For most of my 20s I lived with a man who had spent his early years in a village in Punjab. His father, despite being permanently settled in the UK and not having a huge amount of surplus cash, was determined to buy a house with a plot of land for each of his sons “back home”. In his mind, it was worth going without in his current place of residence to invest in the place where his family had lived for generations.
I was reminded of this on reading Johanna Lane’s debut novel, Black Lake. An Indian immigrant might seem worlds away from of a country gentleman in Donegal, yet my ex-boyfriend’s father and Irish patriarch, John Campbell, shared a similar tenacious attachment to their ancestral lands. While one moved thousands of miles away and the other made an uncomfortable compromise to enable him to stay, both their identities were rooted in the soil of their homelands.
I was reminded of this on reading Johanna Lane’s debut novel, Black Lake. An Indian immigrant might seem worlds away from of a country gentleman in Donegal, yet my ex-boyfriend’s father and Irish patriarch, John Campbell, shared a similar tenacious attachment to their ancestral lands. While one moved thousands of miles away and the other made an uncomfortable compromise to enable him to stay, both their identities were rooted in the soil of their homelands.
In our modern, urban communities, we often hold contradictory ideas about the countryside. It’s both idealised and denigrated, considered empty space ripe for plundering or treated as a playground or rural theme park. The Campbell family, choosing to live in a small dank cottage in order to remain on the estate, seem out of step with contemporary notions of connectedness and progress. Beautiful as Dulough is, they’d have far easier lives in Dublin.
This novel made me reflect on my own attachment to soil and landscape. I felt frustrated with John for abandoning his family to go rambling in the hills on the morning the removal men were coming to strip the great house of their possessions. Yet I recognised something of myself in his desperation to get out on his solitary walk: lacing his shoes without socks in his rush to leave without waking his wife. I too have days when it seems that only a walk in the countryside I know and love will restore me to myself. Although, unlike John, I’ve never owned a chunk of the countryside (and, in terms of the battle for the right to roam, we’d have been on different sides), I do sometimes tramp the moors with a proprietorial air.
This novel made me reflect on my own attachment to soil and landscape. I felt frustrated with John for abandoning his family to go rambling in the hills on the morning the removal men were coming to strip the great house of their possessions. Yet I recognised something of myself in his desperation to get out on his solitary walk: lacing his shoes without socks in his rush to leave without waking his wife. I too have days when it seems that only a walk in the countryside I know and love will restore me to myself. Although, unlike John, I’ve never owned a chunk of the countryside (and, in terms of the battle for the right to roam, we’d have been on different sides), I do sometimes tramp the moors with a proprietorial air.
Unlike John, his wife, Marianne, has grown up in the city, but she too comes to feel passionate about the land, especially after establishing her garden. Tilling the soil, feeling the dirt under one’s fingernails binds one to the land more powerfully than merely admiring the view, and she’s devastated when the developers damage what she’s grown.
While the family don’t need Marianne’s garden for food, food security is often at the root of our psychological attachment to land. John is horrified that his ancestor subjected his countrymen to hunger and starvation when he evicted his tenants from their homes. As a former subsistence farmer, my ex-boyfriend’s father understood the value of safeguarding one’s rights to work the land. The allotment movement satisfied a similar need for poor families in Britain in the last century. With a supermarket just down the road, I’m not so dependent on my garden, yet I appreciate the ability to harvest fruit and vegetables from my soil.
While the family don’t need Marianne’s garden for food, food security is often at the root of our psychological attachment to land. John is horrified that his ancestor subjected his countrymen to hunger and starvation when he evicted his tenants from their homes. As a former subsistence farmer, my ex-boyfriend’s father understood the value of safeguarding one’s rights to work the land. The allotment movement satisfied a similar need for poor families in Britain in the last century. With a supermarket just down the road, I’m not so dependent on my garden, yet I appreciate the ability to harvest fruit and vegetables from my soil.
A Thousand Acres is another novel about the tragedy that ensues when a man lets go of his land. Here, Jane Smiley transposes Shakespeare’s King Lear to a farming community in contemporary Iowa. Like John Campbell, Larry Cook fails to appreciate how much things will change when he retires and hands over his farm to his three daughters. History catches up with Larry as it did with John, bringing about a crisis of his own making.
There’s a different, but equally disturbing, take on land ownership in The Cutting Season by Attica Locke. Belle Vie is an antebellum plantation between Baton Rouge and New Orleans transformed into a tourist attraction complete with re-enactments and restored slave quarters. The discovery of the dead body of a migrant worker and resulting investigation, both lay and professional, involves revisiting a history that the current owners would prefer to forget.
Not surprisingly, given my interests, a few of my published short stories focus on our attachment to land. Stealing the Show from Nature is the most recent; Plastic was the shortest till now. With Charli’s latest flash fiction prompt on getting stronger, I thought I’d try my hand at something a tad more optimistic. I was surprised where it took me; I’m not sure I approve:
The governor granted his permission, but nothing more. No budget. No staff. When she saw the wasteland he’d assigned her, she almost gave up. Brambles thick as trees. Boulders too heavy for a sole woman to lift.
The prisoners skulked in their cells, smoking. The screws laughed when they unlocked the door to let her out. Laughed when they let her in again, exhausted, caked in mud. Laughed when the slugs gobbled up her seedlings. Yet she and her plants were growing stronger. She smiled. Once she’d harvested the cannabis, there’d be a waiting list for the gardening class.
How attached to you feel to land and landscape? Is this a theme in your writing? What’s your take on the conflict between town and country? Can you recommend any other novels where this attachment to land is addressed?
There’s a different, but equally disturbing, take on land ownership in The Cutting Season by Attica Locke. Belle Vie is an antebellum plantation between Baton Rouge and New Orleans transformed into a tourist attraction complete with re-enactments and restored slave quarters. The discovery of the dead body of a migrant worker and resulting investigation, both lay and professional, involves revisiting a history that the current owners would prefer to forget.
Not surprisingly, given my interests, a few of my published short stories focus on our attachment to land. Stealing the Show from Nature is the most recent; Plastic was the shortest till now. With Charli’s latest flash fiction prompt on getting stronger, I thought I’d try my hand at something a tad more optimistic. I was surprised where it took me; I’m not sure I approve:
The governor granted his permission, but nothing more. No budget. No staff. When she saw the wasteland he’d assigned her, she almost gave up. Brambles thick as trees. Boulders too heavy for a sole woman to lift.
The prisoners skulked in their cells, smoking. The screws laughed when they unlocked the door to let her out. Laughed when they let her in again, exhausted, caked in mud. Laughed when the slugs gobbled up her seedlings. Yet she and her plants were growing stronger. She smiled. Once she’d harvested the cannabis, there’d be a waiting list for the gardening class.
How attached to you feel to land and landscape? Is this a theme in your writing? What’s your take on the conflict between town and country? Can you recommend any other novels where this attachment to land is addressed?
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