I read this book in February, and was expecting it to both ease and deepen my lockdown blues, which it did. The beauty of the descriptions of the Cairngorms, which are only an hour or so drive from where I live, were out of bounds during the lockdown and reading this made me long to escape there. But this book is also about small beauty, about spending time in a place and really getting to know it.
Nan Shepherd walked, lived and slept in the Cairngorms, in all seasons and all weathers. She makes so many beautiful observations in such a slim volume. It is part celebration of nature and part celebration of life. Even as she records her experiences Shepherd reflects that:
“…they are not in the books for me – they are in living encounters, moments in their life that have crossed moments of mine.”
Yet she has managed to capture so much in her writing, the book is full of moments set out for the reader – the fall of snow on the mountain, the changing light, the plants, animals and people who live there. She made me reconsider what it is to know a place, and one of the revelations for me was in how she talked about getting away from conquering summits and instead looked for what else she could find – hidden ridges or lochs or lower plateaus. I get summit fever whenever I go walking but over the past year have trained myself to look and listen to what is around me more, as Nan Shepherd advocates.
The part which did make me sad was Shepherd’s belief that:
“No one knows the mountain completely who has not slept on it. As one slips over into sleep, the mind grows limpid; the body melts; perception alone remains.”
I am sure I am not alone in this, but whenever I go for a walk by myself – especially somewhere remote or quiet – I find myself looking over my shoulder from time to time, conscious that I am a female walking alone and I cannot completely relax or drift off in the way that Shepherd seems to. Perhaps things were different then, she does not mention dangers aside from the risk of death from a fall or getting caught in bad weather. Or perhaps the danger was there and she managed to not let it distract her.
Before I started to read The Living Mountain, I was delighted to discover that Nan Shepherd lived very close to where I live now, so close that I pass the house she lived in often. Despite not being able to visit the Cairngorms, I took great comfort in my local walks by the River Dee knowing that Nan Shepherd probably walked the same paths when she wasn’t climbing mountains. As beautiful and moving as Shepherd’s observations are, I felt this book was an invitation to go and see for yourself, go and experience for yourself, the natural world.
A Literary Re-Education 