Imaginations On Fire

When I was a child, I remember my local library being built. I was down outside its front door waiting for it to open on the first day.  From then onwards, my little yellow scooter was to be seen bearing me back and forth, a bag full of books thrown over the handlebars, on an at least thrice-weekly basis.

I came to love the library.  It became my second home and the papery, slightly musty smell of books became the smell of all good things.  Hans Christian Anderson’s were my favourite fairy stories, but Enid Blyton was my favourite author - I especially loved her ‘Island of Adventure’ series.  To find one of those on the ‘returns’ shelf was a real treat, as was finding something by my other favourite author, Malcolm Saville, whose ‘Lone Pine’ novels transported me to another world, the one in which I now live;  it’s name is Shropshire.

A.A. Milne was the fourth giant in my reading firmament. It was courtesy of Winnie the Pooh [see Pooh in this photograph with his long-suffering friend, Christopher Robin] that I started writing myself, unable to bear [excuse the pun] the original A.A. Milne stories running out.    From that time onwards, I was embarked upon a literary apprenticeship.  It started small with copying A.A. Milne, them moved on to Enid Blyton, then slowly onto other authors, including Emily Bronte [I’d have given anything to be her and to have written ‘Wuthering Heights’] and my favourite poet, Dylan Thomas, upon whose discovery all other forms of poetry became things of the past. I longed to write like him, and I tried my best.   Not that I succeeded of course, but that’s what apprenticeships are for – trying things out.   

In this respect, I owe a debt of gratitude to not just libraries but bookshops too.  I nearly added the word independent here, but back in those days most bookshops were independent anyway.  It went without saying.  Coming from my particular background, I couldn’t have afforded the books on their shelves, but that didn’t stop me looking.  In fact, in a funny sort of way, my lack of resources turned bookshops even more into treasure troves.     

Nowadays I buy prodigiously.  Only last week, faced with the tragic closure of the Shropshire Reference Library  [thank you Coalition Government, thank you David Cameron and Nick Clegg], I acquired ‘Maps of the Heavens’, an illustrated history of early sky-maps, ‘The Twelve Days of Christmas’, a history of Christmas practices and Asa Briggs’ five-volume history of British Broadcasting, originally priced at forty five pounds per volume but mine for twenty quid the lot.   In addition, heading off on holiday, I stopped to buy the completely wonderful and fascinating Robert MacFarlane’s  ‘Mountains of the Mind [his ‘The Wild Places’ is simply brilliant], the steampunk classic ‘Infernal Devices’ and a new translation by Tiina Nunnally of my beloved Hans Christian Anderson’s Fairy Stories. It’s good to have an interesting mix.

And that’s what’s so good about the independent bookshops.  There’s precious little mix that I can see on the shelves of Waterstones and WH Smith these days - rather more of the same, and endlessly so.  But go to Pengwern Books in Shrewsbury Market, or Anna Dreda’s bookshop in Much Wenlock and the shelves and displays will spring surprises every time.   Pengwern Books is small by comparison with the big two, but if you compare time spent in it per foot of space, it wins hands down.  So does Wenlock Books and so does the Harbour Bookshop in Dartmouth, which is currently facing closure and not even its illustrious background as the bookshop owned by Winnie the Pooh’s much-loved and put-upon Christopher Robin may be able to save it.

When I was young, I discovered the exquisite pleasure of surrounding myself with books. I not only read them, but I browsed through them, turned them over, stacked them up,  thumbed through their pages, chose between them and came back later for more.  How are children now – how is anybody – meant to enjoy that particular experience with bookshops closing and libraries being shut?  There’s no sweet savour of books on the internet.  I’m not knocking the electronic book revolution, which I think is profoundly exciting, but I don't see how it can replace the experience of sitting with books stacked up on shelves around you, not only smelling their wonderful, papery, slightly musty smell, but being enclosed in a world where your imagination can be caught on fire.   

Twenty years ago I read an article by Griselda Grieves, the wife of Alan Garner, on the subject of imagination.  ‘If we fail to protect the imagination of our children,’ she wrote, ‘their future will be lost.  Their curiosity and sense of wonder must be nurtured to ensure the survival of our inheritance.’

Because I agree with that, I hope the Harbour Bookshop doesn’t close. I’ve done my own imagining in it from time to time [my novel ‘Flying for Frankie’ was partly cooked up whilst browsing through its shelves] and I’d like to think the people of Dartmouth have access to it for many years to come.  But more than just have access, I hope they use it.   I hope they use Pengwern Books in Shrewsbury market too, and Wenlock Books and, up and down the country, I hope they use all their wonderful local libraries, and shout about them and stubbornly and vociferously refuse to let them go.