Footpaths of the mind

William Holman Hunt, Our English Coasts (1852). 

[Holman Hunt's painting is remarkably faithful to the light and colours that can – under the right conditions – be experienced on the Hastings Beds cliffs]

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For some time I’ve been mulling over the idea of writing something about Victorian and Edwardian formal and informal photography – particularly that of my home towns of Hastings and St Leonards. In pursuit of this idea, I put together a selection of what seemed to me to be the most relevant blogs, and sent them to the History Press. I spoke this morning to the editor of the press. She was both business–like and very pleasant, and suggested – as a result of the material I had sent in – that I look at their lists, and submit any proposals I might have to their editorial team – via their website.

Well, I checked ‘Hastings’ and ‘History Press’ on Amazon, and discovered that every conceivable thing I might have done has been covered in the last decade! However, I say “might have covered”, but in truth you cannot really write about a place that you are not living in. I would want to talk to as many people as possible, rummage and forage about, pace the streets, and etc. (I talk to the fishermen from the small fishing fleet whenever I can. They are extraordinarily interesting, and have craft and tacit knowledge in abundance. The fisherman I talked to when I was last in Hastings was painting the hull of his boat, and I got down on my hunkers to talk to him. His conversation was peppered with the present participle of The F Word. None of this was directed at me, and clearly he had no thought at all that I would be offended by it. It was as natural to his speech as his mannerisms, and when our conversation had come to a natural end and I stood up to leave, he said “Good to talk to you.”!)

But I’ve strayed from my publication idea. I experienced only the mildest and very short–lived disappointment over the History Press, because when I sent my ideas in I knew perfectly well that the only approach was to be realistic (and to be genial about it, frankly).

I mentioned in my blog “Following Theroux and rediscovering Bratby” that there are seven separate, un–named or ‘unofficial’ footpath routes between Hastings and Rye. The first, so to arrange them, is the remarkable and unique coastal path via Ecclesbourne Glen, Fairlight Glen, the Fire Hills, Pett Level, and Rye Harbour. Paths two to seven follow routes, like irregular strata, further inland and north. I could follow these paths in all seasons, and then write about them – in a ‘stream of consciousness’ form, but rooted firmly in the mud and clay of Sussex!

“But you’ve given your idea away . . .”

“No I haven’t. No one else will do it. They couldn’t if they wanted to!  

“You think a lot of yourself. Fancy yourself a W G Sebald, or something?”

“Most certainly not; but if you dig deep enough, you can make something your own, you know.”

“I think you’ve really lost it, mate . . . I’m going off to play a round of golf . . .”

(“Good luck, my friend. How glad I am to see the back of you!”)

Now, what shall I call my book? The Unofficial English Footpath, perhaps . . .