On the Black Hill

by Bruce Chatwin

I first encountered Chatwin’s work in the early 1990s – must have been  not long after his death in 1989.  I was reading a lot of travel writing at that time, and I suppose I first learned of Chatwin in that context.

I loved his writing so much that I kept all his books (well, I suppose I used to keep everything I read at that time).  In Patagonia, The Viceroy of Ouidah, The Songlines, the autobiographical What Am I Doing Here?, and a hardback copy of Utz that arrived later from the vast book collection of my husband’s aunt when she moved house in 2003.  And this novel.

When my friend Meryl, who has been quite ill recently, asked me to suggest some reading for her – nothing to heavy or challenging – this was one of the books I took down from my shelves.  I decided I had better take another look at it first, to remind myself of its tone and decide whether it was the sort of thing she would enjoy just now.  Almost from the first page, I got ‘stuck in’ and enjoyed once again the freshness of the writing and the simple but accessible characterisation.  Once again I felt sadness at Chatwin’s untimely death (from HIV Aids) at the age of 48.  His writing career was very short – he published his first book at the age of 36 – but his oeuvre is timeless.

Of course, I had to keep on reading, snd so I ordered another copy for my friend.  And will now pass my copy on to another friend, Allison, who I feel sure will appreciate it too.  On my second reading of this novel, I was far better able to picture the landscape, lonely farmsteads, hills and fields of the Welsh border country, having hiked those parts of the Offa’s Dyke Path during the years 2015-2017, as well as visiting Hay-on-Wye for a couple of short breaks, once on my own in September 2014 and again with Meryl the following spring.  Re-reading On the Black Hill makes me itch to visit the area again.  It is easily accessible from our home, but the current lockdown makes it illegal to travel, even for a day trip.

---

The story follows the lives of the twins, Lewis and Benjamin Jones, from their birth at the very end of the nineteenth century (with a little background about their parents’ acquisition of the farm where the twins spent their entire lives) until the end of their lives.  The farming life in this remote spot, its traditions and response to world events, the feuds between farmers, births, deaths, relationships between farmers, gentry and the middle classes … all are covered in this slim volume.  The nearest modern-day equivalent might be, I suppose, Reservoir 13 – another portrait of rural life.  Chatwin’s book speaks to me more than the other one, and I think this is due not just to the quality of the writing but also the nearness of the lives of the people he characterises.  McGregor’s book reads more like an instalment of The Archers!  But perhaps this is unfair.  Chatwin is unique as a writer, and I will revisit his other books with great pleasure.