H. V. Morton (1892–1979)
Author of In Search of England
About the Author
H. V. Morton began writing as an undergraduate in England. By the time he was 19, he became assistant editor of the Birmingham Gazette and Express. Later he joined the staff of the Daily Mail in London. Returning home from the British army after World War I, he realized how little he actually knew show more his country. His explorations led him to write a travel series later published by Dodd. He has been called "perhaps the greatest living authority on the material being of the British Isles---that is to say, on their landscape, buildings, monuments, customs and history." As a devout churchman, he has also written several books on biblical personages and places. He was an experienced and worldly traveler who had a "unique talent for capturing the essence of lives long past." (Bowker Author Biography) show less
Series
Works by H. V. Morton
Atlantic Meeting: An Account of Mr Churchill's Voyage in H.M.S. Prince of Wales, in August 1941, and the Conference with President Roosevelt Which Resulted in the Atlantic Charter (2016) 73 copies, 2 reviews
The London scene 2 copies
A Traveller In Itay 1 copy
In Search Of Africa 1 copy
Por tierras de la Biblia 1 copy
La Spagna. 1 copy
Resenär i Italien 1 copy
Associated Works
Tagged
Common Knowledge
- Canonical name
- Morton, H. V.
- Legal name
- Morton, Henry Canova Vollam
- Birthdate
- 1892-07-26
- Date of death
- 1979-06-18
- Gender
- male
- Education
- King Edward's School, Birmingham, England, UK
- Occupations
- journalist
travel writer - Organizations
- Birmingham Gazette and Express
Daily Mail (London|sub-editor)
Evening Standard (London)
Daily Express (London)
Daily Herald (London)
British Army (WWI) - Awards and honors
- Royal Society of Literature (Fellow)
Order of the Phoenix (Greece, Commander, 1937)
Cavaliere Ordine al Merito della Repubblica Italiana (1965). - Nationality
- UK
South Africa - Birthplace
- Ashton-under-Lyne, Lancashire, England, UK
- Places of residence
- Ashton-under-Lyne, Lancashire, UK
Birmingham, England, UK
London, England, UK
West Somerset, South Africa - Place of death
- Somerset West, South Africa
- Associated Place (for map)
- UK
Members
Reviews
Amongst all the misery caused by Covid, not being able to travel seems a comparatively trivial hardship, but we Australians are great travellers, and I've got very itchy feet. Reading travel books seems like pouring salt on the wound, but In the Steps of St Paul is painless. Published not far off a century ago in October 1936, it's about a lost world anyway. The contemporary Middle East bears no resemblance to the places HVM visited, and travel there is fraught with complexities. One can't show more read HVM's introduction without a wry smile...
Though I've been a member of the H.V.Morton Society for years, have read several of his travel books and collected many more, I've never read a biography of HVM so I don't know if he was religious or not. But as it says at Who is H V Morton? he had a lifelong passion for archaeology and ancient history, and it was the brilliance of his eye witness account for the Daily Express of the opening of the tomb of Tutankhamun in 1923 which made his name as a journalist. It makes sense that retracing the journeys of St Paul would have made a fascinating quest, especially at a time when so many ancient sites of Christian religious significance were unknown to most people. And though some of what he writes would now offend modern sensibilities, I can understand his scathing contempt about the destruction of ancient monuments and artefacts because of religious intolerance. I imagine he would have been livid to witness the looting of Baghdad museum during the 2003 American invasion of Iraq too.
In the course of four journeys, HVM visited Palestine (then under British administration, which — being an imperialist — HVM thinks is a good thing), Syria, Turkey, Macedonia, Greece, the islands of Cyprus, Malta, Rhodes and the City of Rome. It all takes place before the age of mass tourism, and he travels by boat, train, hired car, a sand-cart and on foot. His eye for detail is prodigious, and his pen-portraits of the people he meets make them unforgettable. The photo at left is of Father John, who presides over what remains of the Church of St Paul at Caesarea, described as a squalid collection of houses and a mass of ruined walls where little was left of the thriving Roman city but fallen stones and the neglected remains of a Roman theatre. As HVM explores the area with his hospitable guides, a horseman topped a rise of ground...
