Skip to main content

The unwritten places

I've been reading Roger Deakin's Waterlog, a moving and stille vocation of the seemingly faintly transgressive act of wild swimming. Being someone who tends to go against the grain, I've got a lot of sympathy for Deakin's cussedness, and determination to swim wherever the hell he pleases. This isn't, however, intended to be a book review, I'd recommend it,by all means, you should check it out, but it was one idea that came from the reading which particularly stuck with me.

Whilst exploring a series of Tarns in the Welsh Rhinog Mountains, Deakin discovers some ruined outbuildings, not marked on the map. It is this fact which pleases him most, the idea that we don't know everything, that maps can be wrong. I'd extrapolate further that this is a delight that life still has a bit of mystery to it (what on earth he'd make of Google Maps is anybody's guess, I imagine that for him they'd be something else stripping magic from the world). In this section he makes passing mention of "The Unwritten Places" (now, I note in researching this post, the subject of a 2014 book by Tim Salmon), wild parts of the northern Greek mountains, left off the map to avoid taxation by Turkish authorities (there's possibly a trite joke there to be made about Greeks and taxes, but I can imagine Nigel Farage making it, which is as good a reason as any to steer clear).

What spoke to me is that there is still a possibility of stepping off the tracks, in this hyper-scrutinised, over-exposed world in which we find ourselves living (and yes, I'm aware of the irony of writing this in a blog, you would perhaps prefer me to be scribbling it on the wall at the bottom of a well?), the idea of places being unwritten, as that allows tus the possibility to write our own scripts, which is, in the New Year, what we're all trying to do, after all.

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Creepy old men

I note, somewhat wearily, that creepy old men are back in the news, being creepy. Creepy old men, and their apologists and enablers, who argue that their creepiness is somehow the natural order of things. Old men would have you believe that it is difficult to not be a creepy old man. That it is a task of epic proportions. It is not that difficult. It is a matter of intention. As yet more of the grimness of Epstein unfolds, creepy old men are, sadly, a flaccid topic once again. Whether it be pursuing students thirty years their junior, or simply not asking too many questions about the background of the probably legal young woman who you've just been introduced to by your good pal Jeff. To be clear, I am not referring to criminal creepy old men, the ones who actually committed statutory rape, the ones who fucked trafficked hirls. That is not something which is allowed to get away merely with the contempt of the observer.  That deserves prison.  No , I'm referring to the hinterla...

Inedible

"He says it's inedible" said my front of house manager, as she laid the half-eaten fish and chips in front of me, and instantly I relaxed.  Clearly, I observed, it was edible to some degree. I comped it, because I can't be arsed arguing the toss, and I want to make my front of house's lives as simple as possible. The haddock had been delivered that morning. The fryers had been cleaned that morning. The batter had been made that morning (and it's very good batter, ask me nicely and I'll give you the recipe some time). The fish and chips was identical to the other 27 portions I'd sent out on that lunch service, all of which had come back more or less hoovered up, we have have a (justified, if I do say so myself) very good reputation for our chips. But it was, apparently, "inedible". When it comes to complaints, less is more. If you use a hyperbolic word like that, I'll switch off, you've marked yourself as a rube, a chump, I'm not g...

The daftest complaint I ever had

I have written here several times down the years about customer complaints, both justified and idiotic. Working in hospitality they are an ineivitability. No matter how good you are, how consistent, you will get complaints. Very few of them stick in the memory, but some, by virtue of their extreme idiocy, do. And one popped into my mind as I was plating up a dish this lunchtime, and I thought, why not, it's as good a thing to write a blog about as any. It's also an entertaining example of how events can play out in ways you may not expect at the time. It sticks in the mind as it combined stupidity with a petty malice and venality which leaves me with no qualms about taking the piss out of it publicly. I rarely let bad reviews lie, if I feel they're unfair I might demur, if I feel they're reasonable I'll make a point of apologising. If they're stupid I'll take pleasure in replying very politely. This one got ignored. It happened on a Sunday, which is another ...