Thank you Alexander. I loved this. A beautiful attentive piece.
"And then, in breaking our world, we broke ourselves. This was always the irony, always the issue—I wonder if things might have been different." This is a question I ponder a lot. I've found solace (of a sort) in Graeber and Wengrow's book The Dawn Of Everything were they describe a world that was different, for millennia, where the mindset actively recognised and resisted the egocentric tendencies that we platform today.
And, when I read your writing I think that things ARE different, because although breaking has been done, it isn't "we" that broke things, but a peculiar type of social structure that has formed around us. But within that madness is a thriving, kind and attentive human compassion for the world bieng expressed as strongly as it ever was. Thanks.
That book is on my To Be Read list. Ever since I studied Archaeology and Prehistory I've been fascinated with the period in time before we became farmers. The social structures, the different mindsets, how living in and amongst nature at all times influenced and shaped us--on the whole, it is all so very different to today. Yet, similar to what you say, I think that the technology we now possess is proving that there are many, many voices amongst us who are driven not by greed, but by love and compassion. Nature lies at the heart of this, too, which is something I am endlessly interested in.
There is certainly hope, and it is important we continue to act on that.
That's so interesting Alexander. I too share that fascination for that period of (so-called) pre-history, which I imagine to be a time that encourages more dignity and community, and where we are weaved more tightly into the world and each other.
Anyway, this is such a big discussion and I'm so pressed for time right now, but I'm so glad I happened upon your Substack and look forward to learning and discovering lot's of interesting ideas and feeling in the future.
This really is truly powerful Alex, I applaud your ability to remain dignified when writing of this broken world. I struggle so tend to leave it aside in my writing. I could pull many lines from this piece that profoundly touched me in the way you have addressed something that is so desperately out of our control… or is it? We who notice never stop trying do we…?
As quoted by by John Stuart Mill, who said in 1867: “Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing.”
We, the wanderers, the wonderers that become more numerous by day, will never not show compassion or understanding and that can never be anything but good!
There are some pieces I start with one intention—in this case, to simply talk about birdlife on the coast—and they quickly take on a life of their own. As I drafted, I realised how angry and frustrated I felt by all I’ve witnessed on this topic, first-hand. Instead, I reined back the anger and tried to show that sense of horror instead, through discussing those experiences.
When I was young, I was naturally pessimistic, full of sarcasm and misplaced frustration—I had to teach myself optimism, as I knew the alternative was really bad for my mental health. I mostly did that through writing (probably not a surprise to you!), but I also knew I couldn’t simply be a ‘hope for the best, it’ll be okay in the end’ sort of person. Instead, I think it is about seeing the damage and doing whatever we can to change this. For me, personally, it is through sharing pieces like this (and sneakily working in Big Questions and Big Answers into my fiction!), but everyone is different. There are always active ways to hope, after all.
I love that quote—I think too many people these days mistake kindness and decency for weakness, which is a mistake. I’m certainly not going to shut up about these things (even if sometimes I worry it might alienate some of my readers).
Thanks again for this comment, it has a power of its own.
Something else you’ve reminded me of—do you know the album Lost in the Cedar Wood by Johnny McFlynn and Robert MacFarlane? One of my favorite songs is Ferryman, and this is second verse:
For the stone ones and broken, my sadness is woken
The sea roads are mistaken
So stand by the hail, with a shark for a sail
We grow weak and frail
And with arms made of granite, in a blaze of the gannets
It is! Thank you for the recommendation! I don't think I've ever heard anyone sing of granite and gannets together before, so that was quite wonderful.
I don’t know if you caught this but the album is inspired by The Epic of Gilgamesh and the history of its translation (not sure there are gannets in either but that’s no obstacle haha)
Ooh, no! I shall have to have another listen (and pay more attention to the song titles and lyrics seeing as I just looked now and Enkidu Walked is a pretty big hint, right?!).
Oh, and while we're talking music and gannets, I'm sure you may already know of Erland Cooper? I love his work too (and remember him from school, where both his parents taught). The album Solan Goose is full of tracks named and focussed upon the birds of Orkney. I find it quite beautiful.
The first time I saw razorbills on the Welsh coast and realized I was seeing relatives of the extinct great auk I was beside myself. I love their compactness and sleek matte charcoal coloring.