It turns out that it's Father John, who had seen a hare in the corn and hoped to catch it to serve to the Bishop of Caesarea who was coming to stay with him, despite the fact that there is no congregation at Caesarea because there were no Christians. Father John holds Sunday Service entirely alone. The reader can sense HVM's pity and dismay when he writes that it was the most pathetically poor little church he'd ever seen, and it was also the only Greek church he'd ever seen without an ikonostasis. And when he sees Father John's distress about the desecration of the holy vault below the church — said to be the prison of St Paul — he subsequently intervenes. He writes to the Palestine Government requesting that a competent antiquary be sent to inspect the building and is pleased to report that pending the purchase of the vault by the Greek Orthodox Church, steps have been taken to prevent it being used as a stable for donkeys and mules by the farmers who had bought it!
The book is full of fascinating snippets like this.
To read the rest of my review please visit https://anzlitlovers.com/2020/12/31/in-the-steps-of-st-paul-by-h-v-morton/ show less
The modern traveller who takes the Acts of the Apostles as his guide-book, as I have done, journeys into a part of the world which once enjoyed the unity of the Roman Empire and is now divided among many nations. Where he is held up at national frontiers, to pass onward under a different flag and among men who speak under a different tongue, St Paul moved forward over a Roman road, speaking Greek all the time.
It follows, therefore, that travel was easier for St. Paul than for those who follow him, for the great commercial highways along which he moved, and the famous ports from whose harbours he sailed, are no longer the main highways of the world. What was to St. Paul a progress along the best-known roads of the Roman Empire, becomes, to the modern traveller, a series of explorations from the beaten track. The harbour of Antioch is desolate, and Ephesus is a nesting-place for the stork.
Though I've been a member of the H.V.Morton Society for years, have read several of his travel books and collected many more, I've never read a biography of HVM so I don't know if he was religious or not. But as it says at Who is H V Morton? he had a lifelong passion for archaeology and ancient history, and it was the brilliance of his eye witness account for the Daily Express of the opening of the tomb of Tutankhamun in 1923 which made his name as a journalist. It makes sense that retracing the journeys of St Paul would have made a fascinating quest, especially at a time when so many ancient sites of Christian religious significance were unknown to most people. And though some of what he writes would now offend modern sensibilities, I can understand his scathing contempt about the destruction of ancient monuments and artefacts because of religious intolerance. I imagine he would have been livid to witness the looting of Baghdad museum during the 2003 American invasion of Iraq too.
In the course of four journeys, HVM visited Palestine (then under British administration, which — being an imperialist — HVM thinks is a good thing), Syria, Turkey, Macedonia, Greece, the islands of Cyprus, Malta, Rhodes and the City of Rome. It all takes place before the age of mass tourism, and he travels by boat, train, hired car, a sand-cart and on foot. His eye for detail is prodigious, and his pen-portraits of the people he meets make them unforgettable. The photo at left is of Father John, who presides over what remains of the Church of St Paul at Caesarea, described as a squalid collection of houses and a mass of ruined walls where little was left of the thriving Roman city but fallen stones and the neglected remains of a Roman theatre. As HVM explores the area with his hospitable guides, a horseman topped a rise of ground...
He sat in an Arab saddle and his bridle was a single strand of rope. He wore a pair of striped trousers which had once, in some inconceivable past, belonged to a morning coat. His grey shirt was open at the neck and his feet in Arab slippers were thrust into bucket stirrups. He carried a shot-gun slung across his back. But the most remarkable thing about him was his face, which was as dark as an Arab's. It was a lean, brown face, with the straight nose seen in classical sculpture. His beard grew away from the lips and stood out crisply. His hair was looped up at the back in a gigantic knot that would, if unbound, have fallen below his waist. This impressive person came riding towards us, an odd mixture of brigand and saint. (p. 358)
It turns out that it's Father John, who had seen a hare in the corn and hoped to catch it to serve to the Bishop of Caesarea who was coming to stay with him, despite the fact that there is no congregation at Caesarea because there were no Christians. Father John holds Sunday Service entirely alone. The reader can sense HVM's pity and dismay when he writes that it was the most pathetically poor little church he'd ever seen, and it was also the only Greek church he'd ever seen without an ikonostasis. And when he sees Father John's distress about the desecration of the holy vault below the church — said to be the prison of St Paul — he subsequently intervenes. He writes to the Palestine Government requesting that a competent antiquary be sent to inspect the building and is pleased to report that pending the purchase of the vault by the Greek Orthodox Church, steps have been taken to prevent it being used as a stable for donkeys and mules by the farmers who had bought it!
