I remembered the other day that I’d read Brian Keenan’s Four Quarters Of Light whilst on holiday in Ireland last August. It’s his Alaskan road-trip book – as far as roads are applicable in Alaska, anyway – and reading it whilst sitting in the sun in Donegal meant that it took a little while to get into.
However, soon it became obvious that despite the differences in temperature, the fundamental subject matter of the wilderness was quite appropriate. Despite massively accelerated development over the past few years, Donegal is still relatively lightly populated and it’s the place where I most often feel tranquil and at peace.
As for Alaska, I’m fascinated by the sparseness of the planet’s polar extremes and specifically by artistic responses to the territory. I think it was Jenny Diski’s Skating To Antarctica that got me into it first, in which she details her need for overwhelming whiteness, negativity and obliteration.
Keenan rationalises the urge thus:
“Isolated and barren landscapes draw me to themselves, different places for different reasons, but the one constancy is the lure of emptiness and wilderness. I suppose I feel comfortable there, untroubled. I can imagine a recreated life, and I confess a part of me is a loner. Loneliness, isolation and empty spaces are, I suppose, the preconditions of the dreamer and I am a dreamer, unreconstructed and uncompromising. I pursue the landscape of the imagination and seek to find in the world about me some correspondence between the external and inner worlds, or perhaps a trigger for their coming together.”
Later on he’s more explicit:
“Wilderness to the creative mind is like a blank canvas to a painter: it is full of possibilities. Here is perfect peace and absolute freedom; here too may be the prologue of melancholy or bliss. In the wilderness there are no ready-made roads; you make your own and go where you choose.”
This urge to seek the wilderness isn’t so easily satisfied from the confines of south-east London, though Dungeness is only an hour away. More recently I’ve been paying closer attention to the North Kent coast and its peninsular Isles of Grain, Sheppey and Thanet. Previously I’ve taken it for granted and I’ve barely scratched the surface of its fascinating history.
I visited Grain beach for the first time two Saturdays ago. Its position at the mouth of the Thames estuary makes it a place of contradictions: the middle of nowhere, yet at the gateway to one of the largest cities in the world. Its stillness and silence began the thawing of my cold, winter heart, recalling last Summer’s very bearable lightness of being.
When you look out over the water you see little, but the constant hum of the nearby power station reminds you that you’re not far from civilisation. The occasional ship glides serenely in the hazy distance. Looking to the right across the Medway estuary, the docks at Sheerness shimmer like a mirage. An abandoned gun tower in the water signifies that war is over.
“Wilderness” might be a rather strong word – the sea-front is as much concrete as shingle and the local Co-op is five minutes’ walk away – but nevertheless there’s a sense of remoteness to Grain that I hadn’t expected to find so close to home. Although this was my first visit, with family just down the road in the Medway towns I suspect it won’t be my last.
Postscript: catching up on unread newspapers later that evening, I came across a feature on Will Self’s writing desk, in which he refers to the Isle of Grain as his “spiritual home“. It’s been a long while since I read anything by Mr Self, though at one point I’d have called Great Apes one of my favourite books. Time to seek out The Book Of Dave, I think.
next time “we” see you (i.e., me, with Shannon in tow), I must remember this post, as Shannon lived in Alaska for a few years. Quite an adventure as he tells it ….
What a wonderful post. I used to be very frightened in large remote spaces, deserts or semi-deserts in my case. Presumably because I was the last person I wanted to spend time with. I think it’s different now. I must try to get to Grain… great name and by the sound of it great place.
We are all loners, to a degree.
Great stuff this and very thought-provoking (as ever). Is this the similar draw that water (bodies of) has for some? Staring out across the expanse to the horizon usually sets me dreaming, and desiring, to be out there somewhere, anywhere, just not ‘here’.
Very interesting. I’m drawn towards remote places, and never happier than on a mountainside. Sometimes I get to the top and I feel dreadful that there is someone else there. Or if I’m alone at the top and someone else arrives.
My manager thinks I’m strange that I like to work from home when there is no one in the house. He asks if I find it stressful. I reply that driving to work is stressful, being in an empty house is a luxury.