Tuesday, 6 February 2024
A lost corner of the world
Even today there are lost corners of the world, peacefully remote and curiously sad as Thorne Smith’s fictional character still finds the salt marshes of his youth. One or two quiet Derbyshire dales have a similar feel to them, especially where the curlew is heard. Norfolk salt marshes too, when released from the grip of the holiday season.
To me this is the fairest spot in the world, and the saddest. In the days of my youth when I first came upon it, I recall how I crept through the rushes and sat watching, as now I watch, the water trails in the marshes fill up with purple and crimson shades as the sun made down the sky.
I have always heard that disappointment follows the footsteps of those who retrace their paths back to the scenes of their youth. Mountains diminish to hills, I am told, and rivers change to muddy streams, nor does the sun ever shine so brightly or the sky seem quite so blue, I have not found it true in this case. If anything, time has intensified the beauty of these marshes. The influence they exert over me is as strong to-day as it was many years ago. I look upon them now, not with diminished vision, but with added appreciation. They have become a vital part of my life.
Through all the years that I have fled this place memory has held it ever fresh in my eyes; and now, as I behold it once more in reality, nothing seems to have changed... even the peculiar stillness hovering over the spot, the sensation of finding oneself quite alone in a lost corner of the world still lingers in the air, holding the soul within me in a calm but watchful hush.
Thorne Smith – Dream’s End (1927)
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4 comments:
I would like to feel similarly about the Blackwater estuary, but I'm afraid to go back in case it's all changed and horrible. Much has been ruined since 1927.
I have experienced the peculiar stillness hovering over the spot, the sensation of finding oneself quite alone in a lost corner of the world in a few, uncommon, places. It would be easy to infer some supernatural influence if you believe in such things, or some unusual combination of sensations if you don't.
In my case I think it is the absence of people-made sounds. Unless you go into the wilds (rare and rarer) in England, or some quirk of local geography provides isolation (a vale or depression), you can usually hear motorway traffic or other people. And then you notice the contrails in the sky and realise that other people are merely distant, not missing.
I wonder how medieval peasants felt about such places? They were probably more common and may well have been interpreted as spooky. The Charnwood Forest, near me, used to be categorised as 'desert' back then. Not hot and sandy but deserted of people and unmanaged.
Perhaps there has always been a low level desire to have other people around you? Lighthouse keepers and hermits have usually been regarded as a little peculiar... but nowadays 'people' are only a mobile call away.
A few years ago The Times carried a photo of my favourite swimming spot in our river. I sent the link to my daughter. She replied "You had a Famous Five childhood."
Googling has shown me that large chunks of my favourite wood have been cleared. I daren't look at much else.
Peter - I don't know it, but it would be surprising if it hasn't been made more visitor friendly, which tends to take away the atmosphere.
DJ - in the sixties we showed may aunt some holiday photos of Ardnamurchan. She was horrified at how remote it was and how few people there were. She found it quite scary and would never have gone there herself. I think there is a low level desire to have other people around you, but with some it is a high level desire.
dearieme - it has been more diffuse for me, a country lane becoming a commuter run, the disappearance of a farm where we bought eggs, open fields now covered in houses.
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