The book is full of fascinating snippets like this.
To read the rest of my review please visit https://anzlitlovers.com/2020/12/31/in-the-steps-of-st-paul-by-h-v-morton/ show less
Fascinating and often beautifully written. Morton doesn't tell all, and doesn't understand all, and brings his beliefs with him as we all do. Nevertheless it is a glimpse into a time and place that remains only in the slimmest living threads and the memories of its people.
This is the first book I’ve read by H.V. Morton, and it won’t be the last.
I much appreciate the books of Paul Theroux and felt him to be unrivalled as a travel writer, but after reading the present author, I must state that Theroux has met his match.
Scotland is my home country and I no longer live there, so this book is obviously of great interest to me (Absence makes the heart grow fonder.)
But it was first published in 1929, so H.V. Morton’s trip took place many years ago, much show more earlier than Theroux’s visit as portrayed in his book “Kingdom by the Sea”.
H.V. Morton was an Englishman. It was his first time in Scotland; he informs us that the Highlands of Scotland were discovered centuries after America, the greater area of the Highlands being “an unknown wilderness”.
The author patently did much research into Scottish history, and avails us of the results of this research in the present book. I learnt much from it.
He enjoyed Scotland and loved the Scots.
His writing is wonderfully eloquent, He quotes various poets, and informs us also of others who have written about Scotland.
He recommends we acquire Walter Scott’s ”Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border” which contains “deathless” ballads.
He quotes “The King sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine”
The author calls the Border a “queer compromise between fairyland and battle-field".
He tells a story about Bruce’s heart which was buried before the high altar of Melrose Abbey.
Edinburgh is obviously regal, plainly a capital. In his view, it is a “he”, not “she”. It is as masculine as London. (I don’t know if I agree.)
He tells us about Canongate (where I used to live). It forms the main eastern length of the Royal Mile. “Here are the ghosts of Edinburgh, here in these old stone courtyards – It is grey, sinister, mediaeval”
You stand in Canongate aware of many things -- “”those ill-fated, sallow Stuarts with their melancholy eyes, of that unhappy, lovely queen, who still stirs men’s hearts, of John Knox with his denunciatory finger”.
“As you go past the dim wynds -- a man with a limp and a fine high brow goes with you. Walter Scott!” And you may see Stevenson “in a black velvet jacket”.
“There are too many ghosts in Old Edinburgh – trying to drag you into dark, uncomfortable places, attempting to lure you all night long with their story”.
He tells us that the “alleged” portraits of 110 Scottish monarchs in Holyrood Palace are “”fascinatingly bad - this is the worst picture gallery in the world”. Morton states that all the earlier portraits and even many of the names are pure fiction.
He informs us that the Esplanade – the wide parade ground before the Castle gates – is legally on the other side of the Atlantic, it having been declared Novia Scotia territory in the reign of Charles I. This decree has never been annulled.
In a small room in the Castle, Mary, Queen of Scots, gave birth to a son.
But the story goes that the infant born to Mary three months after Riccio was murdered died at birth or soon after and “in order to avert a political crisis” a changeling was substituted who later ascended the thrones of England and Scotland as James I and VI.
James was never sure of his legitimacy.
In 1830 a small oak coffin was discovered behind the wainscoting; this coffin contained the bones of an infant wrapped in a richly embroidered silk covering. Two initials were worked on this shroud and one of hem was clearly the letter J. Was this the body of Mary’s infant and the rightful heir to the throne? If so, who was James VI?