YES to all this! Puffins are great, but they lack that sense of style the razorbill possesses! They're the Dior of the seabird world. (Gannets are Chanel, I think.)
I love city walking especially in areas of older buildings that have been repurposed one or more times giving the street an almost organic feel. This interest includes trying to find the natural lay of the land and its gradients that may not have been erased yet by urbanization. I walked Florida Avenue in Washington DC last year which was once called Boundary Street because it did in fact mark the line between city and the surrounding country, in one direction you looked downhill towards the rivers and in the other you looked up (sometimes steeply) to the hills that surrounded the city offering space for “country” homes in the cooler area up from the river’s edge.
This is excellent--it's something I love to do, too. I studied Archaeology at university, and what you describe here is urban Landscape Archaeology, looking at the bigger picture, trying to work out how it all connects over the years. Little pieces of knowledge, like you share here, are crucial to understanding a place. I still get a thrill from working out why something seemingly incongruous is actually located where it is.
I remember watching the skuas fly during one of our visits to Orkney, I thought they were remarkable fliers. We didn’t get close enough to be dived on, but that reminds me that during that visit to Orkney and its birds I recalled how many of their names I learned as a boy building plastic model airplanes of British planes that took so many names from these birds. The Skua to me was the Blackburn Skua, a not terribly successful dive bomber for the Royal Navy.
I never was very good at the Airfix kits! The poly cement was a bit stringy, and went everywhere, but I still enjoyed it! (Then moved on to tabletop games instead, with even more glue and paint.)
When I was at school in Orkney, we went out with a metal detector and found parts of crashed planes from the war. It was quite a lesson, learning how many there were--even better was when a former pilot came in to talk to us, and mentioned engine trouble after taking off one time and landing his plane (I seem to recall it was a Hawker Hurricane, but I might be wrong) in a bog in the hills. The plane sank out of sight and was never recovered, a story I loved then and sticks with me now.
We also used to play amongst all those buildings left behind by the military, heading into bunkers and all manner of probably rather dangerous places! Last time I visited, I learned many of them are now blocked with concrete, to stop such activity.
The skuas are still there, though, still divebombing (probably with more success than their aircraft namesake!).
Many thanks for sharing this, I really appreciate it.
Ah, the bonxies - I too have had to walk along with my camera tripod held aloft to prevent being smacked by those birds on St Kilda and at Hermaness, Unst. And they're so big! Arctic terns are quick to dive bomb too.
Puffins are my favourite - they are so characterful and entertaining to watch. I'm not overly fond of birds if they come near me, at a distance they're fine, but I spent a happy few hours sat at Hermaness with puffins wandering around me, ducking in and out of their burrows. In fact, I sat in the same place so long I ended up with a puffin on my boot with a little group surrounding him - luckily, I had a fairly wide-angle lens on my camera and was able to get a shot of it.
Watching gannets fish is incredible; they're like rapiers entering the water. I've been lucky to witness it up close - what an experience.
Can't say the overpowering stench of guano is one of my favourite smells, lol.
Looking up - out on my bike one day I happened to look up to see an osprey flying over with a fish in its talons.
Yes! The bonxies are really big, they hurt! Arctic terns are a definite favourite of mine too, although when they are mobbing you, that can get a bit scary, too! I remember seeing terns in South Africa in (our) winter, and wondering if I knew some of them.
Puffins are simply delightful, they really are so curious, so comical, yet also such amazing fishers, and any bird that spends winter out in the Atlantic has my respect! I love that story of one sitting on your boot. I've been close to them, but not that close.
Watching gannets fish really does stay in the memory, the way they turn slightly, pull back those wings and simply scythe into the waters--like a rapier, as you say, amazing.
The smell is definitely rather powerful. I often think about how those droppings mass and then are mostly washed out, year after year, creating rich waters for all manner of life. Remarkable, really.
Ospreys really deserve a post of their own, being birds of land and water and long distances, they fit the bill rather well, I think. I've seen them fishing not far from you, too, at The Mound. I remember when I was peedie, how rare they were, so being able to witness that really made me happy.
Thanks again for this, really appreciate you sharing your own stories of our feathered friends.
