Get the latest tech news
Remembering Nan Shepherd
The novels weren’t the point. The point of Nan Shepherd was herself. My mother described what a thrill it was to be...
In September the same year, a random horror shook our village: a taxi driver called George Murdoch was robbed of £21 of takings and garrotted with a cheese wire just up from the old station at the east end of Cults. Outdoor gear had evolved from green waxed cotton to pink Gore-Tex, protecting our bodies from rain and sweat while introducing to them a cocktail of per and polyfluoroalkyl substances (PFAs) – the forever chemicals. ‘In that disturbed and uncertain world,’ she wrote in the foreword, ‘it was my secret place of ease.’ It’s easy to see the contemporary resonance, but I don’t altogether trust this return to the 1940s and to some prehuman essence of nature: light and form, naked birches, elemental forces, feyness of body and spirit, gaunt corries, the churr of ptarmigan, white cumuli low on the horizon.
Or read this on Hacker News