Category Archives: Spirit of place

The lessons of place

Cailleach2 moon LR

When it comes to writing about place, there are certain books which so captured my imagination that I find myself referring to them time and again. Keith Basso’s Wisdom Sits in Places is one such book. The book emerged out of his anthropological studies of the Western Apache people, and it focuses on the ways in which place names are associated with stories which not only convey the history of these people, but which are used to illustrate good and appropriate ways of living and being. Basso’s story of the Western Apache people is primarily a story of place-making: of multiple acts both of historical remembering and transformational imagining which inform each other in complex ways. ‘If place-making is a way of constructing the past, a venerable means of doing human history, it is also a way of constructing social traditions and, in the process, personal and social identities. We are, in a sense, the place-worlds we imagine’, Basso tells us. And the stories – again, a mixture both of history and of imagination – which the Western Apache tell about specific places, inform their daily lives. ‘Knowledge of places is therefore closely linked to knowledge of the self, to grasping one’s position in the larger scheme of things, including one’s own community, and to securing a confident sense of who one is as a person.’

In this sense, Western Apache place-lore resembles a similar Irish concept, that of dinnseanchas, though it can be argued that the Western Apache variety is much more overtly focused on stories of place as methods for teaching societal mores and promoting certain ways of being in world, as well as offering a cultural history and associated sense of identity. ‘The land is always stalking people. The land makes people live right’, and ‘I recall stories of how it once was at that mountain. The stories told to me were like arrows. Elsewhere, hearing that mountain’s name, I see it. Its name is like a picture. Stories go to work on you like arrows. Stories make you live right. Stories make you replace yourself’, say members of the Western Apache community in Basso’s book.

The web of complex place-making woven by communities such as the Western Apache can only spring from a long and deep rootedness in place. And yet most of us now live in a world and a society from which that kind of rootedness seems to have long since disappeared, along with the sense of belonging that accompanies it. Does the idea of ‘place’ have anything to teach us, then, those of us who are more prone to moving on; those of us who are migratory birds? That sense of rootedness, of ‘digging in and digging deep’, is something I’ve written about on several occasions. But in spite of my admiration for the ability to root oneself in place, and wanderlust associated with Irish travelling genes apart, I have found myself throughout my life moving on from place to place much more frequently than I had ever planned. But this is not because I’m looking for the perfect place, just as I might once have thought of searching for the perfect love; rather, it’s because at each of those different stages in my life I’ve felt that different places have been needed. That different places – yes, the purely physical aspects of these places, as well as the various and varying human cultures that have been associated with them – have different things to teach me. And so in each place I’ve lived, for however long I’ve lived there, I’ve found myself for the duration of that stay digging as deeply into it as I can. Because this is another way in which we can learn the lessons of place, whether we’re inclined to rootedness or not, and whether we can derive a sense of belonging and identity from the places in which we stay or not.

Yes, I have come to believe strongly in the lessons of place. And so, as we prepare to leave this wild and extreme land which we currently inhabit in the Outer Hebrides, and to head next spring for the Gaeltacht of Donegal in north-west Ireland, I have been very focused on what I have learned from this place, and on the results of that learning. I’m exploring both what drew me here at the time, and also the precise reasons why I feel it necessary now to leave it, and move on. Because this won’t be an easy place to leave. I have merged so deeply with the old rocky bones of this place – and of one specific wild coastal location in particular – that I have sometimes feared I would myself turn to stone, sink right into this hardest of all landscapes of gneiss and schist, become it once and for all.

But that is precisely the problem, and precisely the learning which must be taken away.

It’s hard to explain, but in a curious way it’s all to do with elements. Yes, those elements: air, water, earth, and fire. As Meg, the elderly storyteller from the islands, says in The Long Delirious Burning Blue: ‘everyone has their element: the element to which they are drawn, to which they are bound.’ In the novel, my character Cat is drawn to air, and the lightness and crisp clarity she finds in flying; she struggles with the idea of earth, and associates it with heaviness: ‘Everything is so simple up there. Just you, and the sky, and the will to survive. Everything comes down to this: you balance on a knife-edge but it’s a clear, clean cut and what bleeds away is doubt … I am immunising myself against the earth and all that would weigh me down.’ In contrast, her mother Laura is drawn to water: to the sea and seals and selkie-stories. For me, it has always been air and water, and in particular that misty liminal place where one becomes the other – what is usually referred to as ‘the distance’. And so it’s not surprising either that it was those grand mergings of sea and sky which led me to this beautiful place on the edge of the known world – or that it was the extremity of the cold, old hard earth which in the end almost broke me.