Everything you write speaks to my heart. It's hard to pick a faourite bird. I love them all, or at least, most. Probably chickadees are my favourite. They're such friendly little people, and they come to the window to remind me to refill the feeder when it's empty. I love the cardinals, like a flame against the sombre green of the cedars in winter. They sing about how beautiful the world is: Purty, purty, purty. I love the hawks, soaring on the wind; the goldfinches with their trilling song; the sparrows in their neat business suits with somethimes a jaunty red or white cap (we have many varieties of sparrow here).
Do I look up? More than I should, probably. I've had a few broken bones to testify to not watching where I set my feet. I like to read the future in the sky: the colour of the clouds, what direction they're moving; what kind they are and how high up. And stars. I just wish I could see them more clearly. I try to track the progress of the planets across the heavens, too.
Ah, this warms my own heart! Many of the birds you talk of I've yet to meet, yet I know them from reading or watching documentaries. The way you describe them too speaks of your own powers of observation, which is a delight.
I'm with you on reading the future in the sky. I miss big night skies, or just big skies, sometimes. Once, in the north of Scotland, the power went out across a huge area, hundreds of square miles. The best thing was that it was deep winter (okay, not good for heating, but still!), and there were no clouds--the skies were ablaze with stars. Up to that point, I'd thought the light pollution up there was not too bad, but then I realised just how much more we could see with barely any artificial light bouncing up and around. Here, the village lights go out after the evening, which is a good thing. The only other place I've seen the stars so brilliant was in the mountains in central Spain. There, the whole sky seemed bejewelled.
I'm going to have a peek at your story now, many thanks for this comment, I really appreciate it.
Thank you Alexander. I loved this. A beautiful attentive piece.
"And then, in breaking our world, we broke ourselves. This was always the irony, always the issue—I wonder if things might have been different." This is a question I ponder a lot. I've found solace (of a sort) in Graeber and Wengrow's book The Dawn Of Everything were they describe a world that was different, for millennia, where the mindset actively recognised and resisted the egocentric tendencies that we platform today.
And, when I read your writing I think that things ARE different, because although breaking has been done, it isn't "we" that broke things, but a peculiar type of social structure that has formed around us. But within that madness is a thriving, kind and attentive human compassion for the world bieng expressed as strongly as it ever was. Thanks.
That book is on my To Be Read list. Ever since I studied Archaeology and Prehistory I've been fascinated with the period in time before we became farmers. The social structures, the different mindsets, how living in and amongst nature at all times influenced and shaped us--on the whole, it is all so very different to today. Yet, similar to what you say, I think that the technology we now possess is proving that there are many, many voices amongst us who are driven not by greed, but by love and compassion. Nature lies at the heart of this, too, which is something I am endlessly interested in.
There is certainly hope, and it is important we continue to act on that.
And thank you, I really appreciate this.
That's so interesting Alexander. I too share that fascination for that period of (so-called) pre-history, which I imagine to be a time that encourages more dignity and community, and where we are weaved more tightly into the world and each other.
Anyway, this is such a big discussion and I'm so pressed for time right now, but I'm so glad I happened upon your Substack and look forward to learning and discovering lot's of interesting ideas and feeling in the future.
This really is truly powerful Alex, I applaud your ability to remain dignified when writing of this broken world. I struggle so tend to leave it aside in my writing. I could pull many lines from this piece that profoundly touched me in the way you have addressed something that is so desperately out of our control… or is it? We who notice never stop trying do we…?
As quoted by by John Stuart Mill, who said in 1867: “Bad men need nothing more to compass their ends, than that good men should look on and do nothing.”
We, the wanderers, the wonderers that become more numerous by day, will never not show compassion or understanding and that can never be anything but good!
Thank you.
There are some pieces I start with one intention—in this case, to simply talk about birdlife on the coast—and they quickly take on a life of their own. As I drafted, I realised how angry and frustrated I felt by all I’ve witnessed on this topic, first-hand. Instead, I reined back the anger and tried to show that sense of horror instead, through discussing those experiences.
When I was young, I was naturally pessimistic, full of sarcasm and misplaced frustration—I had to teach myself optimism, as I knew the alternative was really bad for my mental health. I mostly did that through writing (probably not a surprise to you!), but I also knew I couldn’t simply be a ‘hope for the best, it’ll be okay in the end’ sort of person. Instead, I think it is about seeing the damage and doing whatever we can to change this. For me, personally, it is through sharing pieces like this (and sneakily working in Big Questions and Big Answers into my fiction!), but everyone is different. There are always active ways to hope, after all.