It has been suggested that the changeling was in fact the infant son of lady Ryves, the “wet nurse of the royal infant”. Also, it has been commented on that James VI “departs from the facial characteristics of the Stuarts”. If you compare him with any of his ancestors, you will see that he is different.
“But he bears an astonishing resemblance to John, Second Earl of Mar, whose lifelong friend he was, whose mother, the Countess of Mar, took charge of Mary’s child soon after his birth and until his christening. Did the Countess substitute her second child for that of her royal mistress? If so, James VI was the younger brother of John, Earl of Mar.”
Apparently it has historically been proved that if the substitution took place, Mary never knew. Mary believed to her dying day that James VI was her son.
Two paintings, one of James and one of the Earl of Mar, show an almost exact facial resemblance. “The likeness is so startling that the pictures might be of one man.”
H.V. visits the Castle of Roslin, or all that was left of it. There was the legend of the buried millions said to be lying in a vault beneath the courtyard. The only person who knew the hiding-place was a lady of the house of St. Clair, now dead. If, however, a trumpet blown in the upper apartments is heard in the dungeons, she would appear and lead on to the gold.
H.V. visits the Palace of Linlithgow. In a little turret there Margaret, the Queen of James IV, waited day after day for the return of her husband from Flodden. “James IV, twelve Scottish earls, thirteen lords, five eldest sons of peers, fifty chief knights, and 10,000 men fell at Flodden.”
In another part of the palace is the room in which Mary, Queen of Scotas, ws born. When her father, James IV was told that his child was a “lass” he died of a broken heart, at the age of thirty.
H.V. tells us that a real Highlander is quick to take offence and is a fighter. He is a born aristocrat.
He witnesses a wedding in a hotel lounge.
“In Scotland a marriage can be solemnized anywhere. The declaration of a man and a woman that they take one another for husband and wife is a legal marriage. Hundreds of marriages are held in the hotel lounges of Scotland.” Marriages still take place in Gretna Green.
Outside Forres (on the North coast) is a remarkable monolith over 900 years old, supposed to commemmorate a victory of Sweyn, son of Harald, over Malcolm II.
Another stone near at hand marks the place where the witches of Forres were burnt in olden times.
Forres, though poor in 1809, is now (1929) “one of the snuggest towns you will find in the Highlands”.
He states that Inverness annoys and distracts him, He had thought that Edinburgh was the most romantic city in Scotland, but becomes uncertain. Edinburgh is more magnificent, but Inverness is more romantic. It has “a broad, lovely river that flows through the heart of it”.
Inverness is “the watch-tower of the Highlands. The Castle has an incredible view. The doorkeeper of Inverness Castle turned out to be a “Mr Macbeth”.
He had been warned to note the Inverness accent, He was charmed by the accent of the girl in the reception of the hotel and complimented her on it, only to be told that she was English! He failed to find any beautiful accent in the people of Inverness, and fears that the accent of Inverness has killed itself.
He goes to Culloden and tells us the whole story of the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie.
Culloden, of all the battle-fields known to the author, is ”still drenched with the melancholy of its association: it is the only battle-field I know which contains the graves of the fallen, buried in trenches as they died”.
Ben Nevis is the highest and most famous mountain in the British Isles. It is 4,406 feet in height, or 846 feet higher than Snowdon,
“Every healthy man who visits Fort William climbs Ben Nevis.”” What about the healthy women?
So he climbs it too, Suddenly, he is in a “valley of death”, where nothing grows. There is a cloud far below him. He enters a mist and meets two men, teeth chattering with cold, who tell him it’s only another half mile to the top.
The mist turns to sleet, and the sleet turns to snow. He enters a ruin for shelter and hears a dreadful sound, “an evil, damnable sound”” - it is the sough of wind coming up over the crest of Ben Nevis.
The precipice over the edge of Ben Nevis is 1,500 feet deep. On his way down the mountain he sees a “brilliant panorama of mountains” and a rainbow, and then the sun shines.
H.V. goes by sea to Skye in the Stornoway boat.
