Category: Review (Page 28 of 132)

3.5 out of 5 stars

As Terry Pratchett said, “Imagination, not intelligence, made us human” and we as a species have been telling stories for thousands of years. And until the advent of paper, these were an oral tradition, told between individuals who passed them on in turn. The stories that have come to make our own mythology have in their own way defined who we are now to an extent. In those stories, you can find dragons, giants and other creatures that have not walked these lands in millennia.

The stores that Jeffs has chosen to make up this collection have been split into four chunks, In the Beginning, where she retells the story of how Albion got its name from and the naming of the Humber and the Severn. In the prehistory section, some of the selected stories include how Conwenna saved Britain and the Dragons that Lived Under Oxford. Merlin and Arthur feature heavily in the Antiquity section and the stories in the Middle Ages section bring us right up to the Norman invasion.

I mostly liked this retelling of the myths and folklore that permeate our history. It is beautifully illustrated, and I liked that the stories had been updated to a modern language. That said, I did have a couple of problems with it, even though the stories are written in a modern language Jeffs has taken the liberty to alter some of them subtly too. I personally don’t think that this is necessary as the original stories as we know then are strange and occasionally defy explanation for a reason. The second reason was that after each story was a little vignette of her visiting the place where the events were supposed to have taken place and they felt a bit bolted on. I would have preferred them to be as part of the introduction or afterword to each chapter.

4 out of 5 stars

Unsure whether to buy a home in Norfolk, what swung it for him was the song from a Cetti’s Warbler that he heard as he stood outside the front door. Outside the back door was a patch of marshland that they wanted to make a conservation area and his wife’s careful negotiations meant that they had a home and patch of land that would not be lost to development.

They had an opportunity to buy the land from their next-door neighbour, Barry and worked with the Norfolk Wildlife Trust to ensure that it became appealing to all manner of species. He isn’t really rewilding it, just letting it get on with life and death in all its rich forms and taking time to enjoy it. For their youngest son Eddie who has Down’s syndrome, it became a place of calm, a place where he could ask any question about what he saw around him when they walked out to their bench.

Set loosely over a year, this is a book that acknowledges time passing, and yet the writing makes it feel timeless. There are moments of sheer delight, when he looks out of the window and sees a marsh harrier passing over or the hare that makes the place his home. There are times he gets furious too, not at what he has but at the way we are discarding parts of the natural world without a care for out interdependent futures. There were some great moments too, like when he opens the moth trap, a birthday gift from his wife, both him and Eddie are hooked

What you see is great, but the greater thing is being out there. Not what you look at but what you’re part of. And that is the greatest gift the marsh brings to us. We’re not the audience, we’re participants.

I thought this was really good. I liked that whilst there was participation from his family in the book, they did not overpower the narrative, the marsh and all the life that inhabits it or passes over is the focus. The other participant in the book is his son Eddie and the way that he reacts to the natural world. If you are looking for personal angst in amongst nature, then this is not the book to find it in, rather this is a more mediative book, celebrating the tiny things that happen each and every day as he looks out the window, or sits on the bench with Eddie, drinking apple juice and beer enjoying the evening sun. It is a book to savour and enjoy.

4 out of 5 stars

A copy of this was provided free of charge from the publisher in return for an honest review.

It has been a long time since I have read any fairy tales to my children, or even to myself even. I even remember reading the classic stories way way back in my childhood too. These stories are still heard and seen regularly today, they can be seen in the pantos that follow the Christmas season and the plethora of animated movies (that I must admit I haven’t seen hardly any of)

These modern retellings of the fairy tales are often a more sanitised version of these are sometimes brutal stories. Probably the most famous names associated with these tales are the Brothers Grimm and Hans Christian Andersen, But some of the other famous stories were collected by people whose names are not as well known. I didn’t know the authors of the famous tales Hansell and Gretel and all of the Arabian Nights stories. Tracing the origins of them will take Jubber across the northern climes and then heading through the Black Forest, onto Southern Europe before arriving in the Middle East.

Each of the chapters begins with the story which we are going to learn about. Most of them I knew, Aladdin, Beauty and the Beast and The Little Mermaid, but there are others in here that I had not come across before, such as The Tale of All Kinds of Fur and The Tale of the Firebird. We are taken through the known history behind them and how they came to be known to a wilder world.

I thought that Jubber has written a fascinating book, his prose is engaging and you can tell that he is obviously still captivated by the stories even today. He even manages to persuade his teenage friends to go to an animated film at the Bournemouth cinema one day rather than watch an action film. He tells captivating stories on how these came to be wider known in global culture and the little know background about the people that found these stories. If you have a thing for fairy tales and have always wondered where they came from this is a good book to start with. It has also made me want to reread the fairy tales of my childhood too.

