Tag Archives: writing

Jack’s Rake – wet

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In cold grey clag we set off up Stickle Beck, intending at the least to visit Stickle Tarn, but both of us, I think – though neither of us said it out loud – intending to try for Jack’s Rake. We arrived at the tarn and had a short snack. Some young people were there; the mist was thick and cold. We walked round the side of Stickle Tarn and addressed ourselves to Jack’s Rake. This would be my fourth ascent of Jack’s Rake. I came up here alone, carrying a big bag, in May 1987. I led a party of four up in September 1989, and I brought my son up here in 2014. That took some coaxing and encouragement. I happened to mention to him the principle in scrambling and rock climbing that “hesitate and you’re lost” and he replied that he’d learned that principle from me, on this route.

I write that deliberately, for today, Jack’s Rake was cold and wet and I found it quite difficult – I was “sketched out” as my son might say; in places it was sketchy. Whilst at least the exposure was limited today because of the mist, my fingers, even in gloves, grew very cold. In several places I was stuck for some minutes, hesitating long before committing to upward moves. In wet and greasy conditions underfoot, one wants good handholds. They are generally there on an easy scramble like Jack’s Rake, but in wet gloves I was starting to loose feeling in my fingertips. Loss of handhold would have been catastrophic, whereas slipping and losing a foothold whilst retaining a good handhold, would merely have made my pulse shoot up. We got to the top in good order without really serious difficulty, me going ahead of Nat for my safe-keeping, he herding me up the route whereas on the previous occasion, our roles were reversed. This was fitting. I am not unhappy to say that I have probably gone up Jack’s Rake for the last time. It would have to be a dry summer before I venture back there.

At the top, a short snack, before continuing by compass bearing  through cold wind over cloud-strewn brown moor, overblown with rotten snow, down to the top of the Stake Pass. Down the Stake Pass into Mickleden, that most favoured of places, and along the valley of Mickleden in the slowly fading light of a winter afternoon. Even in winter I can’t walk through Mickleden without hearing sheep, without feeling the heat of summer sun on my shoulders. Then, tea for two in the bar of the Old Dungeon Ghyll, before a companionable wander through the gloom across the fields to the car park at the New Dungeon Ghyll. For a short day, a towering achievement. A good scramble, easy fellowship and safe transit over the mountains in poor weather.

Extraordinary complexity

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We live in times of extraordinary complexity. Perhaps it was ever thus: were there ever truly simple and straightforward times? Yet, our willingness and our ability to discern complexity is under attack as never before. It is under attack from social media; it is under attack from the rise in sentimentality we’ve seen over this last twenty years or so, and it is under attack because of the fashion for hyperbole and over-statement.

The deplorable rise of “spin” – the use of language to conceal, obscure or divert people from the facts – has much to answer for.  The use of carefully chosen, politically charged, and nuanced phrasing, has, paradoxically, eroded our capability to discern nuance.

We look back at events like the Great War, and perhaps see simple causes, straightforward effects, obvious and clear protagonists and antagonists.  We view such events through the simple lens of modern thinking.  Cliches such as “senseless slaughter” come to our lips; we take off our hats, and rightly, spend a moment in silence to remember the fallen. 

But it was never that simple: that war was no simple struggle between good and evil, nor even a titanic battle between two great empires, the British and the Austro-Hungarian.  Britain, even the British Empire, was part of an alliance, and not even the senior partner at that.   

And then, consider what else was happening at the same time as the Great War.  The struggle for female emancipation and women’s suffrage.  The Easter Rising and the struggle for independence in Ireland.  The Russian revolution.  The technical innovation happening as a result of the war; the changing relationship between the New World and the Old.  

All of it points to a time of complexity to which we don’t do justice by over-simplifying what happened. It is not less true today.  I’m minded to reflect on our shortening attention span.  My boss wants 3-5 bullet points, size 21 font, one slide in Microsoft PowerPoint – just the salient facts to present to the Board.  In the second war,  Churchill reputedly turned to his underlings and asked them to provide for him a “report on the current state of the Royal Navy – on one side of a sheet of paper”.  As writers we do have a duty to keep things simple, to use short words, sentences and paragraphs, and to cut out unnecessary waffle. There is a case for simplicity – but we have made the case for simplicity our idol. 

How are we going to comment meaningfully and profitably on the hideous complexity through which we are now living? Three bullet points won’t cover Brexit nor explain the reasons for and against it.  One side of a sheet of paper may not cover the reasons for our changing culture.  A few photographs will not explain the balance of power between the West, China and Russia.  The job of the commentator is made doubly difficult by the fact that everyday folk have lost interest in complexity.  Today we have Twitter and Instagram – but think of the walls of text in a Victorian newspaper.  Today we want to see things reduced to three bullet points, the sound bite, the black and white. We want to see the spectacle of wrong and right, of bread and circuses.  Who needs a judge and jury when you’ve got Facebook?