desk was a pigskin-framed photograph of the two of us on horseback. We were both wearing our riding clothes, both gazing impassively at the camera.
I took the photograph down. It had been taken twelve years ago on a pony-trekking holiday in Iceland. Together, we had ridden across a great plateau in the north of the country, a region referred to in our Baedeker as “The Uninhabited Highlands.” These highlands were renowned for a type of lichen that was reputed to glow in the dark. Both Frank and I had been rather sceptical about this. Our Icelandic guide, however, insisted that it was well worth seeing, even though it meant we would have to spend the night under canvas.
Setting out in the early afternoon, the three of us rode across the plateau — our guide leading the way, followed by Frank. As the more experienced rider of the two of us, I brought up the rear. The plateau was a forbidding place, edged on either side by black basalt cliffs. The tops of these cliffs were covered in snow. When the sun set, we kept going. There was a smell of sulphur from the volcanic pools. The smell disturbed the ponies; they began skittering about and had to be steered into the wind.
Soon Frank and the guide were almost invisible. But still we carried on. On either side of me I could hear the mud plopping in the volcanic pools, a sound at once solemn and ridiculous. All at once my pony stopped. I think I must havepulled on the reins without being aware of it. To begin with, I doubted the evidence of my eyes. Only slowly did I allow myself to acknowledge what I was seeing.
An enormous illuminated blanket, the palest green in color, appeared to have been spread on the ground. On either side, it stretched right to the furthest edges of the plateau, rippling away in impossible, luminous waves. Never before have I experienced such wonder and awe. Yet with it came the strangest feeling of displacement, as if the world had been turned on its head and we were riding our ponies along the bottom of the sea. I tried to hold on to the memory now, hoping that some of the wonder I had felt then might help dispel this gnawing, corrosive sense of emptiness.
The door swung back with a bang. Robert ran in. His shirt was not tucked in properly and his collar was all twisted round.
“There you are, Mama!” he exclaimed.
“Will you please knock before you come in, Robert!” I said. “How many times have I told you not to run? What on earth is the point of my telling you things if you don’t take the slightest notice of what I say?”
Robert stopped immediately.
He looked as if he had been slapped across the face. For several seconds he was unable to say anything. His chest rose and fell with the effort of breathing.
I could still hear my voice, angry and querulous. It continued ringing in my ears as I said, “Was there anything in particular you wished to see me about, Robbie?”
“Yes — yes, there was …” he said.
He paused, apparently unsure whether to go on.
“What is it, then?”
“It’s about Mr. Brown, Mama.”
“What about Mr. Brown?”
“He says he has found something.”
Basil Brown
MAY–JUNE 1939
All week it kept bucketing down. The rain came in over our boots. It seeped under the tarpaulins and leaked through the roof of the shepherd’s hut. The wheelbarrow kept sinking into the ground, right up to the axle. We laid down planks for tracks. The trouble is that the barrow is so heavy when it’s fully laden that it’s near impossible to steer in a straight line. Also the rain makes the planks slippery, of course. At times it felt as if we were hardly going forward at all. Then, at around three o’clock on Thursday, I was down at the bottom of the trench when I heard John Jacobs shout, “Baz!”
“What is it?”
“Can you come here?”
I scrambled up the bank to where John was standing. He was holding a piece of iron. It was about four inches in length, much corroded and roughly the shape of a bolt.
When
I took the photograph down. It had been taken twelve years ago on a pony-trekking holiday in Iceland. Together, we had ridden across a great plateau in the north of the country, a region referred to in our Baedeker as “The Uninhabited Highlands.” These highlands were renowned for a type of lichen that was reputed to glow in the dark. Both Frank and I had been rather sceptical about this. Our Icelandic guide, however, insisted that it was well worth seeing, even though it meant we would have to spend the night under canvas.
Setting out in the early afternoon, the three of us rode across the plateau — our guide leading the way, followed by Frank. As the more experienced rider of the two of us, I brought up the rear. The plateau was a forbidding place, edged on either side by black basalt cliffs. The tops of these cliffs were covered in snow. When the sun set, we kept going. There was a smell of sulphur from the volcanic pools. The smell disturbed the ponies; they began skittering about and had to be steered into the wind.
Soon Frank and the guide were almost invisible. But still we carried on. On either side of me I could hear the mud plopping in the volcanic pools, a sound at once solemn and ridiculous. All at once my pony stopped. I think I must havepulled on the reins without being aware of it. To begin with, I doubted the evidence of my eyes. Only slowly did I allow myself to acknowledge what I was seeing.
An enormous illuminated blanket, the palest green in color, appeared to have been spread on the ground. On either side, it stretched right to the furthest edges of the plateau, rippling away in impossible, luminous waves. Never before have I experienced such wonder and awe. Yet with it came the strangest feeling of displacement, as if the world had been turned on its head and we were riding our ponies along the bottom of the sea. I tried to hold on to the memory now, hoping that some of the wonder I had felt then might help dispel this gnawing, corrosive sense of emptiness.
The door swung back with a bang. Robert ran in. His shirt was not tucked in properly and his collar was all twisted round.
“There you are, Mama!” he exclaimed.
“Will you please knock before you come in, Robert!” I said. “How many times have I told you not to run? What on earth is the point of my telling you things if you don’t take the slightest notice of what I say?”
Robert stopped immediately.
He looked as if he had been slapped across the face. For several seconds he was unable to say anything. His chest rose and fell with the effort of breathing.
I could still hear my voice, angry and querulous. It continued ringing in my ears as I said, “Was there anything in particular you wished to see me about, Robbie?”
“Yes — yes, there was …” he said.
He paused, apparently unsure whether to go on.
“What is it, then?”
“It’s about Mr. Brown, Mama.”
“What about Mr. Brown?”
“He says he has found something.”
Basil Brown
MAY–JUNE 1939
All week it kept bucketing down. The rain came in over our boots. It seeped under the tarpaulins and leaked through the roof of the shepherd’s hut. The wheelbarrow kept sinking into the ground, right up to the axle. We laid down planks for tracks. The trouble is that the barrow is so heavy when it’s fully laden that it’s near impossible to steer in a straight line. Also the rain makes the planks slippery, of course. At times it felt as if we were hardly going forward at all. Then, at around three o’clock on Thursday, I was down at the bottom of the trench when I heard John Jacobs shout, “Baz!”
“What is it?”
“Can you come here?”
I scrambled up the bank to where John was standing. He was holding a piece of iron. It was about four inches in length, much corroded and roughly the shape of a bolt.
When
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