The winter makes me forget that doing the things I like makes me happy, and so my bookshelf tends to collect dust, and I struggle to motivate myself to hike in the rain. But False Spring sprang, and prolonged joy is in sight.
False Spring is a bad name. It might not yet be the warm part of spring, but she’s in the works. The spring isn’t lying, it’s just reminding you what it will be. I need that half-week of hope to make it to spring proper. False seems rude to call something that is for me uplifting.
I bet a miserable git coined the term.
Going Somewhere Nice and Thinking about Endings
I took the train down to Kilpatrick and headed for the hills just behind the station. It was frosty in the early part of the day, but sunny, with no need to pack a rain jacket, perfect weather for a hike.
The official start of the hike was about a mile and a half from the station, creeping up country roads towards the hills. The city, just twenty or so minutes away by train, was still visible, but it was only a short while until the sounds retreated and were replaced by the deafening isolation, and occasional ‘hiya’s from passersby. It is a lovely thing about Scotland, the natural world is close by and accessible by public transport.
Having finished The Invisible Life of Addie LaRue by V.E. Schwab on the train over, I was thinking about the novel on the way up the first hill. I found the ending infuriating and wished for either a happily ever after or a tragic breaking of spirit; the compromise didn’t sit well with me
The book I finished before that, The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O’Farrell, had a similarly satisfying ending, but in Esme Lennox, that was the point. The entire family that the novel surrounds avoid complexity at all costs. It was never going to end with the heartfelt reconciliation, but instead the brutal and jarring off-stage events, overshadowed by an argument of more avoidance.
I spent a lot of time deciding that this was the point, mulling it over after someone said I was being a ‘performative male’ when seeing me read The Vanishing Act. There are two main issues with this point: the first is that I’m not a man. The second is that it’s not feminist literature; it’s just about and by women.
In no way disagreeing with feminists, it is a novel about memory, family, and avoidance, not dismantling patriarchal elements or highlighting the struggles of womenhood. There are aspects where the patriarchy is present and destructive, but at its core, it’s about a family where no one talks about their feelings, and they are all unhappy about it when someone does.
While it may have started with a joke, this annoyance carried me a good few miles, and the resulting analysis was quite fun.
I had my next read tucked away in my backpack. Life After Life by Kate Atkinson had been on my shelf unread for a while. Something about The Vanishing Act had reminded me of Atkinson’s first novel, Behind the Scenes of the Museum. Being a few years since I have read it, I can not pinpoint why, but I remember loving it and being sad and uncomfortable in a way that I could not look away. Coincidentally, The Invisible Life referenced it, cementing Life After Life as next on my dance card, resulting in me lugging this six-hundred-page book with me.
The View from the top of The Slacks was amazing. Looking around, you could see Glasgow a wee bit misty, the pimply Duncolm hills, snow-topped mountains in the distance, and the Greenside Reservoir. I had decided to do a loop around Cochno Loch, Greenside Reservoir, and Loch Humphry.
Sitting Somewhere Between Nostalgic and Homesick
Looking in the direction of Humphry, I regretted the direction I had set off in. Hills are lovely, but I’m from the foothills of the Cascades; if I can’t have mountains looming over, I at least need a forest.
The difference in forestry may be my least favourite thing about Scotland. There are good woods, but they’re not as dense as the ones back home; the hills are not coated in trees, and areas that have been reforested have the trees all lined up like soldiers in a parade. It’s all a bit exposed and lacks the groundcover to make it feel cosy.
I continued on my route, too far now to turn back, and the hills are lovely even if they’re naked.
Sitting down for lunch, I pulled out Life After Life but didn’t start reading. I thought it might be sad (it was devastating), and Loch Cochno was very blue, so I looked at that instead, watching the ripples, listening to the birds, and staring at the patch of trees just far enough away to not notice the ridged lines they stand in.
Sad books and a Sunny Disposition
The rest of the hike was spent thinking more about the point of both novels. On the train home, I started Life After Life and was correct in my estimation that it was sad. Sad books to make one less sad might sound contradictory, but the best sad books are those which are also happy at times; you really get to see how good it can be.
Things have stayed mostly sunny for me since, even though the grey is back, I am still reading and plotting my next trip to the hills. My mental health is not as bad as it once was, but the long winter can lead me to forget what it’s like to have prolonged happiness. The spring is not false, it’s giving out a taster for what is to come.
Featured Image Credit: Spencer Haynes
Spencer is a 3rd Year History and English student interested in library science, baking, and storytelling.
