The Missing Link

 When I read A Reed Shaken by the Wind for the first time, more than 25 years ago, I knew little of Gavin Maxwell, other than otters and a film from childhood days.  That book changed much more than my Maxwell awareness.  It opened up another world.  One of far away places, adventures, and Thesiger.  And it most certainly put me firmly on the Maxwell trail.

 I read all I could find, embarked on a quest, first editions.  His writing, and those that came later, about him.  And his ventures.  Douglas Botting's biography, Gavin Maxwell  - A Life, was pivotal.  Works by John Lister-Kaye and Richard Frere added to the back story.  Trials and tribulations.  And tragedy.

I paid my respects at Sandaig, and visited Eilean Ban, donated to the trust, climbed the lighthouse, stood at his window where his binoculars watched that phone box in Kyleakin.  Ran a finger over Wordsworth's desk.  Watched and waited for otters.  

And I read.  Between the lines.  And now we fill in the gaps.  For Kirsten MacQuarrie has brought us, in Remember the Rowan, Kathleen Raine's story.  And that is such an important part in everything that came later.  That came after they met, in 1949.

 

We knew that the very phrase Ring of Bright Water, came from one of Kathleen's poems.  And that Gavin hadn't properly acknowledged her authorship; anywhere.  There was a rift.  And we knew there was a curse. 

It is a beautiful tale.  Heart-wrenching.  They met, a poet and a wreck.  Writings blossomed.  For both.  From London she travelled to Sandaig, to look after the place, whilst he ventured in the marshes of Iraq, with Thesiger.  He came back with an otter. 

Before Sandaig we visit Monreith, a pile of alien aristocracy.  It was a relationship, of sorts, a marriage of minds and souls.  But not bodies.  A man's man.  That led us to that curse, the blood from a rose thorn staining the rowan.

Let Gavin suffer, in this place, as I am suffering now. 

Reconciled.  Mutual love.  For Mijbil.  More books to be written.  And then.

There's an exchange of letters about harnesses, and Mij throws a toddler tantrum, refusing to be harnessed.  Teeth bared.  Blood drawn.  On the loose. 

 Poetesses, like otters, do not respond well to restraint.

And then.  Big Angus takes his pick-axe to despatch an otter, walking south from Glenelg; no harness, couldn't be the Major's, old and mangy; allegedly.  But you know.  Word's got to Mallaig, the Major already knows.

I cringe as I eavesdrop on that meal at The Buttery; share the pain through the Greek tragedy, as he discovers that curse, reading her manuscript.

And then.  Well we know the story.  Lavinia, briefly.  Edal and Teko.  The fire.  And the film of the book; their tale.  In which she does not feature.  Her words the title.  That cancer.  I am asking you to accompany me in spirit.

There is so much I may read again, after devouring Kirsten MacQuarrie's account from the poet's perspective.  Probably Botting - it's been a long time; and possibly even Gavin Young, whose Slow Boats may have more to tell me.  I may even read Ring of Bright Water again, perhaps not; but I won't be watching that film.

 And before I read any of that I'll be delving into the poetry of Kathleen Raine.

He has married me with a ring, a ring of bright water

Whose ripples travel from the heart of the sea,

He has married me with a ring of light, the glitter

Broadcast on the swift river.

He has married me with the sun's circle

Too dazzling to see, traced in summer sky.

He has crowned me with the wreath of white cloud

That gathers on the snowy summit of the mountain,

Ringed me round with the world-circling wind,

Bound me to the whirlwind's centre.

He has married me with the orbit of the moon

And with the boundless circle of stars,

With the orbits that measure years, months, days, and nights,

Set the tides flowing,

Command the winds to travel or be at rest.

 

At the ring's centre,

Spirit, or angel troubling the pool,

Causality not in nature,

Finger's touch that summons at a point, a moment

Stars and planets, life and light

Or gathers cloud about an apex of cold,

Transcendent touch of love summons my world into being. 

  

Kirsten MacQuarrie has penned a masterful epic.  Inspired by two writers of the highest quality, the craft has rubbed off.  I'll be keeping an eye out for more from her own pen.