Metamorphic layers

I’ve written before (see ‘Stone Teller: extracting stories from stones‘) about the location which I call simply ‘The Rocky Place’. Vast fields of metamorphic rock pierced with rock-pools sweep down to the sea, with cleanly carved cliffs behind. Here it is again:

It’s hard to get a sense of the scale of it from a photograph, but it goes on and on. And it’s filled with treasures of the imagination, all of which spring from the stories I’ve constructed about this place. (Here is one such tentative storied photographic journey.)

But the stories that this place mostly evokes for me, and which haunt my own newer imaginings, are the old stories. These are the stories which exist both in Scottish and Irish mythology, and which tell of the old Celtic goddess of the land in her two aspects: Brighid (or Bride in the Hebrides, who was later Christianised by the church as St Bridget or St Bride) and the hard, stony blue-faced Cailleach (the Gaelic word for old woman, crone or hag). One version of the story says that the old woman of winter, the Cailleach, dies and is reborn as Brighid the spring maiden on the old festival day of Imbolc (February 1). She is fragile at first, but grows stronger each day as the sun rekindles its fire, and turns scarcity into abundance. But as winter approaches and the light begins to fade she weakens again, and her sister the Cailleach begins to awaken. And by the old festival of Samhain (November 1) it is the Cailleach who rules this season, and Brighid who sleeps quietly in the hills. There are many stories about this battle for the seasons which takes place between Brighid and the Cailleach, but they can clearly be seen as two aspects of life in balance, of the need for both darkness and light, summer and winter, the cyclical nature of the world.

Not surprisingly, perhaps, it was the image and symbology of the Cailleach which interested me most as I tried to root myself in this unfertile, rocky land. Indeed, in the old mythologies she is in some sense a personification of land like this. She is associated with mountains and large hills, which she is said to have created (in some stories, to have formed from stones dropped from her apron) to serve as her stepping stones as she dances across the land, bringing winter in her wake. There are a number of locations in Scotland in which the silhouette of the reclining Cailleach can be seen in the shapes of specific mountains or ranges. The best-known of them is probably Lewis’ ‘Sleeping Beauty’ mountain (known in Gaelic as Cailleach na Mointeach – the old woman of the moors), but many others exist. There is one in the mountains to the east of our house, and I look out at her every day from the window of my study. Here she is, looking away from us, arm flung back and up above her head, burning in a midsummer sunset:

Sleeping beauty sunset

There is also a silhouette of the Cailleach in the Rocky Place, though it is a standing silhouette rather than reclining. Appropriately so, because we know from the old stories that it is in places like this that the Cailleach stands and stares out to sea, perhaps looking for her husband the Bodach, otherwise known as Manannan, the sea-god. (As a digression, what is interesting about this photograph is that you can see both the silhouette of an old woman with a hard, chiselled profile, facing left, and the face of a man, larger and full-on, just to the right of her. You have to stand back to see it, but once you see it, it’s there forever and you may well find yourself switching interchangeably between the two. He has a very short nose and a very large space between the nose and his upper lip, and his left eye is lower than his right. David pointed this out to me the first time I showed it to him, and it gave me some comfort to think that although I had seen her as a solitary figure in this harsh place, maybe her husband the sea-god is there with her, after all …)

Cailleach1 LR

Such locations and the stories associated with them – both those that are old, and those that are new, of my own making – bind me to this place, and whether I stay or go, and in whatever shape or form I might emerge, I will always carry them with me and they will in some sense bind me here. They may be stories, by which we often mean fiction, but they make the place more real to me, not less. They give it texture, layers, meaning … and both through these stories and through the direct physical experience of living in the places from which they spring, I am taught many lessons.

