Lonely Planet Curiosities and Splendour: An anthology of classic travel literature

CURIOSITIES

AND

SPLENDOUR

EDITED BY MARK MACKENZIE

CONTENTS

Introduction – Mark MacKenzie

Station Life in New Zealand – Mary Anne Barker

A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains – Isabella Bird

The Road to Oxiana – Robert Byron

The Worst Journey in the World – Apsley Cherry-Garrard

Voyages – James Cook

The Voyage of the Beagle – Charles Darwin

American Notes – Charles Dickens

The Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon – Henry Fielding

Summer on the Lakes – Margaret Fuller

The Histories – Herodotus, trans. by George Rawlinson

Tales of the Alhambra – Washington Irving

English Hours – Henry James

A Journey to the Western Islands of Scotland – Samuel Johnson

Sea and Sardinia – DH Lawrence

Missionary Travels and Researches in South Africa – David Livingstone

The Cruise of the Snark – Jack London

Letters – Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

My First Summer in the Sierra – John Muir

Farthest North – Fridtjof Nansen

Travels in the Interior of Africa – Mungo Park

Discovery of a North-West Passage – William Edward Parry

The Travels of Marco Polo – Marco Polo

With the Tibetans in Tent and Temple – Susanna Carson Rijnhart

Through the Brazilian Wilderness – Theodore Roosevelt

South – Ernest Shackleton

Travels with a Donkey in the Cévennes – Robert Louis Stevenson

Life on the Mississippi – Mark Twain

In Morocco – Edith Wharton

Letters Written during a Short Residence in Norway, Sweden and Denmark – Mary Wollstonecraft

INTRODUCTION

BY MARK MACKENZIE

The best travel writing evokes not just a sense of place, or of wonder, but relates its story with a distinctive voice. Unsurprisingly, the authors collected here are nothing if not observant. Classics of the genre are more than the sum of their parts, revealing not simply the where and when, but the extent to which the author was changed by a particular destination, or vice versa. The soaring prose of Robert Byron, for example, whose descriptions of the architectural splendours of Isfahan show a young man in the throes of revelation. Or the coruscating wit of DH Lawrence, complaining his way around Sardinia and by so doing confirming the bitterness of exile. Washington Irving, in contrast, waxed so lyrical about the Alhambra, in Granada, that his account did much to save it from absolute ruin.

The books selected have inspired countless travellers and writers, in some cases explicitly. Mary Wollstonecraft’s portrayal of the brooding Norwegian scenery directly informed the landscape of Frankenstein, the Gothic novel penned by her daughter, Mary Shelley. Later, the richly poetic nature writing of John Muir helped give rise to the American conservation movement.

Social attitudes have, of course, changed. Dominions no longer need civilising; ‘natives’ have gods of their own. Some of the travellers featured here, judged by modern standards, seem driven by little more than vanity; witness Theodore Roosevelt crashing through the Brazilian wilds, self-appointed saviour of Amazonian tribes. Or Jack London, sailing not quite around the globe in a boat sufficiently small enough to endorse his own ideas about machismo. It might be argued that any form of travel is some form of indulgence, yet what redeems them is both the quality of their writing and the extent to which each became a force for good; Roosevelt’s expedition shone an early light on the fragility of the rainforests, while London’s visit to a Hawaiian leper colony helped change attitudes to the disease. And those works that tell of landscapes lost, such as Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi, or Margaret Fuller’s Summer on the Lakes, serve as salutary reminders of the consequences of progress.

Then there are the pure explorers. Held alongside great stylists, such as Lawrence or Twain, accounts of Fridtjof Nansen’s bid to be first to the north pole, or Ernest Shackleton’s similar ambition for Antarctica, might seem destined to pale by comparison. Yet the strength of will to record even perfunctory details while under extreme physical duress – and the subsequent effort to shape them into a compelling narrative – has its own virtues.

Part of the explorer’s motivation, of course, is to be seen as a pioneer, and it is worthwhile to pause and reflect whose voices made it onto the record of the early history of travel writing. Again and again it is the adventuring Western imperialist whose reaction to new lands is recorded, whether they are surveying places newly subjugated, as Samuel Johnson does in the Hebrides, or purposefully bringing outside religion to another culture, as David Livingstone does. Occasionally it is a woman, but inevitably she is of a wealthy class, able to indulge in leisure travel, albeit representing an independent spirit that set an example for later generations. In almost all cases, the intrusion is not an invited one. We can appreciate the glimpse into long-gone scenes and simultaneously question the underlying motives of the observer.