“Shaggy islanders walk the forecastle --- They lean on long sticks – and talk in Gaelic about the price of sheep”. (How does he know?)
At the Kyle of Lochalsh he changes to the Skye boat, a paddle steamer.
The captain and his officers read the morning newspapers in English and discuss them in Gaelic - “a live, vivid language”. (I’m sure that now in 2021 no-one would be speaking Gaelic!)
He “feels himself hanging between this world and the next, between past and future, in some stange, timeless interlude”.
He arrives at Portree after dark and can feel the nearness of great mountains, but can see nothing in the mist.
In the morning he sees “a tremendous Vesuvius called Glamaig shot up in the air” - I assume he means a mountain.
When he departs the inn and turns to the right, the sight of the ‘Black’ Coolins hits him like a blow in the face! He has travelled the world but never seen anything like the ‘Black’ Coolins standing “grape blue and still, in morning sunshine”.
These mountains are “the essence of all that can be terrible in mountains”. They have “the fearful mystery of high places”, crved into “a million queer, horrible shapes”. They are “”formed of rock unlike any other rock so that they will never look the same for very long, now blue, now grey, now silver --- but always drenched in mystery and terror”.
H.V. believes that Skye is the strangest place in the British Isles. He has been told of “the hauntedness” of Skye.
All Skye names are a mixture of Norse and Gaelic. It was Viking land in remote ages. “The Viking named the hills, the lochs, and the moournful .”
With his poetic descriptions, the author eloquently depicts for us the sense of mystery and awe he feels when subjected to the Coolins.
The Coolins fascinate and thrill H.V. “They are frightful. They are stupendous.”
Theroux was also fascinated by these mountains, which however he spelt “Cuillins”, which is apparently the correct, or at least modern, spelling.
Dunvegan Castle, the oldest inhabited castle in Scotland, is opened twice a week for those who want to see the Fairy Flag. The flag would save the (Macleod) clan in three great dangers, by being waved. It had already been waved successfully twice.
H.V. visits the pass of Glencoe, where he learns about the terrible massacre in 1691, when 38 Macdonalds were murdered. When an inquiry was made about the massacre, it was deemed “the most foul and barbaric deed in the history of clan murder”.
Rob Roy was the Robin Hood of Scotland and he dies “as recently as 1734”, which in my view is not recent. He is associated with the Trossachs and Loch Lomond. I would have appreciated more information about Rob Roy than was given.
H.V. visits Glasgow, “the greatest, closely-knit community in Great Britain”. “She is the least suburban of all great cities.”
He tells us that Edinburgh is Scottish, while Glasgow is cosmopolitan.
There’s a section about food, mostly haggis and Scotch broth.
There is much about Robbie Burns, whom he calls the most attractive and in some ways pathetic figure in Scotland. He was “the Pan of Scotland”.
To sum up, I would go so far as to call H.V. Morton a brilliant writer; his descriptions are elegant and poetical and steeped with absorbing historical information. If his book has a downside, it may be that he assumes that the reader knows more Scottish history than he or she in fact does.
Also, it is an obvious drawback that the author’s visit took place so long ago; many things will now have changed, though not the history, of course. show less
I much appreciate the books of Paul Theroux and felt him to be unrivalled as a travel writer, but after reading the present author, I must state that Theroux has met his match.
Scotland is my home country and I no longer live there, so this book is obviously of great interest to me (Absence makes the heart grow fonder.)
But it was first published in 1929, so H.V. Morton’s trip took place many years ago, much show more earlier than Theroux’s visit as portrayed in his book “Kingdom by the Sea”.
H.V. Morton was an Englishman. It was his first time in Scotland; he informs us that the Highlands of Scotland were discovered centuries after America, the greater area of the Highlands being “an unknown wilderness”.
The author patently did much research into Scottish history, and avails us of the results of this research in the present book. I learnt much from it.
He enjoyed Scotland and loved the Scots.
His writing is wonderfully eloquent, He quotes various poets, and informs us also of others who have written about Scotland.
He recommends we acquire Walter Scott’s ”Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border” which contains “deathless” ballads.
