone call from my younger daughter who has just moved to Australia. Two of my own sons and the son of a close friend now live in Alaska.  My other daughter is en route to Switzerland but thankfully only for a week.  Fifty years ago emmigration might have been goodbye for good - at least we have the internet now - but, even so, I reckon that either Alaska or Australia qualify as "a far country".

I have a much cherished book entitled "Forty Tales" by Stephen Southwold.  It was my mother's and she has written her name very formally, as if she was young at the time, inside the front cover.  This book is one of the few links I now have with her and with my childhood.  One of my favourite tales from this book starts:

The water colouring is my older sister's work.  To this day I am haunted by any grassy hill that disappears into the horizon.  What is special about these tales is the element of "wonder".  I may write at more length about this in a later blog.  For now the title "Along the path and far away" is sufficient: it evokes in me a great longing for I do not know what.

A similar sentiment is found in Lewis's "The horse and his boy" -

"But he was very interested in everything that lay to the North because no one ever went that way and he was never allowed to go there himself. When he was sitting out of doors mending the nets, and all alone, he would often look eagerly to the North. One could see nothing but a grassy slope running up to a level ridge and beyond that the sky with perhaps a few birds in it."

There is also the traditional song Over the hills and far away which leaves one wondering what exactly is over the hills and far away.

I get a similar feeling seeing or reading about water meeting grass as in an overflowing stream or a flash flood.

Phantastes, George Macdonald: "And, stranger still, where this carpet, which I had myself designed to imitate a field of grass and daisies, bordered the course of the little stream, the grass-blades and daisies seemed to wave in a tiny breeze that followed the water's flow; while under the rivulet they bent and swayed with every motion of the changeful current, as if they were about to dissolve with it, and, forsaking their fixedform, become fluent as the waters."

A far country implies a new paradigm that touches the depth of our soul: In a Far Country, Jack London "When a man journeys into a far country, he must be prepared to forget many of the things he has learned, and to acquire such customs as are inherent with existence in the new land; he must abandon the old ideals and the old gods, and oftentimes he must reverse the very codes by which his conduct has hitherto been shaped. To those who have the protean faculty of adaptability, the novelty of such change may even be a source of pleasure; but to those who happen to be hardened to the ruts in which they were created, the pressure of the altered environment is unbearable, and they chafe in body and in spirit under the new restrictions which they do not understand. This chafing is bound to act and react, producing divers evils and leading to various misfortunes. It were better for the man who cannot fit himself to the new groove to return to his own country; if he delay too long, he will surely die."  

Somewhere it says "A certain man planted a vineyard... and went into a far country for a long time."  The so called "Christian" belief system has of late been rather dumbed down, I suppose, to make it more palatable for the masses - rather like A-levels.  But in the original version there was a whole lot of "digging deep" and "far country" and "long time".  These hard-to-come-to-terms-with's are more in accord with my own experience than platitudes, sickly smiles and miracles that don't stand scrutiny.