Tag Archives: England

Book Reviews, Mind

What We’re Reading – Historical Fiction

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Summer time is approaching and it’s time to find the right books to throw in the beach bag, download on the tablet, or remain perched by your favorite rocking chair. Winter is for the dense works that educate, inform, and develop the mind. Oftentimes accompanied by hearty meals and warm drinks. Summer reading demands the opposite. When not out enjoying warmer weather, a bit of well-deserved vacation time, or just decompression from a long year of coronavirus stress it pays to have a good book at hand.

This spring I’ve been indulging in some fiction. Not straying from my normal habit too far, I’ve picked up a few books that have augmented my recent travels around Great Britain. I now offer these works of Historical Fiction for your consideration:

The Long Ships by Frans G. Bengtsson

“A man would have to look far before finding more rewarding beggars than you,” said Orm, “for not one of you but has a tale to tell. If your story is good, Rainald, let us hear it.”

“Stories about sin are always good to hear,” said Ylva.

The protagonist, Orm is a great fictionalized hero of yore, with a named sword and a strong arm. He’s honorable, wise, and quick of wit. He earns the respect of his enemies and everlasting devotion of his friends. He’s also well-traveled. As a boy he’s swept up into the world of sea-faring vikings, raiders of the sea, and spends years (and many pages) on his adventures. In his fictionalized lifetime he’s a slave, bodyguard, warrior, chieftain, treasure hunter, husband, friend, and father. He’s truly a character a reader can seek inspiration and set aspiration to. 

The Long Ships is simple good ole, serialized storytelling. It’s not meant to be read straight through as Frans Bengtsson originally wrote the epic tale of Orm in two novels that have only recently been combined into a single book. Bengtsson’s own story is worth a little side-reading on. He’s a historian that poured all he knew about early medieval viking culture and lore into this story. He takes Orm across the known Western world throughout his adventures and makes the character react to Jews, Muslims, and Christian Europe. He processes the scale of the Byzantine Empire and the kingdoms of Africa, while he dabbles in the regional politics of the Norse people. Bengtsson takes the reader on a tour of history within the pages and it has a depth that modern viking tales seem to lack.

Vindolanda by Adrian Goldsworthy

“Now we are friends, until the kings says different. . . You are brave and know how to fight. Share a drink.” He offered his cup. Ferox took it, drank what he guessed to be half and handed it back.

“I like you, the German rumbled and clapped the centurion hard on the shoulder, the friendly blow feeling as if it would drive him a foot into the floor.

“I like you,” Ferox replied, a little surprised to find that he meant it.

It’s no secret that I’ve become enamored with the Ancient Roman Empire this past year. You can’t visit Hadrian’s Wall twice in a year without feeling a gravitational pull. On the second visit I made time to visit Vindolanda, the archeological site of a Roman fort that pre-dated the construction of Hadrian’s Wall in AD 122. While it’s proven a treasure trove for archeologists, it is little more than low walls in the outline of the fort’s buildings and walls. When I was browsing through the gift shop I came across Adrian Goldsworthy’s novel Vindolanda. All I needed to read was that he was a historian of Roman Britain and this was his fictionalization of much of what he knew. Into my library it went and I finished it before my trip to the north of Great Britain was finished.

The story revolves around Centurion Flavius Ferox, a Roman staff officer of infamous repute. He’s stationed in the north of Britannia to maintain relations between the tribes and the Roman garrisons. The novel is set in the early days of Emperor Trajan’s reign and there is much uncertainty in the air about Rome’s stability as an empire and presence in Britannia. As Roman officials and aristocrats arrive from far off Rome, Ferox must grapple with diplomatically educating them on the ways of the local tribes while also sniffing the air for challenges to Rome. Goldworthy’s narrative brings Vindolanda, and all of northern Britannia, alive with his descriptions of life at the fort, relations between the tribes, and where Rome is in its history.

I can say with complete honesty that there were some real page-turner episodes for me in this book. Both battles and feasts held me with rapt attention and there is enough human element to make me identify with Centurion Ferox. This novel brings to life the meager facts of what is known about Roman Britain, which incidentally owes a great debt to Vindolanda’s archaeological offerings.

The Last Kingdom by Bernard Cronwell

“Don’t go to Cridianton,” he told me.

“My wife is there,” I said. “My child is there.”

“Alfred is at Exanceaster.” he said

“So?”

“So the man who takes news of the battle to Exanceaster gets credit for it.” he said

“Then you go.” I said.