The lessons? Well, when we moved to this place in the spring of 2012, it was exactly what we were looking for. We had had enough of the world, and of what passed for civilisation. We wanted not only remote but remotest; we wanted fewer people, fewer frills. We wanted instead to dig ourselves deeply into the land, to be with, stand with and to witness what remained of one of Britain’s last wild places. And so we came here, to one of the most beautiful and remote places on this part of the planet. We had found exactly what we thought we needed back then, and we immersed ourselves in it – David in his rocky, boggy fields and his fencing and his farm animals, and me in my beloved bogs and my hidden rocky places by the sea, trying all the while to create the Garden of Eden in a place with poorly drained acid soil that bears the full brunt of salt-laden prevailing south and westerly gales. Both of us were by nature creatures of air and water, but we tried to transform ourselves into creatures of this harsh, bleak, old, stony, solitary piece of stunningly beautiful earth. We learned to live without trees and fertile ground and green grass. We learned to live without people. We turned inwards into ourselves and into the land, all the while believing in some strange fashion that we were turning outwards.

I immersed myself in those stories of the Cailleach, a solitary old woman carved out of age-old gneiss. It was the utterly magical Rocky Place to which I was drawn time after time, and which in some strange (but beautiful) way I came to believe defined me. Here, I have become Cailleach for a time; I have become Storm; I have listened to the stories of stones – some of the oldest stones on the planet. I have stood for long periods of time by the side of that silhouetted Cailleach in the Rocky Place and stared out to sea with her, imagining the long ages and the unyielding rock and the unending power of the sea. I have learned about endurance. I have learned about standing – and more than I ever wanted to know about making a stand. I have learned about digging in, and for sure I have learned about digging too deep.

From a cultural perspective, I have learned other things too – though in truth, I think they’re probably the same things. I learned that the pendulum of our lives had swung too far: that I do after all need other people – and in particular, real, live, in-the-flesh people who I can talk to about words and stories and music and art. I have learned that for all its failures and horrors, for all the things that I find abhorrent in this civilisation, I am nevertheless a human being and human culture is something I can’t seem entirely to eschew. I have remembered that the Cailleach, for all her seemingly harsh ways, danced her way across the mountains even as she brought the onset of winter, and I have remembered that I too have always loved  to dance. But I have learned above all else that it is good and fine and very probably necessary to be out of your element for a time – but yes, only for a time. I have learned that I am not after all a creature of rock, or stone. I am not gneiss. I am still a spirit of air and water: mutable, changeable, transforming. And when you dig yourself too deeply into an element that is not your natural element – as I dug myself into this hard, dour, peaty earth – then if you are very, very lucky it will spit you out rather than swallow you up.

It was a close thing, but she spat me out. Back to the horizon, and the distance; back to that clear light place where water meets sky, moving on, fluid, transforming, migrating.

And so the idea of migration is uppermost in my mind right now. And migration is informing my writing, which has been stagnant for too long, and which is dancing its way back to life in new forms: always a prose writer by instinct, I seem to have fallen into poetry. I’m especially glad during this new migratory phase to be involved in a collaborative project on this very subject of migrations, organised by a wonderful new friend, Tasmanian artist Desirée Fitzgibbon. The project, towards infinite horizons, is ‘a celebration of islands, migratory species, vessels and journeys across the seas with artists, poets, writers, storytellers, migrants, performers and seafarers’ which will culminate in an event at the Australian Wooden Boat Festival in Tasmania in February 2015. A new poem, Peregrina, is my first contribution to the project.

The truth is, I’ve often written about migrations. The Long Delirious Burning Blue is about many things, but it is very much about migrations and transformations. A few years ago I wrote a handful of short poetic prose pieces (not quite prose poems; I’m not really sure into which genre they might fit) about migrating sea-creatures: eels and salmon and sea trout (see for example, ‘Here’, which I posted recently and which was originally published in Waterlog). Clearly, it’s been a preoccupation for many years. But there’s still a strong part of me which hopes to find itself beached up in a place where it’s possible to settle and stay forever. And a part of me now that fears it, too; as if the end of migrating might become the end of transformation and of fluidity … But I don’t think that is necessarily so. Whether or not we plan to go on learning new lessons of place through all of our days, in ongoing wanderings and wayfarings, or whether we hope finally to come to rest on some richly textured meant-to-be shore, maybe the best lesson of place is simply the lesson of how, and how not, to be. Something we can carry with us, wherever we might go, or wherever we might stay.

