DANCING WIDDERSHINS

Mr Anthony Lammas, whose long legs had been covering ground at the rate of five miles an hour, slackened his pace, for he felt the need of ordering a mind which for some hours had been dancing widdershins. For one thing the night had darkened, since the moon had set, and the coast track which he followed craved wary walking. But it was the clear dark of a northern April, when, though the details are blurred, the large masses of the landscape are apprehended.   
  

He was still aware of little headlands descending to a shadowy gulf which was the Firth. Far out the brazier on the May was burning with a steady glow, like some low-swung planet shaming with its ardour the cold stars. He sniffed the sharp clean scent of the whins above the salt; he could almost detect the brightness of their flowering. They should have been thyme, he thought, thyme and arbutus and tamarisk clothing the capes of the Sicilian sea, for this was a night of Theocritus. . . .


Theocritus! What had he to do with Theocritus? It was highly necessary to come to terms with this mood into which he had fallen. 

From:  John Buchan, The Free Fishers, 1934.

 

HOW SUNDRY GENTLEMEN PUT THEIR TRUST IN HORSES

The curricle with its oddly matched pair swung out of the inn-yard as the moon rose above the poplars.  Sir Turnour was in the best Four-in-Hand Club style, head erect, shoulders squared, hands well down, elbows close to his side; but though immobile as a Buddha, his delicate fingers were testing the mouths of the cattle. Beside him Harry Belses was buried in the folds of his great-coat, and in the narrow space at his feet, his head against Sir Turnour’s apron, lay the spaniel Benjamin.

They passed through a sleeping hamlet, and debouched from the narrow parish into the broader Lynn highway.  Here Sir Turnour gathered up the ribbons and proceeded to try the quality of his horses.  In a trot their paces did not match, and the curricle swayed unpleasantly, but when he sprung them into a short gallop, they went better together.

‘John was right,’ said Sir Turnour.  ‘There’s blood in both of them, and willing blood.  No need for fanning or towelling or chopping ‘em.  But they’re not a sweet pair to drive, and I don’t know how the chestnut will last the course.  He has come down too often over the sticks, I’ll swear, and his off fore-leg may give out before we’re done with him.  The bat-eyed bay is right enough.  As they say on the road, he’ll go through to hell or Hackney.’

Note:  “The Free Fishers,” one of John Buchan’s late novels, is another peculiar, particular example of what made this polymath genius's works exceptional and unique. 

We once had a good friend from Hackney.  (Sounds like the beginning of a limerick, but it isn't.)  

He spoke in the distinctive accent of that borough.  He sang like a tortured angel.

Talk Talk: Such A Shame (Link) 

From:  John Buchan, The Free Fishers, 1934.

WHERE I'M AT

Nanty wandered down a road which ran from the main highway to the little fenland boroughs of the north.  He had read the names on the first milestone out of Fenny Horton -- Ely, Downham, King's Lynn; that was the road Bob and Jock had travelled the night before, and now by the grace of God they should have reached their journey's end.  He had the day before him with only one duty to fulfill, and he deliberately sauntered to quiet his nerves.

From:  John Buchan, The Free Fishers, 1934.

Bern Elliot & The Fenmen -- Talking About You (Live Link)