4 out of 5 stars

Sri Lanka is a pearl-shaped island just off the southern Indian coast. Traces of human life have been found going back thousands of years, and it abounds with legends from its past. The island is rich in wildlife and forest too and even has its own subspecies of the Asian elephant. They were part of the commonwealth until 1948 when they declared independence and they have had a troubled history since that point with pretty much civil war between the Sinhalese and Tamil populations.

Close to where Gimlette lives in London is a community of Tamil’s. It is thought that there are around 8000 of them, but nobody knows for certain, This is a small proportion of the number in the UK and they are a people that are fairly self-contained. Their temple looks like an art deco department store, but inside it was like stepping into Sri Lankan. He knew then it was a place that he would have to see for himself.

On arrival in Columbo, he stopped to as a man the direction to go, who by chance happened to be heading in that direction. They were soon in a three-wheeler in the chaotic traffic heading towards the temple, Gangarama. It was slowly dawning on him that something was going on and he asked to go back. They took him and asked for a huge fee for his experience, which after a few minutes of sitting around was negotiated down substantially. The first few weeks in the city, he walked everywhere though navigating was challenging as their beautiful script was incomprehensible to him. After a few weeks, it was time to leave the city and head out into the countryside.

At that point, the fireflies appeared, filling the treehouse with their twinkly light. It was like being in the cockpit of a tiny thatched jet.

Being driven was an experience, they have a very different set of safety parameters and the rules of the road are more fiction than law. The road took them to the coast, where the sea glinted its amethyst colour in the sun. Inland the landscape became harsher and drier and he saw his first signs warning about elephants. They stop and climb a small hill and there in front of them were hundreds of silvery wewas. These water channels are not natural, they are a massive civil engineering feat to bring water across the island to irrigate the land.

In places, everything had been scorched away, and pools of crimson had formed in the hollows. The thorn tresses looked as if they’d been added later in ink, they were so spare and black.

His travels take him all over the island and to some of the little islands off the coast and in each place he finds out more and more about the people and the conflict that caused so much anguish. He learns how they live with some of the horrific things that the various sides inflicted on each other and sifts through their complex and long history, finding out how they have lived under various European authorities.

Gimlette has a sharp eye for detail and a way of travelling that does not presume anything. Rather he finds interesting places to go and he waits for things to happen and then tells us about them and the people that he meets there. I am a big fan of the other books that Gimlette has written, in particular, his award-winning Wild Coast and the most recently published, The Gardens Of Mars. However, I didn’t quite connect with this one as much as those other two. I think that it was because there was a lot about the civil war in the book and it felt more like a history book rather than a travel book. I thought that it was still worth reading, though as he has a wonderful way with words. There are a few pictures from his trip in the book, but there are more here.

4 out of 5 stars

Tim Moore has a knack for selecting travel adventures that don’t really fit the norm. He has followed the route of the Tour de France on his own bike, walked with a donkey across Spain, worked his way around the streets of the Monopoly board and suffered the delights of the Eurovision Song Contest. This challenge though was slightly more sensible compared to some. He wanted to take a Model T Ford from the Atlantic and drive all the way across America to reach the pacific ocean.

There was a twist though, he was doing it to see if he could get a greater understanding of why this country had voted for the orange glowing businessman. His route would take him from the gentle landscape of Virginia to the place where his car, was made, Detroit, before heading south to Texas.

After experiencing the deep south, he turns north to head up through the towns of the flyover states in the state that voted for Trump, staying in slightly seedy motels and occasionally people’s homes. The beautiful car he is driving is very different to anything he has experienced before, and he knows that he has to learn the starting ritual otherwise he isn’t going to be getting anywhere on his first sol day. Oh, and being utterly mechanically inept isn’t going to help his cause either…

But first, he has to get the 160 miles from where he bought the car, that he christens Mike, to the coast. Driving these old Models T’s is utterly unlike driving a modern car, there are no creature comforts, air-con or soundproofing. The pedal configuration is different to modern cars, there are three pedals, still, the right-hand pedal is the brake, the left hand is the clutch and gear selector with a choice of high and low gears and the centre pedal selects reverse. Somehow he makes it and collects a bottle full of Atlantic seawater with the hope of being able to tip it into the Pacific.

The other issue with these cars is they need constant tinkering and maintenance to keep going. Fine for those that have some technical competence, but for Moore, this is quite challenging. But slowly he gets used to doing the things that he needs to do each day to keep it going. It does break down. Quite a lot. And almost everywhere he stopped, there would be someone who knew someone who had one of these and was willing to help him get back running again. In fact, Mike would need an awful lot of TLC all the way up to open-heart surgery to get him to the other side of America.