Stone Teller: extracting stories from stones

There is a place I go to which I consider to be my place. I recognised it the first moment I saw it. In some curious way that I haven’t quite yet grasped the meaning of, it defines me. It consists of a vast expanse of rock extending underfoot like a multicoloured, layered carpet which slopes gradually down to a set of sharp rocks onto which the sea continually crashes. The rock carpet is founded on gneiss, of course: Lewisian gneiss, one of the oldest rocks in the world. It is metamorphic rock – yes, metamorphic: a word shot through with all the possibilities of transformation that someone like me could ever want. How could such a place not define me? It consists of granite interwoven with bands and layers of a variety of different minerals, such as quartz. I’m no geologist; I know only that this layering process is called foliation, but whatever it is called my rock carpet is spectacularly beautiful, unique, and never fails to make me catch my breath in amazement. When you tread on it, you cannot help but do so with reverence, precisely because you are walking on some of the oldest rock on the planet. This rock has endured, and there are times in everyone’s life when endurance matters. This is such a time in mine. This rock not only endures: it metamorphoses. It changes in form, it adapts to whatever storms and stresses may come along. It is phoenix rock, emerging renewed from temperatures greater than 1500°C and pressure that is greater than 1500 bars. Such things of necessity cause profound change if you mean to survive them.Metamorphic layers

There is a corner of this place which is a shrine. You can see it in the photograph below. Cliff walls which provide a home to succulent plants and even to a miniature version of the beautiful and very tasty Scots lovage; a pool at the base which never dries up and which provides a home for a species of fairy shrimp, or maybe gammarus … In the cliffs behind the pool, if the light is right, you can identify several faces in the rock. One is the outline of a younger woman with a beautifully shaped snub nose; the other is the outline of an older face which belongs to a crone. In the cliff face to the left of the photograph you may see, if you are looking for it, the silhouette of a hag, and indeed it is known that in such places the Cailleach may stand and stare out to sea. I sit here often cross-legged by the pool; I too stare out to sea.

Rocky place shrine

It was on the old festival of Lughnasa this week – the harvest festival, the festival of reaping what you have sown – that I sat at this place for a long time. During that time an image floated into my head: an image which would be the basis for a story. The kind of story that matters to me: the kind of story that springs directly from the land, from a place. The image I had was of a woman called Stone Teller, who extracts the stories from stones. In every stone is hidden a story, she told me, and you do not extract the story by breaking the stone. The name Stone Teller is not new to me; it is the name of the central character in Ursula Le Guin’s beautiful book Always Coming Home, about which I’ve written here before. And it has resonances of one of my favourite poems in the world, Derek Mahon’s ‘The Mayo Tao’, in which he writes ‘I have stood for hours/ watching a salmon doze in the tea-gold dark,/ for months listening to the sob story/ of a stone in the road, the best,/ most monotonous sob story I have ever heard.’

Fairy shrimp

The image stayed with me for a couple of days, but developed no further until a conversation with David during which he mentioned the concept of a ‘flush’, a place in which mineral nutrients are flushed out of various sources (for example, via surface waters which flow over limestone bedrock) into wetlands. I had been wondering how the fairy shrimp might continue to survive in an isolated freshwater pool with no apparent source of nutrients; all of a sudden I understood how it was possible. And all at once it came, the answer to the question of how you extract a story from a stone. You do not break open the stone, for sure; you approach the stone as water does: fluidly, springing from a deep, unimpeded flow. Caressing, gentling, accepting of bumps and boundaries. You watch and you listen, day by day, year by year, extracting what nutrients you may as you go, as the story slowly seeps out of the stone and into the wider flow of life.

It is in this way that you will extract the story from a stone, so that both the mysteries and the stone may continue to thrive.

There is more, of course, to the story of Stone Teller, but I am still uncovering it. Such things are given to us slowly.