He quotes “The King sits in Dunfermline town, Drinking the blude-red wine”
The author calls the Border a “queer compromise between fairyland and battle-field".
He tells a story about Bruce’s heart which was buried before the high altar of Melrose Abbey.
Edinburgh is obviously regal, plainly a capital. In his view, it is a “he”, not “she”. It is as masculine as London. (I don’t know if I agree.)
He tells us about Canongate (where I used to live). It forms the main eastern length of the Royal Mile. “Here are the ghosts of Edinburgh, here in these old stone courtyards – It is grey, sinister, mediaeval”
You stand in Canongate aware of many things -- “”those ill-fated, sallow Stuarts with their melancholy eyes, of that unhappy, lovely queen, who still stirs men’s hearts, of John Knox with his denunciatory finger”.
“As you go past the dim wynds -- a man with a limp and a fine high brow goes with you. Walter Scott!” And you may see Stevenson “in a black velvet jacket”.
“There are too many ghosts in Old Edinburgh – trying to drag you into dark, uncomfortable places, attempting to lure you all night long with their story”.
He tells us that the “alleged” portraits of 110 Scottish monarchs in Holyrood Palace are “”fascinatingly bad - this is the worst picture gallery in the world”. Morton states that all the earlier portraits and even many of the names are pure fiction.
He informs us that the Esplanade – the wide parade ground before the Castle gates – is legally on the other side of the Atlantic, it having been declared Novia Scotia territory in the reign of Charles I. This decree has never been annulled.
In a small room in the Castle, Mary, Queen of Scots, gave birth to a son.
But the story goes that the infant born to Mary three months after Riccio was murdered died at birth or soon after and “in order to avert a political crisis” a changeling was substituted who later ascended the thrones of England and Scotland as James I and VI.
James was never sure of his legitimacy.
In 1830 a small oak coffin was discovered behind the wainscoting; this coffin contained the bones of an infant wrapped in a richly embroidered silk covering. Two initials were worked on this shroud and one of hem was clearly the letter J. Was this the body of Mary’s infant and the rightful heir to the throne? If so, who was James VI?
It has been suggested that the changeling was in fact the infant son of lady Ryves, the “wet nurse of the royal infant”. Also, it has been commented on that James VI “departs from the facial characteristics of the Stuarts”. If you compare him with any of his ancestors, you will see that he is different.
“But he bears an astonishing resemblance to John, Second Earl of Mar, whose lifelong friend he was, whose mother, the Countess of Mar, took charge of Mary’s child soon after his birth and until his christening. Did the Countess substitute her second child for that of her royal mistress? If so, James VI was the younger brother of John, Earl of Mar.”
Apparently it has historically been proved that if the substitution took place, Mary never knew. Mary believed to her dying day that James VI was her son.
Two paintings, one of James and one of the Earl of Mar, show an almost exact facial resemblance. “The likeness is so startling that the pictures might be of one man.”
H.V. visits the Castle of Roslin, or all that was left of it. There was the legend of the buried millions said to be lying in a vault beneath the courtyard. The only person who knew the hiding-place was a lady of the house of St. Clair, now dead. If, however, a trumpet blown in the upper apartments is heard in the dungeons, she would appear and lead on to the gold.
H.V. visits the Palace of Linlithgow. In a little turret there Margaret, the Queen of James IV, waited day after day for the return of her husband from Flodden. “James IV, twelve Scottish earls, thirteen lords, five eldest sons of peers, fifty chief knights, and 10,000 men fell at Flodden.”
In another part of the palace is the room in which Mary, Queen of Scotas, ws born. When her father, James IV was told that his child was a “lass” he died of a broken heart, at the age of thirty.
H.V. tells us that a real Highlander is quick to take offence and is a fighter. He is a born aristocrat.
He witnesses a wedding in a hotel lounge.
“In Scotland a marriage can be solemnized anywhere. The declaration of a man and a woman that they take one another for husband and wife is a legal marriage. Hundreds of marriages are held in the hotel lounges of Scotland.” Marriages still take place in Gretna Green.