The Last Kingdom made this list because 1) I read it, 2) it’s also a popular Netflix series, and 3) there are serious flaws with it. I also happened to be at Bamburgh Castle, in the far north of England, where the protagonist was born and spends the entire novel (and series) trying to get back to. I genuinely enjoyed the first 300-or so pages of this. The Danish colonization of England is an interesting period as the descendents of Red Orm settled on the eastern shores of the island and battled the Saxons and Britons. I’ve been to the cities of York and Lincoln that have shared history with each civilization and seen the evidence of that history in the names and architecture that remain. For 90% of this book, it holds up.

Ivar the Boneless, a real historical figure, makes appearances in The Last Kingdom. Most of what was known about him was lost to history, which makes him a perfect character to plug into a fictional story with creative license. Photo by Andrew Zapf, taken at Whitby Abbey in northeastern England - where the vikings came ashore.

***Mild Spoilers***   It all falls apart when the protagonist, Uhtred Ragnarson, stops following the societal rules for power, security, and advancement of his own era and starts adopting the decision making paradigm of the 21st Century. The quote above, when Uhtred decides to follow his wife to Cridianton, instead of claiming credit with King Alfred at Exanceaster, makes no sense for the early medieval societies he lives in. This diversion from reality pushes the accuracy levels of the subsequent novels, not to mention the whole television series, way down as Uhtred keeps failing to learn from his mistakes, refuses advice pertinent to the society, and spends years of his fictional life making illogical decisions. It’s too much and I won’t endorse it beyond page 324. 

However, I can’t recommend Bamburgh Castle (pictured in the banner above), it’s vast beach, and lovely village highly enough.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

History, Mind

Hadrian’s Wall: The Bottom of the Rabbit Hole

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“Sis felicior Augusto, melior Traiano” 

“be more fortunate than Augustus, better than Trajan” – spoken at the inauguration of later-era Roman Emperors


“To a considerable extent, Hadrian’s Wall is a monument to human sweat.” – Alistair Moffat, The Wall

There aren’t many ways to get me to go down the rabbit hole. Up until now I could count on one hand the topics that could set me up for hours of conversation or months of reading: the 1996-97 Detroit Red Wings, the combat history of the 507th Parachute Infantry Regiment, the 1453 Siege of Constantinople by Mehmet the Conqueror, and the Palio di Siena. After six months I can deny it no more. Add the Ancient Roman Empire to the list. 

It snuck up on me slowly. Reading The Eagle of the Ninth by Rosemary Sutcliff as a boy or a fragment of a Roman ruin in Vienna on a college trip. Then as I roamed further I consumed bigger and bigger portions of Roman history. The Celsus Library at Ephesus in Turkey, the temple of Volubilis in Morocco, and visiting the ruins of Jerash in Jordan were whole-day affairs.

Recently and unexpectedly I found myself living in Italy. I was practically stumbling over the Ancient Romans in between sips of espresso and magnificent pasta. And believe you me, I relished the proximity of it all. The Appian Way was a short walk from my rental, central Rome a simple train ride away. Capua, the starting point of the Spartacus-led Third Servile War appeared on the road signs I drove past daily.  

In for a penny, I was in for a pound. Even after I left Italy the Roman history books started piling up on my shelf. Mike Duncan’s History of Rome podcast started accompanying me on my morning commutes. And I put all six volumes of Edward Gibbon’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire at the top of my letter to Santa Claus. I wanted, and still want, to know more. To understand the connections between this ancient empire and our modern world. 

This interest is what drove me to the north of England. Far distant from the Forum and Palatine Hill in Rome were the edges of the empire. There, on the south side of the Scottish border, lies what remains of Emperor Hadrian’s wall demarking the frontier. It was there, on a brisk October morning, that I came to Housesteads Roman Fort, an auxiliary fort once home to Roman legionnaires at the very edge of the civilized world. 

Conquering new lands defined the Ancient Roman Republic and early Roman Empire. Emperor Trajan pushed Rome’s boundaries to the empire’s high water mark. Emperor Hadrian, Trajan’s successor foresaw financial and logistical reasons to put some clean edges on the empire. One, to keep the barbarians out. Two, to keep adventurous Roman generals penned in. As the new emperor toured his domains he set Roman garrisons to building projects along the Danube and in Germania. In AD 122 he ordered the construction of the wall in northern Britannia after another revolt in the province. Britannia simply wouldn’t be a profitable Roman province if they had to keep fighting there. And so the wall was built over six years and stretched nearly the full 91 miles at the narrowest coast-to-coast line in Northern England. The hard edge of the empire became crystal clear. 

