Today I am featuring a rather different book which takes a look at the beautiful city of Bath through stories and accounts based on its past. I also have an extract for you to sample. First, here's a little about the book:
Sometimes in Bath is a captivating story-tour through the
city’s history conducted by Charles Nevin, the award-winning journalist,
national newspaper columnist, author and humorist.
Beau Nash, Old King Bladud, young Horatio Nelson, Jane
Austen’s Mr Bennet, the Emperor Haile Selassie and many more spring to life in
episodes shimmering with the curious magic of Britain’s oldest resort and
premier purveyor of good health, happiness and romance for the last 2000 years.
Each story has an afterword distinguishing the fiction from
fact, adding enthralling historical detail – and giving visitors useful links
to Bath’s many sights and fascinations Sometimes in Bath is warm, witty,
wistful and will be loved by all who come to and from this most enchanting and enchanted
of cities.
Extract
This extract from
Sometimes In Bath features Bladud, the city’s legendary founder, and is told by
the king’s fool.
I TOLD HIM HE WAS A FOOL
even to think of it at his age. But you know how it is with kings, or perhaps,
luckily and unluckily, you don’t. They like advice because it makes them feel
important but they don’t take it because that would make them feel less
important. So I was a fool to tell him, but that is what I am: court jester to
King Bladud, eighth in descent from Brutus the Trojan, first ruler of this
chilly island, to which he lent his name after arriving here as part of the
fallout from that heroic but complicated affair just east of the Aegean.
It’s not everyone’s idea
of a good job, Fooling. Ridiculous outfit, complicated wordplay, unsocial hours
and a high risk of sudden death if your audience decides that wasn’t very
funny. Seven kings and one queen since Brutus; 23 Fools. Not much competition
for the job, unsurprisingly. Still, I’m young and it seemed preferable to
harrowing, scratching or eking. Youngest sons do of course have a traditional
path into Druidry, but I’m allergic to mistletoe, not to mention blood
sacrifice and screams.
And Bladud is wonderful.
His last Fool, Dodd, who could go on a bit, died of old age, which was not the
experience of the others with other kings. Bladud’s father, Rud Hud Hudibras,
was as grumpy as he sounds. Not like Bladud. He’s an old man now, but an old
man of the sort that cherishes curiosity and smiles on youth without envy. Who
else, for example, would have decided to fly at the age of 68? Fly!
I asked him why, breaking
off from what I hoped was a bit of artfully artless capering by the side of his
great bath, magnificently colonnaded and gently steaming beneath its
stupendously pitched roof. ‘Stop jerking about, boy,’ he said. ‘And you need to
do a lot more pig’s bladder work. Shake it as though you mean it. Like all
kings, I crave undying, undimmed fame. Flying will really clinch it. I’ve
studied the matter and it’s really not that difficult. A pair of wings
cunningly constructed from yew and feathers, strap them on, jump from a high
point, flap and fly!’
‘There are sires who soar
and there are sires who are sore from a soar with a flaw, methinks, Sire. Have
you heard of Icarus?’
‘Heard of him? I used to
know the fellow when I was living in Athens. Talked a good game, but I was
never convinced by his commitment, to be honest. That’s the trouble with the
Greeks as a whole, if you ask me. Not willing to do the hard slog, all fancy
tricks and short cuts like that unsporting bit with the wooden horse that did
for my forebears. And if they’re not doing that, they’re sitting around moodily
asking each other why they’re there. I told Icarus he’d have trouble from the
sun with that wax. And that he’d better placate Apollo before take-off. Took
not a blind bit of notice. That’s why I’m building a flyplace dedicated to
Apollo on top of Solsbury Hill and using straps and yew, not wax.’
I decided to try another
tack. ‘But, Sire, you have already achieved undying fame! What better bid than
Bath?! The known world’s hottest city! Discovered by you, founded by you, built
by you, Nuncle!’ (I call him Nuncle because he’s not my uncle, if you follow.)
Bladud sank beneath the
waters and then re-emerged. I passed him his britannicals shampoo and he
lathered up. Others might have looked ridiculous, but Bladud had the dignity of
a stone carving as the suds mingled with his white dreadlocks. ‘Yes, that’s all
very well, but the fame that endures comes from brave deeds and legendary
exploits. I am descended from the mighty Aeneas, legendary champion of Troy and
son of Aphrodite. His son was Brutus, who has this entire country named after
him. They can’t even be bothered to name Bath after me. Not famous enough, you
see. I’m regarded at best as some sort of bath house proprietor. Even my
founding myth has turned out badly. Too much pig. A fine creature, your pig,
but not exactly dashing and heroic. Rome has wolves, you know. Now if the story
had involved a wolf, or better, a lion or a bear, or, even better, both, rather
than some semi-scrofulous porkers, that would have been different. Flying pigs
might have done it, possibly.’
Bladud was now blowing
bubbles from his soap in a faraway fashion. I decided on a brisker approach. ‘What
about a spot of war, sire? As you say, it’s always good for building a
reputation. That lot over the Channel are usually up for a scrap.’
‘War is very messy. I’ve
never been very keen on gore and shouting and waving things around. There’s all
the camping, too. Flying will be so clean, and liberating, up there in the sky,
flapping and floating, twisting this way and that, making lazy circles in the
sky, laughing out loud at the sheer fun and joy of it. And if it goes wrong, so
be it. At least I’ll get to see my beloved Queen Gert. I miss her, Fool.’
You must have begun to see
what I was up against. What a wonderful man Bladud was! So unpomped and
unprimped, so full of life and spark and love. You must have begun to see why I
couldn’t bear to risk losing him a day before his time, or why he wouldn’t care
a sud for mockery from the earth-bound and the doltish.
My Thoughts
This is an entertaining look at the city of Bath through imagined meetings and stories using local landmarks and plausible characters. In some, real life people, such as Nelson, get to meet up with fictional visitors- my favourite being Mr Bennet from Pride and Prejudice.
Another memorable aspect of the book is the afterword which follows each chapter where the author points out the real and imagined elements and then gives you a list of places to see and books to read to further your knowledge. The style of the writing is at times, humorous, at others, suited to the era but also full of historical detail. You start the journey in the eighteenth century and travel through time to a much more up to date Christmas Market. The chapter devoted to the Bath Blitz of 1942 feels remarkably appropriate given the fact that it is VE Day today (May 8th).
In short: Travel through time through Bath's history and customs.
About the Author
Charles Nevin has written for, among others, the Guardian, the
Independent on Sunday, the Daily Telegraph, The Times and Sunday Times,
and the New York Times. Sometimes in Bath is his second book of fiction
following Lost in the Wash with Other Things, a collection of short
stories. He has also published three books of non-fiction - Lancashire,
Where Women Die of Love, a paean to the neglected romance of his native
county, which was as praised by Jeremy Paxman and Joanna Lumley. The
Book of Jacks, a history and lexicon of the name and finally, So Long
Our Home, a history of Knowsley Road, the famous old ground of St Helens
Rugby Football Club. Charles lives in an old watermill near Bath, which
is ideally placed for his forays into the enchanting city.
Thanks to Charles Nevin, Book Guild Publishing and Rachel of Rachel's Random Resources for a copy of the book, the extract and a place on the tour.
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