Fellowship of Ghosts: Travels in the Land of Midnight Sun Book

What did I know about Norway before reading this book? Embarrassingly little, really.

(1) a) The annual (since 1947) very thoughtful and generous gift by the people of Oslo of an absolutely enormous Christmas tree; in memory of, and thanks for, British support for Norway during the Second World War. This stands proudly in Trafalgar Square, London.

b) Ray Mears' excellent 2003 TV documentary on The Real Heroes of Telemark.

c) David Howarth's superb book "We Die Alone":

(2) A popular destination for cruise liners!

(3) Slartibartfast, "doing the coastlines was always my favourite, used to have endless fun doing all the little fiddly bits in fjords … so anyway, the recession came …". (p.67 of: ).

(4) A friend of mine (half Norwegian by birth), who's one of the nicest men I know.

None of the above really prepared me for Paul Watkins' "The Fellowship of Ghosts". The edition I read [publ. by National Geographic (USA)] is both a visual and physical pleasure to handle. It is bound in deep blue boards and end-papers, with a spine fabric of Sierra dark navy cloth, the lettering on the spine titled in gold. The text is primarily set in FF Seria Regular (a font designed in 2000). Rather weirdly, reading through this book, I developed a somewhat curious and peculiar hallucination; as the font of the text seemed to shape itself to the imagined assumed gradients and spikiness of the landscapes described by the author.

However, much as I enjoyed "The Fellowship of Ghosts" I found a constant frustration in my not being able to clearly, quickly and accurately follow Watkins' routes. The one map in this book (pg.-2) was barely worthy of the word 'map'. It indicated a few place names appearing in the narrative, but dismally failed to locate anything approaching the wealth of geographic detail described by the author. Alas, Google maps was likewise frustratingly sparse of very many of the place names I hungrily sought. I urge the US National Geographic Society to remedy this.

Hence like a ghost myself I limped lightly on the landscape. That's not to say that I didn't enjoy periodic frissons of the majesty of planet tectonics, including: "…which almost gave the mountain a sense of movement, as if it were rising from the ground, shrugging off the luminous green grass of the valley below." (p.10). I chortled at Watkins' caught in a rainstorm, "Rain in my underpants." (p.63) he sighs, before gritting his teeth and summoning up the requisite determination to walk on, bemoaning that the only songs which worked for keeping time, and which he knew by heart were hymns. "I don't even like the words to 'And Did Those Feet In Ancient Time' but the blasted song has a perfect cadence for tramping along the side of a road when your legs are about to collapse underneath you and only the overriding capacity of music can keep you going." (p.64).

The title of this book refers to earlier explorers of this part of Norway (north, but not as far as Trondheim, and westwards of Lillehammer, to the broken coastline). The verve, audacity and achievements of those long-dead men acts as a poignant reminder that many excellent books have been neither reprinted nor translated into other languages (such as English). Watkins' briefly nails the intensity of that experience, when he mulls over the question of what passion drove his predecessors, his 'ghosts', into and up the mountains of Norway. He writes, "…it's almost impossible to figure out what the emotion actually is. That 'indescribable thing' is the profound experience of living completely in the present."(p.172). He warns, "The cost is that a skeletal loneliness appears when you spend more time with [long dead] people you have invented than with people who are real [alive]." (p.190). That loneliness must have got well into to Watkins. There is a major proof-reading error on pg 149, referring to "Robert Leigh-Mallory, whose corpse was discovered on Everest in 1999." How could any author / proof-reader in this field get THAT name wrong?!

Thanks to a lack of contour lines, the reader is also left largely bereft of a measure on the hardiness of Watkins' wanderings, so must look to his self-depreciating humour. He instantly gained my sympathies with reminiscences such as "It is an ancient trail, reminding me of the old Roman roads I walked on Dartmoor [Devon, England] in the pissing rain and oozing fog in the middle of the night on a particularly nasty cadet [i.e. school (Eton) military training)] manoeuvre, when we were put at the mercy of 42 Commando, Royal Marines. It was an experience they enjoyed in the exact proportion that we did not." (p.185). Nicely put!

Who does Watkins write this book for? I'm not entirely sure. He writes well, but not with quite the same precision, seamless fluidity, confidence, background knowledge and expertise of Nick (Nicholas) Crane. Watkins has a good vein of humour; but has a tendency to seek the familiar, too easily (for this reader) relapsing back into his school days; as though the mere mention of Eton will sell his book faster than could a sole walker following an approximation of the trails opened by his climbing predecessors.

Much as I love the John Cleese-like humour of, "For me the atmosphere is familiar, having grown up sliding cafeteria trays past steaming vats of food, while the master-on-duty barked in my ear: 'Move along Watkins! The kitchen staff aren't going to tell you what's in the stew. They don't know. No one knows. God Almighty doesn't have a clue, either.' " (p.204); I wanted to shake Watkins by the shoulders and urge him to cut out the padding and tell me more, much more, about his hard-won discoveries, his relationship to his surroundings, and to raise his time-worn ghosts to the level of deeply cherished companions.