Moments of enchantment

I live in a wild, remote and beautiful place where opportunities for enchantment come thick and fast. But sometimes, still, there are moments that take my breath away. Late yesterday afternoon, just before dusk, I took a brief solitary walk out onto our headland. Mist was everywhere; the mountains behind were invisible and the presence of the sea ahead was apparent in nothing more than the sound of water washing against jagged rock (the Atlantic is never truly quiet). As I slowly approached the small hillock where usually I like to stand to look out across the land, I began to make out the shadowy shapes of a group of stags just ahead of me. In this part of the world, red deer are so plentiful that they can be a nuisance, and some years we’ve seen gangs of stags thirty-strong roaming the township, grazing on the crofts that aren’t deer-fenced. I slowed down even more, but not before a couple of the stags closest to me had noticed my approach. They didn’t run; you need to have a dog in tow or be moving pretty quickly to spook these deer; they’re surprisingly resilient. They just moved, each one of them to a different side of the group. The others took their lead and each of them also moved a few steps away from where they’d previously been standing. I came to a complete halt, with this group of nineteen stags now ranged in a semi-circle at the bottom of the hillock in front of me. They were part-animal, part-shadow in the mist, but a stag with a particularly grand set of horns (a Royal, for sure) broke from the semi-circle and took a few steps forward towards me. I stood completely still. He took a few steps back. Then a few more forward. The others stayed where they were, motionless. For a moment, no more, it felt like a threat, with a sudden sharp lurch of atavistic fear, a curious reversal of the normal pattern of hunter and hunted. The ‘dance’ of this elder stag lasted a good five minutes, until I set them free by lifting my hand and moving forward, at which point they finally turned to flee – nineteen shadows running through the fog, along the ridge that leads north.

It would be all too easy to read more into this than it was – to look for ‘signs’, or to read into it some other significance. But here is the thing about enchantment: it doesn’t require magic; it simply requires attention. It is enchantment enough simply to say that for five minutes, maybe a little bit more, in a foggy out-of-time encounter with nineteen stags, I was fully in that moment, and fully aware of myself simply as one animal facing another.

A conversation on transformative stories, place and belonging

It’s been a while since I found the time to post another article here – the ongoing challenges of keeping up with EarthLines, working the croft, being grounded for a month by a broken wrist … but more is on the way. In the meantime, you might like to take a look at this long conversation I’ve been having with Jeppe Dyrendom Graugaard on transforming stories, place and belonging. It picks up on and expands many of the themes I’ve developed here and elsewhere. (This is one of a series of such conversations on Jeppe’s website – I can recommend checking them out. He’s working on a PhD at the University of East Anglia, and you’ll find many interesting pathways to meander down on the site.)

On belonging, and the storying of place

One of my favourite books on myth, story and place, Keith Basso’s Wisdom Sits in Places, focuses on the ways in which a sense of place and of belonging among the Western Apache people is tied up with stories that are embedded in the landscape. Their stories are born out of a magical mixture of oral history and reconstructed memory, and have an educational function in the community (‘stories go to work on you like arrows … stories make you live right’). Here’s how Basso describes it:

‘The past lies embedded in features of the earth … which together endow their lands with multiple forms of significance that reach into their lives and shape the ways they think. Knowledge of places is therefore closely linked to knowledge of the self, to grasping one’s own position in the larger scheme of things, including one’s own community, and to securing a confident sense of who one is as a person.’

Few of us are blessed with a sense of belonging to a place that reaches so deeply into so many areas of our lives. But in this peripatetic world in which we live, where so few of us are truly rooted or grounded in a place, developing that sense of belonging can be hard. There are many of us who seem never to stand still. It’s one of the things I often think about in relation to the Outer Hebrides where we live, and where so many incomers come who have no history here. How then do you develop that sense of belonging, without taking over or appropriating?

I believe the truth is that you don’t have to be born in a place, or have your family history in a place, to be rooted in it. You root yourself in place in two ways: by observing and learning about the natural history of the land (its wildlife, flowers, rocks, seasons …) and by understanding and participating in its culture (its history, stories, language, values …). You need both, of course; if you’re going to live in a place you owe it and its inhabitants that much respect. That’s how you learn belonging, and if it’s a different kind of belonging from the people who were born and who grew up there, it’s no less valid.

But you don’t stop with learning the old stories. You go on to make your own stories of that place, because you then become a new and unique part of its ongoing natural history and culture. You bring your own points of reference, and you will tell new stories of the place based on your own way of seeing it. (And if your life should move you from place to place, its no less important to develop that sense of belonging in each of them. Instead of being rooted in one place, many of us are rooted in several – an interconnected meshwork of places with which we’ve had relationships.)