When Hadrian gave the word to build Romans from Britain’s legions turned out from their forts to quarry stone, haul material, and erect the long structure. Examples of other Roman walls still standing elsewhere are about 15 feet tall and 10 feet wide. Known for their uniformity and rigidity in military matters, this wall was likely the same. It’s imposing height, augmented by cliffs and ditches, was whitewashed and must have gleamed against the grey British skies. The mile-castles, roving cavalry patrols, and permanent garrisons intimated the reach and power of the Emperor stretching over a thousand miles back to Italy. 

For nearly 1,900 years Hadrian’s Wall has stood. Maintained by the National Trust preservation society in England, it’s line is still impressive. In Housesteads Fort the walls and gates have shed much of their glorious height. Beyond it’s northern gate lies what was once Rome’s frontier. The wall divided lands of the Brigantes tribes and kept the ancient Caledonians – the barbarians of the North – at bay. Here was the last line where the legionnaires stood guard against them all. 

Today the enemy was time. Bryce, Soren, Randy, Sean, and I, fresh off our day on Helvellyn, were there to dash across a section of well before heading back to our day jobs in the south. Dash being the appropriate term as we had one chance to get from Housesteads Fort to the village of Greenhead to catch the last bus back to our parked car. The only backup plan was a ten mile walk back. 

We walked, we jogged and we ran. Occasionally we stopped for a picture or just to gawk at the landscapes. To the south the ground sloped gently down. To the north the terrain drops steeply. The Romans incorporated the cliffs of the Great Whin Sill into their construction to form an imposing and formidable barrier. Overhead a ceaseless wind barreled from the north shoving the clouds across a threatening sky. It would be months before I turned back the cover of Alistair Moffat’s The Wall and really dove into the history of Roman Britain, but even in those moments my imagination could hear the cloth snapping on the Roman standards, and the low grumbling of lonely Centurians on duty from over a thousand years past. 

We arrived in Greenhead with time to spare. At the bus stop we leaned against a less ancient stone wall waiting for Bus 122 (appropriately numbered) to take us away. In the preceding six hours we had climbed the ancient walls, crossed bovine and sheep pastures, and transported ourselves back to the time when the area was bustling with Legionnaires, Auxiliaries, and the human activity that followed the Romans to each corner of the known world. 

In the end, the only tension of the day involved a couple of beers. While waiting for the bus Bryce, Soren, and Sean disappeared into the Greenhead Hotel. Just before the appointed hour they emerged with giant smiles and five bottles of cold ale in their hands – held high in the victory stance. Time slowed as we sipped the amber ale. We weren’t just drinking a toast to our successful day. The five of us were welcoming a new appreciation for the ambition and achievement of the Romans, their mark on history, and their invasion of our imaginations.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Photo Essay, Soul

Two Pubs of Helvellyn

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One of my favorite things about the hiking culture in England is its blending with the pub culture. I abhor excess. In my view the key to happiness is moderation. However, if the best thing after a long day of hiking is a meal and a pint in a cozy pub, is it excessive to have that twice? Twice, you ask? Twice in a lifetime? No. Twice in a weekend? Not what I’m getting after. Twice in a day? Yes, that is exactly what I mean. 

The plan was simple. Hike Helvellyn twice. A true Hobbit’s Tale – there and back again. The summit peaks out from a plateau with beautiful ridges emanating in multiple directions. On either side a village. Comfortably situated in England’s Lake District National Park it’s a hillwalkers’ dream.

We started our day at Thirlmere reservoir, on Helvellyn’s western side. At that early hour our only accompaniment was the sound of our boots on the path. Our group was five strong: Bryce, Soren, Randy, and Sean. Their average age was in the mid-twenties. I was the middle-aged outlier. We had two options (not really, I’m being facetious). Either eat a smashed sandwich from the bottom of our packs somewhere on a predictably cold, windy and wet mountainside, or dry our gear while dining on a pub classic. The hard way or the right way. Rain was already lashing through the air. I advocated for the latter. Everyone agreed. We set off to the east bound for Glenridding and a warm lunch. 

Striding Edge and Swirral Edge are the focal point for most visitors in the Helvellyn range. Google them. You can’t help but be enchanted by the images. Their straight rocky spines slice through the air like a serrated knife. We crested the summit accompanied by an aggressive rain. Magnificent views were masked. Coming off the summit we had a few false starts finding the trail leading to Striding Edge. The weather was unrelenting. We braced against gusts as we traversed, keeping a suspicious eye on the nethers below. Alone on the ridge it felt like we put our souls on Anubis’ scales of judgement. A bad deed or negative thought enough to tip the balance and send us into the abyss. 

