
I begin with an apology to those who have downloaded my story “Winter on the hill”. I’ve been going through it in recent days and discovered it’s riddled with more typos than usual. This is embarrassing. There’s a fresh copy on Smashwords now which tidies it up somewhat. Still, there’s no getting away from the fact I’ve been a bit distracted this year. We all have, I know. But worse, I began the year angry, and that’s never a good sign, and certainly not a good start.
It suggests there were more shadow issues inside me than I’d thought. This is always the case, the shadow leading us on a merry dance all our lives – a blessing when we can spot his tricks, a curse when we do not. The trigger for my anger was the result of the December 2019 election and the rout of Leftist politics, to which I’d hitched my wagon, my shadow plainly visible in those talking heads I’d labelled “right wing nutjobs”, “gammons” and “swivel eyed loons”. I’d seen the election as the last chance for a reversal in our direction of travel as a nation – less poverty, a renewal of the regions, and a green new deal. The majority of my countrymen, however did not agree.
2019 was an ugly year, a year of lies, fakery and flying spittle. It was also the year I realized it was no longer possible to make sense of anything, that the optical apparatus of the western world is so bent out of shape it swerves all semblance of truth. We have resolved it out of the equation of our life and times, and are thereby building a new Zeitgeist on quicksand, one in which the poor sink first, while sustaining the rich on their backs. In some respects, then, 2020 is the year we deserved, if only as a reminder there are some things that have an inescapable truth about them. You can ignore them all you like, say they’re not true, but that won’t make them go away. There were those who denied the existence of Covid from the beginning. Indeed, even with seventy-five thousand dead in the UK, some still do.
So the lesson of 2020 is that truth does not belong to those who shout the loudest, or to those who pour the most money into public relations. I don’t know where we’re going as a nation, only that I’m not angry about it any more, and I have “Winter on the Hill”, and my dialogue with its various characters to thank for that. I accept some people firmly believe in things I think are strange, and I accept persuading them otherwise is not a matter of pointing out my own version of the truth. Indeed, this is as likely to inflame them, as it runs counter to their own world view, that dialogue – true dialogue is presently impossible.
This is not to say I no longer believe, for example, that BREXIT is the biggest act of self harm in our post-war history. It’s an opinion based on an analysis of geopolitics and global economics, at least in so far as I understand these things. Many more of course understand things differently and therefore disagree with my view. But Winter on the Hill has taught me not to label these contrary opinions as merely crackpot, or even dare I say dangerous? It has also granted me some insight into the reasons Brexiteers think the way they do. But reaching this point you find you have transcended politics. You have swapped partisanship for the hill-craft necessary in crossing the daunting terrain as it now presents itself in 2021 and beyond.
The sight of Londoners fleeing the Capital, before the new Tier 4 rules came in, reminds me we shall not be spared the stupidity of crowds any time soon. The temporary blockading of the Channel ports and the halting of continental freight is a reminder of the fragility of the supply chains keeping our supermarkets stocked. But my hill-craft also tells me this is simply the nature of the new landscape we are traversing, and this, the incoming and decidedly inclement weather. Better to prepare for it than merely shake our fist.
I wish I could say I think 2021 will be any less “distracting”, that the stories I write will be free from error, but I suspect this will not be the case. What I can say though is that a partisan anger at the poverty, the foodbanks and the holes in the road has gone, and is in any case counterproductive. It doesn’t solve the problem, but if the best I can do is buy the homeless guy a sandwich and a cup of tea, then so be it. That’s all I could ever do. Compassion is a bottom up thing, and we’d all do well to remember that, because it’s only by the grace of God it’s not us sitting there instead of him.
And yes, come the next election, there’s a chance we’ll be falling over ourselves again to vote for more of the same, because most of us are not interested in solutions to longer term questions, even those concerning the sustainability of the species. We just want to know how to go on living as we are right now, without changing anything, even when we know change is likely coming, and the truth of the world is poking us in the eye day by day, by way of warning.
True hillcraft requires more than knowledge of the ropes and a gung-ho spirit. It requires a calmness of mind. It requires us to have the confidence not to go jumping at every passing fluffy cloud that sweeps the tops, but equally we must beware the overconfidence that scorns the anvil-heads. Angry, we remain blind to the subtlety of the way ahead, and come to grief in quick-time. Only by calmness do we navigate winter on the hill, and see ourselves safely to the other side. This is not to say I’m done with the shadow, only this particular manifestation of it. Heaven knows where he’ll take me next.
My thanks to everyone who has kept me company over the year and my very best wishes to you all.
Not to bad Rick, sorry, Mick,
I got to Chapter 37 without noticing any, now at 42 and I’m starting to notice a few but no distraction, and the plot seems to run and make sense
“But I don’t want to expire from a bug. I want a ringside seat at the end of the world. I want to look down nature’s salivating maw when it comes for us. It’s my responsibility as a human being, as one small self-reflective piece of the universe, to bear witness to either its or our end” nice idea, but a little simplistic, I’ve given up hoping to see a final end to the world, just one little end after another, and fewer and fewer beginnings, more ugliness and less beauty. Kindness a plenty, but it doesn’t reach those that need it, so suffering increases.
A guy sits outside Iceland where I stop in the morning to get my lunch, the staff commented once on how he has a wife and kid and he tries it on with the checkout ladies. I don’t give him any coin even though I guess he could use it, because I don’t want to see him there. I want better for him. I want him free of this foolish system.
I’m enjoying the book though!
Glad you’re enjoying it, hope the ending does not disappoint. I think Rick had finally worked out at that point to be more accepting of what he could not change. You’re right of course, the end will not be so dramatic, just one little thing after the other. All the best to you.
I still sense anger at the end.
Why else the withdrawal, when it is clear that everyone doing his own thing is not helpful, despite the alluring fantasy, we are none of us self sufficient unless we have already exploited others.
The Queen, the ABofC, and the Pope all said at Christmas that a vaccine represents hope. To me it is despair. It is a stone cold certainty that in capitalism if governments stoke fear, corporations will profit from it. A product will ensue and be hailed a success.
Where does this leave human aspiration? What do we hope to achieve? I think I will go and flush my head down the toilet.
Happy New Year!
I think Rick was of the same view about exploitation – we are all exploiting someone, either consciously or unconsciously. He was thinking of the van drivers earning next to nothing and with no employment protections, spending all day on the road to deliver our bits of consumer tat. And yes, he was still a bit angry at the end, still searching for a way to be at peace with the world but with a hint that he might have found it some way between truth, and an acceptance of his own limits.
Perhaps I need to work on some way we can all be more optimistic for the future in the next novel. I only have a small group of readers, and I feel a responsibility for your well-being. Heads and toilets wasn’t one of my aims when Rick first set foot on Pendle Hill a year ago. Keep well.
Sorry Michael,
You are not responsible for my current fury! I give that to the Queen, the Pope and the Archbishop, ie the mainstream.
Rick rejects the mainstream to some extent, but at the end he seems to be crawling back into the womb!
I must be careful not to demand too much of you in your retirement year, my own dear wife thinks she carries the world on her shoulders, but I think the most important thing is to reject this disabling fear.
All the best with your navigation through life next year.
All the best to you, and hopefully we’ll be able to muddy our boots a little further from our doorsteps as we get into 2021.
Typos are always excusable. I catch myself often when I reread a post. The essence comes through just fine. I understand the frustration with the politics. Scary times right now. I wish you the best for 2021, as we can finally bury 2020. Take care
All the very best to you. Always enjoy your posts. Keep well.