And so, sometimes in a place that you’re beginning to belong to, to feel rooted in, new stories start to come to you. For example, there is a place nearby that is very special to me. I don’t know of any stories about it, and as I’ve walked there, sat there, slept there even over the last two and a half years, a new story has begun to form. It’s only the very beginning, the framework of a story right now, and nothing is ready to happen yet, but I thought I’d share it with you anyway.


If you know where to look, there are way-markers.

Some of them aren’t obvious.

On the way, there are many beautiful things to look at.

You know you’re close when you meet the guardian of the threshold.

If he lets you past, once you’re inside, everything changes.

There’s a beautiful grotto with a crystal-clear pool:

In the pool there are fairy shrimp:

Wherever you look, there are pools and wells …

The rock-people line up at the top of the cliffs …

(The night after I made this journey I had a dream that the tops of these cliffs metamorphosed into roughly carved towering animal-mountains – there was a wolf with two holes for eyes which the sun shone through; there was a bear and an eagle, and behind me in the shallows of the sea there was a whale and a dolphin …)

There’s a rock-bed for a giant – or maybe for the Cailleach …

And finally, at the end of the road, the treasure.

What the treasure consists of, and whether or not I get to take it home, the story will reveal in its own good time.

Restorying the World: Listening to the Land’s Dreaming, and The Bear Outside

At this time of year our work on the croft is so intense that finding time to keep up with writing is close to impossible. And so I offer you this article, published in the May Issue of EarthLines Magazine. It includes an article from me called ‘Listening to the Land’s Dreaming’, and a beautiful new story, ‘the Bear Outside’, by the talented Tom Hirons, also known as Coyopa.

Please CLICK HERE to view the article.

Re-storying and belonging

This last weekend I ran a session called ‘Re-storying the Earth’ at the Carrying the Fire Festival in Biggar, Lanarkshire, in the context of myths from the Outer Hebrides. There are a couple of ideas which I talked about at the session that I’d like to share here, and so here is a small part of the text of that talk.

Any storyteller will remember that a long, long time ago, and through all the years between then and now, and indeed, even now, and for sure, in the future, at midnight on every 31 October a big change comes over the world. On that night, a recumbent figure rises from the contours of the hills of the Hebrides. She rises from the hills, her skin blue with cold, and her long white hair straggling behind her. If you didn’t know where to look for her, you’d never have known she was there. And even if you did know she was there, you’d have thought she was dead – or sleeping. She wasn’t ever dead, or sleeping. She was just biding her time.

They call her the Cailleach – the old woman. She’s not just any old woman, though – she was here before the land itself. Indeed, they say that she was the one who created the hills in the first place: she made them for her stepping stones as she danced across the land. And as she dances she carries a hammer, to shape the hills and the valleys. Sometimes she’ll herd the deer and the sheep as she dances, and wherever her staff touches the ground, it freezes. And if you look out onto the hills in the darkness of the night throughout the long winter season, chances are you’ll see her there, dancing from hill to hill, leaving a trail of cold white frost behind her.

You don’t mess with the Cailleach … she’s our very own Kali, dancing to create. Because it’s not death that she brings to the land with her dancing: it’s the renewal of sleep, the renewal of creativity as the hard bones of winter lay bare all that is inside us. She culls old growth, brings transformation. She’s the guardian of the seed as it builds its strength for the next summer’s growth.

When the long hard days of winter are done, and she begins to tire of her labour, the hills become her resting place, and she sleeps in the hills for longer and longer periods of time. And as she sleeps, at dawn on Imbolc – February 2 – her sister begins to wake. Her sister is Brighid, or Bride: the spring maiden. Bride has a bright green mantle that has been tightly wrapped around her all winter; as she begins to waken, little by little she shrugs off the mantle, and it begins to spread out over the fields and flowers spring up from the place where the mantle rests. Bride looks after the cows and the sheep – but more than that, she inspires poets and storytellers. Until, on August 1 – Lammas – she begins to tire, and she sleeps longer and longer, withdrawing her green mantle as she falls into the deepest sleep of winter. And as she begins to sleep, her sister the Cailleach begins to wake …

And so the cycle goes.