Fortunately, the closest pub to Helvellyn, The Travellers Rest, lay directly on our path. Our first pub of the day. For an hour we dried our coats on the radiator and plotted our return route over wide plates of cumberland sausage and fried potatoes. The salty food paired perfectly with a late-morning pint and hearty appetites. The pub was a hiker’s delight. Plenty of benches and chairs arrayed for stretching legs and an unobstructed view of Ullswater lake. Did I mention I love the confluence of the hiking and pub cultures in England? We could have lingered for a second beer, but there was a mountain between us and our campsite. 

Our return journey via Swirral Edge took us back into the clouds. At one point we lost the path. The bit of scrambling was a welcome addition to our experience. It wasn’t exactly trailblazing, but hauling ourselves back onto the Helvellyn plateau with a bit of finesse charged our energy with a shot of adrenaline. The views weren’t any clearer when we reached the summit marker for the second time, but there was a pair of hikers to take our photo. It’s the only photo of the five of us, together, but it captures the feeling of joy at its highest.

I don’t know how many calories we burned that day, but we replaced a fair share during dinner at the second pub – The King’s Head Inn. Five tall lagers. Five thick, fatty American-style hamburgers were a fine reward for a day on the mountain. Fatigue made the conversation a little quieter, but the spirit remained high. 

So, what’s the answer to the question? Was our pub attendance that day excessive? I think not. English pubs are the focal point of the community. In the hiking community the pub is a place to scheme and storytell, dry gear and refuel. I can think of no better place to frequent . . . frequently.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Photo Essay, Soul

Photo Essay – Winter Fog

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The second coronavirus lockdown recently ended in England. November was another month of closed restaurants and minimal trips to the grocery store. In December the country again emerged from indoors to return to the normal patterns of life. Unlike the summer lockdown the days were some of the shortest shortening days of the year. 

The new month also witnessed frigid northern air descend onto the country. Since Saturday my village has been blanketed by a thick fog. Freezing in the mornings, the winter sun never grew strong enough to burn it off. White houses on my street blended with the misty air. Crisp air turned the grass and fallen leaves brittle. The fog lasted for five days.

It only took a short walk to remind me that life persists in the most difficult of times. Along the Great River Ouse the cows grazed obscured by the mist. Families of ducks paddled down the river, quacking noisily. Swans, which are property of the Queen of England, came close to investigate me as I took pictures along the trail. The heavy air carried the sounds of a socially-distanced fitness group exercising in the riverside park far and wide.  

Despite the appearances COVID and winter had not frozen time. Emerging from the darkness of winter will come a new year with new possibilities and renewed hopes.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Photo Essay, Soul, Travel Vignettes

Derbyshire Three Peaks Challenge: A COVID Dash

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There were only twenty four hours. What’s the plan?
It was a ticking clock. A challenge.
England’s Coronavirus rules were strict. No overnights allowed, no pubs or restaurants open.
No rest. No refreshment. Only a return to where we began.
We were on an island. The borders with Wales and Scotland closed.
Where in England could we go? What was possible?
The Peak District! That’s only three hours away!
A Three Peaks Challenge, you say? Can it be done in 24 hours?
A challenge worthy of its name. Who’s in?
Andy, Bryce, Soren from the work bubble. Let’s go!
Prep the evening prior. It will probably rain.
It’s England. It will rain.
Early rise. Load the truck.
Bryce is at the door on time. Drive away while the city sleeps.
The miles pass. Who are these other travelers on the road?
Where could they be going? Will the trail be crowded?
More miles pass. No second guessing now.
Parking lot is nearly empty. Yes, it’s raining.
First steps into the park. Uphill.
It’s a plateau. No trees to stop the wind.
It’s July, but the wind feels like September.
Across the gloomy moor. The stony path to Mordor.
Soren quips, “If I take one more step this is the farthest I’ve been from the shire.”
The peak of Kinder Scout looms. We pass it by.
The haze gets thicker. Sense of direction is muddled.
Came across another hiker. “Don’t get lost in the mist,” she warns.
She steps off the trail. Her cackle swept away by the wind.
Reached Bleaklow Peak. First summit.
Rain batters our faces. Unwise to linger.
Retreat to lower ground. Cold lunch.
The next marker. Only a kilometer away.
Higher Shelf Stones. The second peak.
Nearby an aircraft’s wreckage. From 1948 the B-29 “OVEREXPOSED”
There’s a memorial. There’s a plaque.
Back across the moor. One final summit to bag.
A lonely sheep grazes. It looks out of place, like a civilian on the battlefield.
Kinder Scout rises above the plateau. An imposing walk.
Vertical staircase. Legs burnout finally.
Small steps and large breaths. The final push.
Nothing stopping the wind up here. Lean in and brace for gusts.
Final summit. Third peak.
Find shelter. A pile of boulders.
Deep in the rucksack. A cold beer.
Sweet taste of success. Float down to the truck on a cloud.
17 miles over 9 hours. It rained.
Stretch out the legs. Cram back in the truck.
Three more hours to drive. Clock ticking.
The shadows get long. The minutes pass quickly.
Home. COVID dash complete.
Rest. Return to Isolation.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Book Reviews, Mind