Outside Forres (on the North coast) is a remarkable monolith over 900 years old, supposed to commemmorate a victory of Sweyn, son of Harald, over Malcolm II.
Another stone near at hand marks the place where the witches of Forres were burnt in olden times.
Forres, though poor in 1809, is now (1929) “one of the snuggest towns you will find in the Highlands”.
He states that Inverness annoys and distracts him, He had thought that Edinburgh was the most romantic city in Scotland, but becomes uncertain. Edinburgh is more magnificent, but Inverness is more romantic. It has “a broad, lovely river that flows through the heart of it”.
Inverness is “the watch-tower of the Highlands. The Castle has an incredible view. The doorkeeper of Inverness Castle turned out to be a “Mr Macbeth”.
He had been warned to note the Inverness accent, He was charmed by the accent of the girl in the reception of the hotel and complimented her on it, only to be told that she was English! He failed to find any beautiful accent in the people of Inverness, and fears that the accent of Inverness has killed itself.
He goes to Culloden and tells us the whole story of the defeat of Bonnie Prince Charlie.
Culloden, of all the battle-fields known to the author, is ”still drenched with the melancholy of its association: it is the only battle-field I know which contains the graves of the fallen, buried in trenches as they died”.
Ben Nevis is the highest and most famous mountain in the British Isles. It is 4,406 feet in height, or 846 feet higher than Snowdon,
“Every healthy man who visits Fort William climbs Ben Nevis.”” What about the healthy women?
So he climbs it too, Suddenly, he is in a “valley of death”, where nothing grows. There is a cloud far below him. He enters a mist and meets two men, teeth chattering with cold, who tell him it’s only another half mile to the top.
The mist turns to sleet, and the sleet turns to snow. He enters a ruin for shelter and hears a dreadful sound, “an evil, damnable sound”” - it is the sough of wind coming up over the crest of Ben Nevis.
The precipice over the edge of Ben Nevis is 1,500 feet deep. On his way down the mountain he sees a “brilliant panorama of mountains” and a rainbow, and then the sun shines.
H.V. goes by sea to Skye in the Stornoway boat.
“Shaggy islanders walk the forecastle --- They lean on long sticks – and talk in Gaelic about the price of sheep”. (How does he know?)
At the Kyle of Lochalsh he changes to the Skye boat, a paddle steamer.
The captain and his officers read the morning newspapers in English and discuss them in Gaelic - “a live, vivid language”. (I’m sure that now in 2021 no-one would be speaking Gaelic!)
He “feels himself hanging between this world and the next, between past and future, in some stange, timeless interlude”.
He arrives at Portree after dark and can feel the nearness of great mountains, but can see nothing in the mist.
In the morning he sees “a tremendous Vesuvius called Glamaig shot up in the air” - I assume he means a mountain.
When he departs the inn and turns to the right, the sight of the ‘Black’ Coolins hits him like a blow in the face! He has travelled the world but never seen anything like the ‘Black’ Coolins standing “grape blue and still, in morning sunshine”.
These mountains are “the essence of all that can be terrible in mountains”. They have “the fearful mystery of high places”, crved into “a million queer, horrible shapes”. They are “”formed of rock unlike any other rock so that they will never look the same for very long, now blue, now grey, now silver --- but always drenched in mystery and terror”.
H.V. believes that Skye is the strangest place in the British Isles. He has been told of “the hauntedness” of Skye.
All Skye names are a mixture of Norse and Gaelic. It was Viking land in remote ages. “The Viking named the hills, the lochs, and the moournful .”
With his poetic descriptions, the author eloquently depicts for us the sense of mystery and awe he feels when subjected to the Coolins.
The Coolins fascinate and thrill H.V. “They are frightful. They are stupendous.”
Theroux was also fascinated by these mountains, which however he spelt “Cuillins”, which is apparently the correct, or at least modern, spelling.
Dunvegan Castle, the oldest inhabited castle in Scotland, is opened twice a week for those who want to see the Fairy Flag. The flag would save the (Macleod) clan in three great dangers, by being waved. It had already been waved successfully twice.