Every morning when I wake up and open the shutters I look out onto one of those silhouetted sleeping forms in the hills. I can see the contours of her face in profile, the rise of her chest and the roundness of her belly. It reminds me that the land is animate in its own way, and that, as explorer of oral traditions Robert Bringhurst tells us, ‘Stories are one of the fundamental ways in which we understand the world … some of the basic constituents of the world.’ It reminds me of the story of the Cailleach and Bride, and so of cycles, and of balance. As I walk our wild and windy headland each morning with the mountains to the east of me and the sea to the west, sometimes I talk to that sleeping form. I tell her my stories, and she tells me hers.

Because the only true stories spring directly from the land. They don’t come from our heads: we’re not talking about sitting down at a computer and making up fiction here, we’re talking about living stories. Alan Garner tells us that such stories are how a nation dreams.

The reality is in the land, in the earth. That’s where the true stories spring from. These are the stories that contribute to our sense of belonging in a place, and belonging springs in good part from understanding the land in all its seasons. Which in turn comes from getting out there and being in it, from understanding some of its history (not just of the people, but of the land itself). From understanding its stories.

In most western cultures, we’ve lost those stories. Unlike many of the world’s indigenous peoples, who never let them completely die. The Australian aborigines, who walk the songlines singing the stories of the ancestors in the Dreamtime, and by so doing believe that they keep the land in existence. Like the Native Americans: ‘The truth about stories is that that’s all we are,’ says Native North American writer Thomas King. ‘I will tell you something about stories,’ the Laguna storyteller Leslie Silko says, ‘They aren’t just entertainment/ Don’t be fooled/ They are all we have, you see/ All we have to fight off/ Illness and death. You don’t have anything/ If you don’t have the stories.’ For Native Americans like Silko, a story is an intricate part of a web that cradles all the past, present and future events, ceremonies, beliefs and traditions of their culture. In the centre of this web is the land. Each story is part of another story which is linked to yet another one, and all these stories are connected back to the very origin of creation.

But we have lost the power of our stories. We’ve relegated them to fairy stories: stories that we tell to children. We think they’re just there for entertainment. We don’t believe in them any more; we certainly don’t believe they have any power. We’ve dispossessed our stories; we’ve disenchanted them. Max Weber talked about western Modernity as a ‘progressive disenchantment of the world’. Part of that disenchantment is the loss of our belief in the importance of stories. This is important, because it is stories that provide ways to test our hypotheses about the nature of the world, that attach us to place, to the land, to the earth. The folk tales, the fairy stories, the legends, the myths. These are the stories that hold a real power to transform, the stories that reveal the world to us in all its complexity. That peel layers of the world away like an onion.

What can you do when you’ve lost your stories? Well, you set about finding them again. That’s why the title of this session is ‘Re-storying the Earth’. We have to find our stories again. But it’s not necessarily about making up new stories; the old stories still have their power. Simon Schama put it this way: ‘An understanding of landscape’s past traditions is a source for illumination of present and future.’ The old stories never left, you see. We just need to remember them.

What do I mean by re-storying? Well, I wonder how many of you have read Toni Morrison’s beautiful novel, Beloved. If you have, you’ll perhaps remember that she uses a concept called rememory. Rememory is about reimagining one’s heritage. Revisiting a memory, and reconstructing it. “Rememory” differs from “memory” in its active force, which is independent of the rememberer. The continued presence of that which has disappeared or been forgotten, as when the novel’s main character Sethe “remember[s] something she had forgotten she knew”. Re-storying, in the same way, is revisiting a story, reconstructing it, remembering something we have forgotten we knew. Re-storying, then, is in some sense not only about keeping the old stories alive, but about keeping the old stories fresh by transforming them. In Silko’s novel Ceremony, medicine man Betonie talks about changing stories and ceremonies, and the need for them to change as the world changes: ‘In many ways, the ceremonies have always been changing … only this growth keeps the ceremonies strong … things which don’t shift and grow are dead things.’ Re-storying isn’t about reinterpretation of the old stories. It isn’t about interpretation at all. It’s about growing the stories, transforming for the times.