As a child I never had any doubt that books
were a world that welcomed me in – that the door was open and I was free to
explore - because not only did I see myself reflected in them, with Stig of the Dump I saw the landscape of
my childhood.
Clive King grew up in Ash, Kent. I grew up in Gravesend – not as scenic and
certainly not as rural as Ash, but a place where there was evidence of chalk workings
everywhere you turned.
At weekends we’d sometimes go out to
Trosley Country Park. If I shut my eyes
I can see the path we used to take through the beech woods (full of bluebells
in the spring), and then through the line of smaller, scrubbier hawthorns,
finally emerging on to the sunlit Downs .
The chalk hills rose almost like cliffs from a great patchwork of fields
and villages that lay spread out at their feet.
I remember sitting on the slopes, the feel
of the sparse grass, the thin, dry soil that could be scraped off with your fingernails
to reach the chalk beneath. If you were
lucky you’d feel the hard edge of a flint that could be rootled out with a
little patience. Sometimes you’d find one
that showed signs of someone having worked it – Stig, maybe, or one of the
other cavemen. If we were feeling
particularly energetic we’d walk down to the Coldrums – a long barrow that
dates from around 4,000BCE and was, in my mind, one of the places cavemen could
probably be found on Midsummer night.
 |
| Coldrum Long Barrow |
One of my brothers was – and still is –
passionately interested in all things prehistoric and his enthusiasm fuelled mine. As well as the Coldrums we visited all sorts
of sites. Kent was rich with them.
At Kits Coty, my brother found an arrowhead
in the ploughed field we’d crossed to get there. I knew if I turned round quickly enough, I’d
see Stig. He was there somewhere, watching us.
I made myself dizzy trying to spot him that day.
I returned to Stig of the Dump over and over again. When my children were old enough I read it to
them and was utterly delighted to find that it’s as funny and exciting and
mysterious and magical as it was when I first encountered it. But I’m also aware
that it’s not as profoundly personal
to my boys as it was to me.
I owe a huge debt to Stig of the Dump. It was the
book that hooked me on books for life.
 |
| Kits Coty |
I
think perhaps reading is like putting down roots: once you’ve anchored yourself
in familiar soil, you can really start to flourish. Your tendrils can then grow in any direction
and you can explore the unfamiliar territory of worlds beyond your own. Once
you’ve found a book that makes you feel welcome and at home, the sky’s the
limit.
We stayed near Ash last year en route for the Eurotunnel and were thrilled to be in Stig country. I taught it to 11 year olds for several years, and it always went down a storm - especially the chapter with the Snargets!
ReplyDeleteI love that image of reading as putting down roots. (And I also remember Stig from when I was younger - I may have to re-read it next time I go to my parents' house!)
ReplyDeleteI don't think I've ever been to Ash, though.
This was possibly the book that sparked my lifelong interest in prehistory and archaeology. We had a teacher who read aloud beautifully in one of my primary school years - this was one she read to us, and another was The Lion The Witch etc. She made them come alive for us - I can still see Stig and his tribe raising the stones on that long summer night
ReplyDeleteFor me, that book was Alison Uttley 'A Traveller in Time.' Haunting and enchanting, it really drew me into the past, and I suppose set my course as a writer, come to think of it. Time travelling is what I write historical fiction to do, which is why I always take so much trouble over getting the facts as correct as I can. I thought this was a lovely blog, Tanya.
ReplyDelete