H.V. visits the pass of Glencoe, where he learns about the terrible massacre in 1691, when 38 Macdonalds were murdered. When an inquiry was made about the massacre, it was deemed “the most foul and barbaric deed in the history of clan murder”.
Rob Roy was the Robin Hood of Scotland and he dies “as recently as 1734”, which in my view is not recent. He is associated with the Trossachs and Loch Lomond. I would have appreciated more information about Rob Roy than was given.
H.V. visits Glasgow, “the greatest, closely-knit community in Great Britain”. “She is the least suburban of all great cities.”
He tells us that Edinburgh is Scottish, while Glasgow is cosmopolitan.
There’s a section about food, mostly haggis and Scotch broth.
There is much about Robbie Burns, whom he calls the most attractive and in some ways pathetic figure in Scotland. He was “the Pan of Scotland”.
To sum up, I would go so far as to call H.V. Morton a brilliant writer; his descriptions are elegant and poetical and steeped with absorbing historical information. If his book has a downside, it may be that he assumes that the reader knows more Scottish history than he or she in fact does.
Also, it is an obvious drawback that the author’s visit took place so long ago; many things will now have changed, though not the history, of course. show less
Henry Morton is not often or widely read these days, and that is a great pity and a loss. As a travel writer (his series of ”In the Search of...”is superb) he crafts great prose and he can take a theme, a tour or technology (“The Fountains of Rome” http://www.librarything.com/work/507022) and render it gripping and eminently readable.
His works are – given the in-between wars period when they were written - somewhat ‘dated’ (as if that matters), and are often claimed by critics show more to be very politically in-correct (and that should not matter very much either – we CAN form our own historical judgments).
His writing tours of England, Scotland Wales and Ireland are complimented by his travel descriptions of Italy, Rome and South Africa … but his London themes, knowledge and access are evidence of his love of this city and its history.
This book, published by Methuen in 1944, is a hard to find treasure, perhaps because it actually contains three of his London books between the covers;The Heart of London, The Spell of London, and The Nights of London it therefore offers good value for its readers, if not to Morton’s publishers. It is a ‘gem’ of a book in another way, being constructed and based on Morton’s wonderfully written weekly (?) newspaper columns about London life. Each chapter is roughly a column length, other more lengthier pieces or chapters included were either because Morton revisited his work before publishing – something he did throughout his writing career – or were ‘special features’. Each stands on its own as an exploration of London life, current (1920-1944) or historical. His awe inspiring access to places and peoples that would probably be debarred to most of us obviously came both from his own charm and the ‘license’ of journalism.
As a book for collectors and readers of city histories, or, judiciously, even as a modern tour guide, this work is something to read or own as it will add a large measure of enjoyment and satisfaction to any ‘visit’ virtual or actual. show less
His works are – given the in-between wars period when they were written - somewhat ‘dated’ (as if that matters), and are often claimed by critics show more to be very politically in-correct (and that should not matter very much either – we CAN form our own historical judgments).
His writing tours of England, Scotland Wales and Ireland are complimented by his travel descriptions of Italy, Rome and South Africa … but his London themes, knowledge and access are evidence of his love of this city and its history.
This book, published by Methuen in 1944, is a hard to find treasure, perhaps because it actually contains three of his London books between the covers;The Heart of London, The Spell of London, and The Nights of London it therefore offers good value for its readers, if not to Morton’s publishers. It is a ‘gem’ of a book in another way, being constructed and based on Morton’s wonderfully written weekly (?) newspaper columns about London life. Each chapter is roughly a column length, other more lengthier pieces or chapters included were either because Morton revisited his work before publishing – something he did throughout his writing career – or were ‘special features’. Each stands on its own as an exploration of London life, current (1920-1944) or historical. His awe inspiring access to places and peoples that would probably be debarred to most of us obviously came both from his own charm and the ‘license’ of journalism.
As a book for collectors and readers of city histories, or, judiciously, even as a modern tour guide, this work is something to read or own as it will add a large measure of enjoyment and satisfaction to any ‘visit’ virtual or actual. show less
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