What We’re Reading This Month – August 2020

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This past month has been a busy one. As society emerges from months of isolation the demands of stir-crazy families, a modern economy, and extended work hours in our day jobs has drastically cut down on the available reading time. I’ve turned to a few audiobooks during my commute to feed my appetite, but have still managed to read a few pages each night from a trusty hardbound, real-life book. This month’s reading selection features a mix of what was on-hand and what was easy to consume in these days.


The centerpiece for my reading this month has been The Splendid and the Vile by Erik Larson. Since last autumn I have been eagerly awaiting its release. There are few authors I’ve bothered to set up a Google Alert for, and he is one of them. For Father’s Day this year my wife purchased it for me and which fit neatly into the mental space I’ve made for the 80th Anniversary of the Battle of Britain.

The Splendid and the Vile by Erik Larson

“And so, with family turmoil, civic trauma, and Hitler’s deputy falling from the sky, the first year of Churchill’s leadership came to an end. Against all odds, Britain stood firm, its citizens more emboldened than cowed. Somehow, through it all, Churchill had managed to teach them the art of being fearless.”

In true Larson style, he weaves the historical narrative of the Battle of Britain, which began this month in 1940, with that of the human experiences of Winston Churchill, his family and closest associates in his first year as prime minister. Historical figures, especially the giants like Churchill, can be so famous that we view them as a two-dimensional version of themselves. Larson’s true skill is drawing out primary sources – letters, diaries, speeches, etc. – from the unlikely corners of history to inflate these 2D oversimplifications into three-dimensional, flesh and blood people with human foibles, emotions, and insecurities when the outcome of monumental events were uncertain. 

Furthermore, Larson reveals a wartime England that still clung to the normalities of life. Air raid sirens, shelter wardens, and rubble have been well-captured by history, but it was also a time when night clubs stayed open, debutantes were still presented to society, and the love-struck sought flowers and chocolate to express their affections. Probably the most memorable chapter for me describes the night of Queen Charlotte’s dance of 8 March 1941 and the death of jazz band leader Kenrick “Snackhips” Johnson as bombs rained down on central London and exploded into packed hotels, night clubs, and shopping districts. 

The Splendid and the Vile showed that Londoners didn’t simply turtle into a year-long shell only to emerge when the Nazi’s turned their military attention to invading the Soviet Union in May of 1941 True, many nights were spent sleeplessly awaiting the Luftwaffe, fighting fires, and digging the wounded and the dead from the rubble. But other nights were spent with lovers, dancing in clubs, courtship, and adultery. Churchill’s family enjoyed the privileges of the privileged society and spent weekends in the country in comfortable homes and exceeding their ration coupons. It was an exciting time to be alive for the English and the prospect of nightly death sharpened their appreciation for life. Larson magnificently portrays how life went on in England through the stories of Churchill’s daughter, Mary Churchull, and private secretary, John Colville who had their own stories of love and disappointment.

WIth this book I have renewed appreciation for Larson’s writing and added respect for the English spirit as they persevered with living and fighting when the second world war seemed the most hopeless and bleak.

Fighter: The True Story of the Battle of Britain by Len Deighton

“The Luftwaffe, hitherto a tactical supplement to the blitzkrieg, a force that had taken orders from the army, was about to take upon itself a strategic role. Moreover, it was asked to create a strategy, and then to translate that strategy into day-to-day tactical objectives for its bombers and fighters. The experience of its staff officers was not equal to this task.”

It’s been in my head for months to learn about the Battle of Britain while living in England. 2020 marks the 80th anniversary of the start of the battle and there are several events across the country to mark England’s success in defeating the Luftwaffe’s attempts to crush the Royal Air Force and England’s fighting spirit. I’ve sung the praises of Len Deighton for years. He’s one of my father’s favorite authors and his Cold War spy thrillers are some of the most enjoyable reads I have in the past five years. He’s also had success writing alternative histories – which have been converted into a television series. Deighton has also written some histories, and with his storyteller’s pen, has done an excellent job of making them readable and digestible

While he tells a remarkable narrative, Deighton does analyze the Battle of Britain beyond the mythical heroic Royal Air Force pilots and their advanced Spitfire and rugged Hurricane fighter aircraft. He delves into British aircraft production, the Luftwaffe staff shortcomings, German short sightedness. Probably the greatest feat Deighton reveals is the immense difficulty and achievement in the logistical balancing needed to build, employ, and maintain the Royal Air Force Fighter Command at a time when wooden-framed, cloth-covered aircraft were still in the British inventory. It’s a quick read and the way he organized his sections I was able to read a little at a time without having to commit to a full study of the battle.