I am a big fan of Tim Moore’s books and I liked this a lot. His travels are always slightly outlandish, and mostly mad and he has a knack for extracting humour from a lot of the situations he encounters. He learnt a lot about America under Trump, how it had become more polarised with people’s political opinions. However, even in the flyover states, there was still a willingness to help a mechanically inept Englishman who had a wildly different opinion to most of those helping him. It is not as funny as some of his other books though, however, there are moments of hilarity, such as when some guys had helped him put it all back together and could not get it to start at all, then Moore remembered that he hadn’t turned the fuel back on…

4 out of 5 stars

A copy of this was provided free of charge from the publisher in return for an honest review.

There have been lots of books written about the fine architecture of our towns and cities, but there are fewer books about the homes that people lived and worked in our countryside. After World War 2, Geoffrey Grigson along with the photographer Percy Hennel was invited by the artist John Piper to look at the English Farmhouse. This was to more than an architectural study, rather it would be a consideration of post-war agriculture and contemplation of the state of rural England.

Rather than select a farmhouse in a known village, Grigson has used a lot of artistic licences and imagined one called Ashton Farm in the village called Netton. Neither of these places can be found on a map, but he makes it clear that the one that was chosen does exist. Or at least it did exist as even after the book was written the buildings had reached the point where they actually collapsed. And with that destruction, the link between the buildings and the landscape was gone forever. The structures that would come to replace them were anonymous steel framed and would come to be found all over the country in the end.

First, though he has to set the context, The farm that he describes throughout the book is nestled in the chalk of Wessex. It sits on the escarpment using the land above for crops and the lands below for grazing and hay. The farm has existed in one form or other since the Saxon times and there are very few metaled roads, but lots of paths and trackways.

Each chapter looks at a particular detail of the farm, from the sarsen stones that are used in conjunction with the chalk both of which need skilled craftsmen to cut and dress the stone. Where bricks have been used in the buildings, they can be dated by looking at their size. Pictures of walls made from chalk and brick are included to show construction methods.

Roofing materials were originally thatch, but some of the buildings on the farm use slate and there are instances of corrugated iron being used under rotting thatch to prolong the life of a roof. Timber was used extensively and there are some magnificent shots of the inside of barns showing the construction methods used. There is also a chapter on how the poorly maintained buildings are slowly crumbling and collapsing.

Believe it or not, this is the first book that I have read by Geoffrey Grigson, having only read books by his wife and daughter before this. Having got an interest in architecture, I did like this, especially the forensic detail that he goes into about the buildings. I did have the odd problem with it though, for me the thing that was lacking was not having a known place that he was referring to in each of the chapters. I get why he may have done it with privacy issues in mind, as the farm buildings that he refers to did seem to be very much a real place. That said I did enjoy this a lot. He has a wonderful way with words and a deep love of the place where these villages and farms can be found on the chalk downs. I bought another of his books recently, Country Writings, that I am going to move up the TBR.

5 out of 5 stars

I have lived in Dorset since 2005 and even though I am not from here I have always felt at home here. I knew that my grandfather was born in Bridport, but it was only after we dd some family history research that we realised that there was a whole Dorset side of the family that we knew nothing about. It is probably why I feel so at home here.

The postcards that are featured in the book were taken around the time that my grandfather was growing up in the county and it sent shivers down my spine seeing the places that he might have seen in his time. This volume concentrates on the towns in Dorset. These have seen massive changes of the last century, often changing from small market towns to much larger municipal centres that we find today.

The postcards are really well-curated, with images selected to show where vast changes have happened as well as some that show places and buildings that are still around today. I did like the fact that they even knew the names of some of the people that were in the photos. It is quite strange seeing a road that I drive down almost every day taken 100 years ago.

This is another excellent collection of collated postcards from the Barry Cuff Collection. Each town featured has an introduction and each of the postcards has a paragraph of details about it or the subject matter. Burnett with the assistance of others has created a fine companion volume to the villages and countryside book published a couple of years ago. If you are a fan of the country then this is a must, but if you know the county then you’ll probably like to see some of the places that you know and love from a century ago.

4 out of 5 stars

Most countries seem to have a national tree; we have the oak along with a lot of other European countries, the Canadians have the Maple, the Greeks have the olive and New Zealand has the ponga! These trees supposedly have characteristics such as strength, that people have alluded to as the national character of their country. In Russia though, their unofficial national tree is the silver birch.

It seems a strange choice in some ways, it is very prevalent across the northern hemisphere and as a pioneer species, it is almost always one of the first trees to colonise areas. It can be found from the steppe, alongside rivers and railway lines and even thrives in the toxic landscape of Chernobyl. Its symbolism has nasty echoes of nationalism: white, straight, native, pure. It has permeated the consciousness of the country and revealed itself in the art.

