Footnotes pops with keen observation as Peter Fiennes journeys from Swanage to Skye and down again in the literary footsteps of a dozen British writers comparing the landscapes and attitudes they describe against today’s Britain.

It’s a fusion of literary biography, travelogue, and nature-writing. From the water meadows and rocky coves of Enid Blyton’s Dorset, Fiennes travels by train to Cornwall with Wilkie Collins, contemplates the deep magic resonant in landscapes with Ithell Colquhoun, and clip-clops through time towards Wales alongside adventuress Celia Fiennes. Gerald of Wales guides him to Cardiff before winsome duo Edith Somerville and Violet Martin walk Fiennes up Snowdon.

“There is an ancient wind blowing me up the mountain, ruffling the mist among the rocks. It is cold. I hadn’t thought I would be so alone here, just me and the long-dead Edith, Martin and Griffith Roberts. (Loc.2089)

Fiennes tracks J.B. Priestley and Beryl Bainbridge north to Birmingham, and boards the Doncaster train with Dickens. Samuel Johnson takes Fiennes to the Scottish Highlands where a wistful note of longing for a field of one’s own brings us back to Enid Blyton and that image of tidy hedgerows and woodland rambles and a sandwich on a stile under a blue sky.

“Would you go back?” Fiennes asks. “If you could?” Back to those misty meadow mornings, the oak and ash and thorn, something snuffling in the undergrowth: red squirrel, pine marten, wolf. Eagles overhead, fish in the river, apples from the tree. Was life better then? Happier then? Can we even evaluate this? Each successive generation has a changed idea of normal: today we don’t miss fields of butterflies because we never had them.

Though Fiennes’s writing snaps like Christmas crackers, he maintains an endearing humility throughout the journey and allows his ghostly companions to amuse, intrigue, and inform us. But he teases them often, in ever such a nice way.

I laughed during the Wilkie Collins excursion, rose spiritedly to the defence of Enid Blyton (who was absolutely my gateway drug to Agatha Christie, Hammond Innes, Nicholas Monsarrat, John Le Carré, Charles Dickens, Charlotte Bronte…), was charmed by Edith and Martin, and felt the wild call of the Highlands and the nostalgic promise of that village down the lane.

Did I love this book? Yes! Will I read everything Peter Fiennes ever writes again! Yes. Five stars.

Many thanks to Oneworld Publications for my advanced reading copy.

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