The Lemon Tree: An Arab, a Jew, and the Heart of the Middle East by Sandy Tolan

“I struggle for your rights despite my fears. But your rights have to be balanced against our needs for survival. That is why you cannot be satisfied. For you, every viable solution will always be lacking in justice. In a peace plan, everybody will have to do with less than they deserve.”

In a departure from the Battle of Britain theme, I downloaded the audiobook of The Lemon Tree for my commute into work. In a vary Erik Larons-esque style, Tolan weaves the long history of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict with the story of a single home built by an Arab family and later occupied by an Jewish family. The home, and the lemon tree that was planted in the garden, become the focal point for all of the contradictions, injustices, and mutual hope that characterizes the evolving conflict. It’s a story looking backwards, not a solution looking forward, but it’s greatest feature is the empathy a reader can gain for both sides. 

I listened to this as an audiobook and hearing the stories orally added an additional layer of hurt to the injustice.

The 33 Strategies of War by Robert Greene

“The prudent man might seem cold, his rationality sucking pleasure out of life. Not so. Like the pleasure-loving gods on Mount Olympus, he has the perspective, the calm detachment, the ability to laugh, that comes with true vision, which gives everything he does a quality of lightness – these traits comprising what Nietzsche calls the ‘Apollonian ideal.” . . . Odysseus loved adventure; no one was better at the experience of pleasure. He was simply more reasonable, more balanced, less vulnerable to his own emotions and moods, and he left less tragedy and turmoil in his wake. . .  . In a world where people are increasingly incapable of thinking consequentially, more animal than ever, the practice of grand strategy will instantly elevate you above others.”

Finally, the end of my COVID-induced physical separation and work absence has given way to a rushing return to the office. A backlog of emails, papers, and activities to coordinate has eaten into the reading time I previously enjoyed. I turned to Robert Greene for a daily dose of professionally thought-provoking material. Having finished The 48 Laws of Power a few months prior I decided to pick up another of his works, this time The 33 Strategies of War. Each “law” is packaged into a chapter of historical case studies, analysis, related parables, and cautionary counter-examples. In short, Greene gives a readers’ digest of political-military content for the busy and the rushed. I tend to read a few pages each morning over coffee, allowing my brain to engage with the material as the caffeine stimulates my central nervous system.

Geared toward the non-military professional, The 33 Strategies of War employs lessons of past conflict for common usage. There may be some disappointment for those that view their industry as cutt-throat and hope to find practical advice on wielding the knife. It’s not prescriptive for action, but encourages the reader to think with a clear vision. 

Don’t expect to become a new Napoleon after reading this work, but don’t be surprised if you find yourself with a more ruthless inner monologue in your daily interactions.

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Book Reviews, Mind

What We’re Reading This Month – June 2020

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My father doesn’t buy antiques. He always says that “antique” is a synonym for “overpriced.” What he does do is attend auctions, estate sales, and the like to find bargains before they get snatched up and resold by antique dealers. I’ve been to a few of the country auctions with him and seen him in his element. He’ll take his measured steps through the items, hands held loosely behind his back, gazing down like an eagle on a warm updraft. If he sees something of interest he’ll pick it up and look it over. If he’s really interested he’ll call out “Hey, Andy! . . . look at this” Drawing me closer to inspect. More often than not he’ll put the item back and walk away. If he’s still thinking about it in ten minutes he’ll go back for another look. It’s how he plays the game.

He doesn’t buy many items, but when he does they are always a steal. Typically, the auctions he goes to require you remove to your purchase within 24 hours. That’s a limiting factor. He’s seen solid oak armoires and giant kitchen hutches go for pittance. He’d probably have several dining rooms worth of furniture if he had a big truck and the strength to shoulder it all. It’s the boxes of books that he goes for. Sometimes he buys enough to outfit a bookstore in a single evening. He’d pick out what he wanted and donate the rest to his town’s library. In the end he pays mere pennies for the books he keeps in his library. He’s a master of his craft.