I look out over the hills of Russia: fir trees, patches of yellow larch, and those spiny white birches, leafless in later September. Clouds leave map-like marks across the forests. The distance is a blue-grey far-away place. China lies beyond.

To discover for himself the significance that it has he explores both the country and the art that it has inspired. He begins with the images that Maria Kapajeva has collected showing various Russian women posing by birch trees as a form of collective national identity. They have been taken from a dating site where these women have uploaded their images in the hope of finding a partner. They are not always successful in this aim. To get a greater understanding though he needs to travel to Russia and his routes will take him along the Siberian railway, to the Saint Sophia Cathedral in Novgorod and to some of the countries that border this huge country. But he is there for the art, in particular the painting titled, The Rooks Have Returned by Alexei Savrasov, where he expands the significance of it for Russian culture.

The birch is nonetheless beloved – not only as a symbol, but as a living being. And that is important, maybe now more than ever.

I have read a few travel books set in Russia in my time. I think that because the place is so vast, different authors have sometimes struggled to get a grip on what exactly makes the country and the people Russian. I think though, in this book, Jeffreys has got to the very essence of what and how they define themselves and he does that through their art, their landscapes and mostly their love for this slender tree. For me, I thought that the book concentrated a little too much on art, but that is his primary career to be fair. I did really like the travel parts and the way that he interacted with the people that he encounters in Russia and outside the country on his travels. I liked the insight that he got from this perspective on the people of Russia, it is good to have a different angle on them.

3.5 out of 5 stars

It was a chance find in an exhibition in the Skye archive centre that Flyn was sheltering in from the rain. In there was an A3 map of a place called Gippsland, that was coved in fantastic place names such as Snake Island and Sealer’s Cove, but she couldn’t place it. On reading the label she found out that it was in Australia and it showed the explorations of a man called Angus McMillan.

A thought formed in her head to go there as soon as she could to get away from her current woes.
‘He’s a relative of ours’ said her mum.
‘What?’ she replied.

It turns out that Angus McMillan left the Scottish Highlands in 1837 and headed to Australia where he became an explorer and pioneer and had places and landmarks named after him along with a plethora of statues and monuments. Flyn felt a glow of pride about her great-great-great-uncle and decided that she wanted to head out there to find out more about him.

It was there that she would find out about the other side of him. McMillan and his peers were responsible for a series of assaults on the indigenous people. The places where these murders and slaughters took place had a chilling set of names; Skull Creek, Boney Point, Slaughterhouse Gully. To say she was shocked would be an understatement. She now had another raft of questions about her now dark family history that she wanted answers to…

Given the subject material, I must admit that this is not the most cheerful of reads, however, we as a society, need to face up to the past atrocities that were carried out by our relatives. I think that Flyn manages to face up to the revelations of her ancestor really well. She notes when he was an upstanding member of his community and acknowledges when the acts he carried out were utterly barbaric and unacceptable. Meeting with descendants of the survivors of these massacres is as cathartic for her as it is for them. She asks the question: can we be guilty of the actions of an ancestor several generations ago? From this book, I think that the answer is no. However, we have an individual and collective responsibility to apologise for those actions to ensure that they do not happen again.

3.5 out of 5 stars

A copy of this was provided free of charge from the publisher in return for an honest review.

War is horrific for anyone, but for civilians that are caught in the crossfire with no hope of defending themselves, it is even more intense. Mankerian is a survivor of the Lebanese Civil War that took place in the 1970s. The regular life that they had become used to was ripped from them and the horror of bombs, snipers and being on the brink of starvation became the norm.

This collection is his memories of that time.

Because of the context, this is a bleak set of poems that recall his time spent in the conflict, and yet in the horror and death and destruction, there is always a glimmer of hope. It is that glimpse of a life that could be there again, that keeps him going in amongst the crushed dolls heads, the looting, the names of the fallen in the papers and the whistle of an incoming bomb.

She can’t sleep at night
Because when she closes her eyes

She remembers everything

It is not really a collection that I liked, the content is just too grim for that. However I did admire it, the inner strength that Mankerian has to turn these horrible events into poems must be immense. The prose is as bleak as it is stark, but he manages to convey the way that they tried as best as they could to try and carry on as normal as their society and the life that they had known was blasted apart. If you want an insight into what it is like to live in the middle of a civil war and still hold that yearning for a return to normal life. A book to be read so that we don’t have to suffer like these people did.

Three Favourite Poems
The Prodigal Son On A Field Trip
The Sniper As Cupid
Homeless