I love that quote—I think too many people these days mistake kindness and decency for weakness, which is a mistake. I’m certainly not going to shut up about these things (even if sometimes I worry it might alienate some of my readers).
Thanks again for this comment, it has a power of its own.
Something else you’ve reminded me of—do you know the album Lost in the Cedar Wood by Johnny McFlynn and Robert MacFarlane? One of my favorite songs is Ferryman, and this is second verse:
For the stone ones and broken, my sadness is woken
The sea roads are mistaken
So stand by the hail, with a shark for a sail
We grow weak and frail
And with arms made of granite, in a blaze of the gannets
We row off this planet
Ferryman, ferryman
Carry my memory on
Out to the island
On the horizon
Following the path to the sun
I did not know this existed until I read this! Now I have it on my playlist to listen to. Thank you!
Hurrah! I hope I make a new convert hehe
The funny thing is, I already love the work of Johnny Flynn, and the work of Robert Macfarlane, but I had somehow missed that they had collaborated!!
Needless to say, I loved that album, and will listen to The Moon Also Rises today!
Robert Macfarlane does the most incredible collaborations in general—last I heard he was doing an opera libretto adaptation of The Peregrine
That will be one to listen to! Blimey.
It’s such a treat isn’t it!
It is! Thank you for the recommendation! I don't think I've ever heard anyone sing of granite and gannets together before, so that was quite wonderful.
I don’t know if you caught this but the album is inspired by The Epic of Gilgamesh and the history of its translation (not sure there are gannets in either but that’s no obstacle haha)
Ooh, no! I shall have to have another listen (and pay more attention to the song titles and lyrics seeing as I just looked now and Enkidu Walked is a pretty big hint, right?!).
Oh, and while we're talking music and gannets, I'm sure you may already know of Erland Cooper? I love his work too (and remember him from school, where both his parents taught). The album Solan Goose is full of tracks named and focussed upon the birds of Orkney. I find it quite beautiful.
I mentioned this in a Note comment but have you read Parable of the Sower?
Thinking about this, I really need to read more from Butler.
The first time I saw razorbills on the Welsh coast and realized I was seeing relatives of the extinct great auk I was beside myself. I love their compactness and sleek matte charcoal coloring.
And of course the stylish stripe on their bills. They’re very classy.
I think they studied Design in school.
YES to all this! Puffins are great, but they lack that sense of style the razorbill possesses! They're the Dior of the seabird world. (Gannets are Chanel, I think.)
I love city walking especially in areas of older buildings that have been repurposed one or more times giving the street an almost organic feel. This interest includes trying to find the natural lay of the land and its gradients that may not have been erased yet by urbanization. I walked Florida Avenue in Washington DC last year which was once called Boundary Street because it did in fact mark the line between city and the surrounding country, in one direction you looked downhill towards the rivers and in the other you looked up (sometimes steeply) to the hills that surrounded the city offering space for “country” homes in the cooler area up from the river’s edge.
This is excellent--it's something I love to do, too. I studied Archaeology at university, and what you describe here is urban Landscape Archaeology, looking at the bigger picture, trying to work out how it all connects over the years. Little pieces of knowledge, like you share here, are crucial to understanding a place. I still get a thrill from working out why something seemingly incongruous is actually located where it is.
Thanks for this!
Beautiful and powerful writing -- thank you.
Thank you so much, I really appreciate that.
I remember watching the skuas fly during one of our visits to Orkney, I thought they were remarkable fliers. We didn’t get close enough to be dived on, but that reminds me that during that visit to Orkney and its birds I recalled how many of their names I learned as a boy building plastic model airplanes of British planes that took so many names from these birds. The Skua to me was the Blackburn Skua, a not terribly successful dive bomber for the Royal Navy.
I never was very good at the Airfix kits! The poly cement was a bit stringy, and went everywhere, but I still enjoyed it! (Then moved on to tabletop games instead, with even more glue and paint.)