Last month he sent me one of those auction books. It arrived in the mail with a short note, the torn dust jacket tucked gently into an envelope. Worn out by over 70 years of existence. The pages are yellow and heavy, with a strong smell of decay. In the letter he explained how the author’s name had drawn his eye. James Hilton. Most famously author of Goodbye, Mr Chips, which was turned into a Hollywood movie in the 1960s. After reading this lesser-known work, and seeing his pencil ticks at the edge of some pages, I know exactly why he sent it on to me. 

So Well Remembered - James Hilton

“Because, the English, after all, are a race of eccentrics. They don’t think it’s odd that people should be odd. And they always bear in mind the possibility that the lunatic view might, after all, be right. That’s what makes them tolerant of their enemies.” 

So Well Remembered is a window into a different era. As a novel, it does not aspire to create a fantastical world with which the characters live in. They live and act in early-twentieth century England, before the world ever heard of nuclear weapons just as it was. James Hilton describes a pre-modern England when time is measured in seasons and small European wars are almost as predictable. His writing style is very different from most living authors. The first thirty pages are a single day, a single frame of mind, and an intimate conversation that takes twenty pages to unfold. He captures the easiness with which someone sits in a chair, with the inner dialogue when trying to impress, and the slow realization that one’s world is being turned upside down. It’s the title’s day, so well remembered by the protagonist. That’s how the book begins and eases into a story of a man’s life, and how life changes that man.

George Boswell’s life brings forth so many lessons about love and marriage, lifetime achievement and determination, failure and resiliency. Hilton’s main characters are complex, beautifully flawed people shaped by their respective families’ pasts and unique upbringing. They are interesting and I couldn’t help but feel sympathy as the moments of triumph turned sour or best laid plans came undone. The collective interactions of the people that come in and out of Boswell’s life left plenty of room for me to be contemplative.

I never would have picked this up on my own. I probably never would have even known of its existence if not for my father. He’s been reflective during these COVID times, archiving old letters from his father, and now reading novels triggering his nostalgia. I can tell he wanted to pass on some of the ideas captured in this novel, unclouded by the sensationalism and immediacy of present times. I understand him just a little bit better now and how the thinking of a different time shaped his perspective on today. 

The Gun - C.S. Forester

“And the gun stood there with a faint wisp of smoke still trickling from its muzzle, immense, imposing, huge. It almost looked as if it were filled with contempt for the little marionettes of men who capered round it, little things whose lives could be measured, at the best, in scores of years, and who were quite incapable unaided of hurling death across five hundred yards of valley.”

I began reading The Gun as background research to another vignette I’m writing. It’s the source material for a Cary Grant, Sophia Loren, and Frank Sinatra film titled The Pride and The Passion. I had seen the film once. Long ago, back in the early days of cable television when anything and everything was played to fill air time, I watched it in our south Michigan living room. Like the movie, The Gun is a story set in the Napoleonic Peninsular Wars of Spain. Published in 1933, the novella only has one main character – a bronze, eighteen pounder cannon – 18 pounds being the size of the cannonball it could fire – a mammoth cannon in any age. The war in Spain was a brutal one. Napolean’s puppet king couldn’t quell the Spanish despite defeating the regular army in the field. It dragged on as a series of small wars against insurgent bands. “War” in Spanish translates to “guerra”; and this type of war in Spain became known as guerrilla, literally “small war” because of the lack of large, set-piece battles. The men and women that fought small wars can be called guerillas or guerrilleros. While the outsized cannon has devastating potential for those who could wield it, the guerrilleros seem cursed by its presence.

C.S. Forester writes a tightly written story where human life is local, simple, and short. Names are inconsequential and the suffering of men is commonplace. I’ve highlighted many passages, noting the horrible conditions of war and the easy deaths many suffered. Passages like are representative of this constant themes (note: el Billbanito is the name of a guerrilla leader in the novella):

“The men did not die. They cursed el Bilbanito, they cursed the gun, and the cattle, but they lived. During this period el Bilbanito slept more securely than before; he knew that mutiny breeds in idleness, not in hardship or hard work. The men might curse, complain, grumble, but they were secretly proud of their efforts. There was a thrill in looking back down a seemingly endless mountain side and in knowing that they had dragged a gun all the way up it. Unremitting toil of the most exacting nature had always been the destiny of those peasants even in peace time, and now in war their labour was made more attractive for them because each man wore a plume of cock’s feathers in his hat and belonged to the noted guerrillero band of el Bilbanito, which was soon to sweep the plains of Leon by the aid of the gun.”

There are no heroes for the reader other than the cannon. Unlike formulaic war stories of action, heroism, and climactic victory, Forester provides a flat narrative that allows the reader more reflection on the real face of war – much as he probably intended when he wrote this in the aftermath of World War I.