When I was at school in Orkney, we went out with a metal detector and found parts of crashed planes from the war. It was quite a lesson, learning how many there were--even better was when a former pilot came in to talk to us, and mentioned engine trouble after taking off one time and landing his plane (I seem to recall it was a Hawker Hurricane, but I might be wrong) in a bog in the hills. The plane sank out of sight and was never recovered, a story I loved then and sticks with me now.
We also used to play amongst all those buildings left behind by the military, heading into bunkers and all manner of probably rather dangerous places! Last time I visited, I learned many of them are now blocked with concrete, to stop such activity.
The skuas are still there, though, still divebombing (probably with more success than their aircraft namesake!).
Many thanks for sharing this, I really appreciate it.
Ah, the bonxies - I too have had to walk along with my camera tripod held aloft to prevent being smacked by those birds on St Kilda and at Hermaness, Unst. And they're so big! Arctic terns are quick to dive bomb too.
Puffins are my favourite - they are so characterful and entertaining to watch. I'm not overly fond of birds if they come near me, at a distance they're fine, but I spent a happy few hours sat at Hermaness with puffins wandering around me, ducking in and out of their burrows. In fact, I sat in the same place so long I ended up with a puffin on my boot with a little group surrounding him - luckily, I had a fairly wide-angle lens on my camera and was able to get a shot of it.
Watching gannets fish is incredible; they're like rapiers entering the water. I've been lucky to witness it up close - what an experience.
Can't say the overpowering stench of guano is one of my favourite smells, lol.
Looking up - out on my bike one day I happened to look up to see an osprey flying over with a fish in its talons.
What a rich and delightful comment! Thank you!
Yes! The bonxies are really big, they hurt! Arctic terns are a definite favourite of mine too, although when they are mobbing you, that can get a bit scary, too! I remember seeing terns in South Africa in (our) winter, and wondering if I knew some of them.
Puffins are simply delightful, they really are so curious, so comical, yet also such amazing fishers, and any bird that spends winter out in the Atlantic has my respect! I love that story of one sitting on your boot. I've been close to them, but not that close.
Watching gannets fish really does stay in the memory, the way they turn slightly, pull back those wings and simply scythe into the waters--like a rapier, as you say, amazing.
The smell is definitely rather powerful. I often think about how those droppings mass and then are mostly washed out, year after year, creating rich waters for all manner of life. Remarkable, really.
Ospreys really deserve a post of their own, being birds of land and water and long distances, they fit the bill rather well, I think. I've seen them fishing not far from you, too, at The Mound. I remember when I was peedie, how rare they were, so being able to witness that really made me happy.
Thanks again for this, really appreciate you sharing your own stories of our feathered friends.
Everything you write speaks to my heart. It's hard to pick a faourite bird. I love them all, or at least, most. Probably chickadees are my favourite. They're such friendly little people, and they come to the window to remind me to refill the feeder when it's empty. I love the cardinals, like a flame against the sombre green of the cedars in winter. They sing about how beautiful the world is: Purty, purty, purty. I love the hawks, soaring on the wind; the goldfinches with their trilling song; the sparrows in their neat business suits with somethimes a jaunty red or white cap (we have many varieties of sparrow here).
Do I look up? More than I should, probably. I've had a few broken bones to testify to not watching where I set my feet. I like to read the future in the sky: the colour of the clouds, what direction they're moving; what kind they are and how high up. And stars. I just wish I could see them more clearly. I try to track the progress of the planets across the heavens, too.
Your story at the end reminds me of one of my own. https://myscribblings.substack.com/p/the-day-the-world-broke
Ah, this warms my own heart! Many of the birds you talk of I've yet to meet, yet I know them from reading or watching documentaries. The way you describe them too speaks of your own powers of observation, which is a delight.
I'm with you on reading the future in the sky. I miss big night skies, or just big skies, sometimes. Once, in the north of Scotland, the power went out across a huge area, hundreds of square miles. The best thing was that it was deep winter (okay, not good for heating, but still!), and there were no clouds--the skies were ablaze with stars. Up to that point, I'd thought the light pollution up there was not too bad, but then I realised just how much more we could see with barely any artificial light bouncing up and around. Here, the village lights go out after the evening, which is a good thing. The only other place I've seen the stars so brilliant was in the mountains in central Spain. There, the whole sky seemed bejewelled.
I'm going to have a peek at your story now, many thanks for this comment, I really appreciate it.