Wind, Sand, and Stars - Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

“We must throw out bridges into the darkness.”

I’ve got quite a few books on my nightstand that are so dense that I couldn’t split them with an axe. I’ve attempted to chip away at them night after night, but sometimes it feels like whittling with a dull knife. I picked up Wind,Sand, and Stars as a reprieve. Saint-Expuréy’s writing is poetic and smooth. He delves into camaraderie, the magic of flight, and the mystique of the desert but with a light touch. It’s a pleasure to read and a reviving contrast to my usual reading selections. 

Too young to join the army in World War I, Saint-Exupéry spent the 1920s and 1930s as a pioneer of flight chasing the respectability he thought he missed by not being in the war. Earning fame as a commercial pilot in Europe, South America, and Africa, and saw the world before it was interconnected by globalized travel. While a pilot he also began to write, using his time above the clouds as inspiration. Taken from a small portion of his interesting life, Wind, Sand, and Stars is a breath of fresh air and a reminder that beauty can exist in austere and difficult circumstances. It was the mental break that I needed and a true joy.

“For such is life. We grow rich as we plant through the early years, but then come the years when time undoes our work and cuts down our trees. One by one our comrades deprive us of their shade, and within our mourning we always feel now the secret grief of growing old. . . there is only one true form of wealth, that of human contact. When we work for material gain, we build our own prison. We enclose ourselves in isolation; our coins turn to ashes and buy nothing worth living for.” 

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.

Soul

Victory in Europe 2020

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“My dear friends, this is your hour. This is not victory of a party or of any class. It’s a victory of the great British nation as a whole. We were the first, in this ancient island, to draw the sword against tyranny.”

Up and down the street red, white, and blue bunting appeared on gates and fences. World War II propaganda posters appeared in windows reminding us that “loose lips sink ships” and the Victory comes from a home garden.  I’ve seen more Union Jacks this week than at any time in the past two years. All of this leading up to the 75th Anniversary of Victory in Europe – the day Europe celebrated the Nazi surrender to the Allied forces.

1939 and 1940 were dark years for the British Empire. Great Britain found itself increasingly isolated as the nations of continental Europe collapsed before the Nazi war machine. With the British Army chased from Dunkirk, the Royal Navy sheltered in their ports, only the Royal Air Force (RAF) faced the German war machine in those early days. The Battle of Britain was truly a David and Goliath fight. While the German Goliath terrorized cities and ravaged the RAF, the British people were able to rally, defend their skies, and indefinitely stall the Nazi invasion of England. Only after Great Britain had survived the German onslaught did American military might come to bear in the European Theater of Operations. 

British pride is palpable at having battled the Nazi menace alone, waiting on Allies to appear, all the while Keeping Calm & Carrying On. It’s a pride still felt and celebrated annually. This year COVID-19 precautions precluded any public gatherings or celebrations. Except for the colorful decorations I expected the day to pass like any other during this pandemic. Yet, these past weeks the Brits have emerged from their homes each Thursday at 8 pm to applaud the National Health Service and Key Workers. On this Thursday, 7 May, it was different. The warm weather drew out my neighbors along the street. The applause lasted for ten minutes, but nobody returned home. From an upstairs speaker a neighbor played God Save the Queen and the Star Spangled Banner for the whole street to hear. 

The village pub had been closed these past two months, but the owners brought out tables and placed them up and down the street. They deposited beer bottles, plastic cups and open bottles of wine. Socially distanced, we all were able to take a drink. Neighbors chatted from the ends of their driveways and front doors. Others attempted to sing the White Cliffs of Dover and We’ll Meet Again from memory. And we all listened to Winston Churchill’s V-E Day speech – cheering the great man’s emotional words.

That night I rummaged through my office to find the Union Jack that my grandmother had given me almost 30 years ago. It was the only thing my great grandmother and grandfather brought over when they left southeast England for the United States. It’s hanging now in my office window. A bit faded and fraying in the corners, but still proud. The memories of World War II are fading as Great Britain’s Greatest Generation passes on, but the same British resolve their grandparents displayed will see today’s United Kingdom through the COVID pandemic and into a future “in which all have a chance, in which all have a duty” – Sir Winston Churchill, Prime Minister, 8 May 1945

Displaying the family flag, carried from England over a century ago. Photo by Andrew Zapf

Andrew Zapf is a co-founder of Pushing Horizons.

Disclaimer: All views expressed are that of the author. As an REI Associate, Pushing Horizons earns from qualifying purchases.