A collection such as this should also be notable for its contrasts. So, alongside travels of great historical importance, such as Herodotus wandering through the Greco-Persian wars, you will find adventures less epic. Edith Wharton, long before she became the great woman of American letters, toured Morocco with a discerning eye for architectural detail. Robert Louis Stevenson, meanwhile, keen to take his mind off relationship problems, trotted alongside a donkey through the mountains of France. Both write about their travels with such distinction that at no point do their undertakings feel trivial; in fact, quite the opposite. Perhaps all that needs to be said is that the very finest travel writing, such as Henry James’ descriptions of the foggy bustle of London, elevates the everyday to the sublime.

MARY ANNE BARKER

INTRODUCTION

Mary Anne Barker’s Station Life in New Zealand, published in 1870, recounts a three-year stay during which the author and her husband hoped to establish a sheep farm. The husband in question, her second, was Frederick Napier Broome, a British administrator who gave his name to Broome in Western Australia.

Lady Mary Anne Barker’s pen name and title were a consequence of her first husband, Sir George Robert Barker. A British brigadier, Mr Barker had served with distinction at the Siege of Lucknow in India in 1857, for which he was knighted. Finding it commercially useful, Mary Anne retained the name, under which she published more than 22 books. Station Life in New Zealand, a collection of letters home to her sister, Jessie Stewart, was by some margin the most successful, reprinted in several editions and translated into a number of languages.

The Broomes travelled to New Zealand from England in 1865, following the purchase of a homestead, Steventon, on the Selwyn River. Mary Anne was a child of Empire (her father, Walter Stewart, had been Island Secretary of Jamaica), an advocate of both civilising Britain’s dominions and seizing the opportunities they presented. Station Life was intended to convey the simple pleasures, and challenges, of homemaking, writ large across the colonial landscape. Prior to their arrival, the Broomes had commissioned new stonework and timbers to improve the house, and which were brought from Christchurch. ‘It seems wonderful that so expensive and difficult an engineering work,’ Barker wrote, ‘could be undertaken by such an infant colony.’

Steventon already had literary connections. The vendors, brothers Arthur and Richard Knight, were great-nephews of Jane Austen. (The farm was named after the Hampshire village where Austen grew up.) The Broomes were to oversee renovations personally and in April 1866 moved in, with the house still under construction. ‘We hurried here as soon as ever we could get into the house,’ Barker noted, ‘and whilst the carpenters were still in it.’ Barker was heavily pregnant, and wished desperately for the baby to be born in the house. The occasion duly arrived but the child, a boy, died shortly after. ‘No doubt there are bright and happy days in store for us yet,’ Barker wrote, ‘but these first ones here have been sadly darkened by this shadow of death.’

The popularity of the book lay in Barker’s depiction of everyday life. The book’s most well-known passage, featured in the extract here, concerns the weather. The Barkers had the misfortune to be lambing during the winter of 1867 when, in July, a freak storm hit.

The snow began on 29 July and lasted for a week. Completely cut off – even the dogs needed digging out from their kennels – the Barkers’ only food was two chickens. These they shared between the entire household, including dogs and farmhands. When the snow eased, they went in search of the sheep. Fearing the worst, their shepherd urged Barker not to come. What they found makes for grim reading, thousands of animals either frozen to death or drowned when meltwater flooded the gullies in which they had taken shelter.

Barker’s account of the storm became an important social document, in part because other witnesses, notably the local Māori whom Barker claims prophesied the storm, passed on the event as oral history. Whenever New Zealand experiences similarly extreme weather, for example in 1939 and 2010, Barker’s account is invariably referenced.

Back in a still largely rural England, both landowners and tenant farmers related to Barker’s plight. For city readers, it was pure drama. Indeed, her description of the loss of their stock – half the sheep and 90% of the lambs – still elicits sympathy. The Barkers abandoned their New Zealand dream that same year.

STATION LIFE IN NEW ZEALAND

BY MARY ANNE BARKER

LETTER XX: THE NEW ZEALAND SNOWSTORM OF 1867

Wednesday morning broke bright and clear for the first time since Sunday week; we actually saw the sun. Although the ‘nor-wester’ had done so much good for us, and a light wind still blew softly from that quarter, the snow was yet very deep; but I felt in such high spirits that I determined to venture out, and equipped myself in a huge pair of Frederick’s riding boots made of kangaroo skin, well greased with weka oil to keep the wet out. These I put on over my own thick boots, but my precautions ‘did nought avail’, for the first step I took sank me deep in the snow over the tops of my enormous boots. They filled immediately, and then merely served to keep the snow securely packed round my ankles; however, I struggled bravely on, every now and then sinking up to my shoulders, and having to be hauled out by main force. The first thing done was to dig out the dogs, who assisted the process by vigorously scratching away inside and tunnelling towards us. Poor things! how thin they looked, but they were quite warm; and after indulging in a long drink at the nearest creek, they bounded about like mad creatures. The only casualties in the kennels were two little puppies, who were lying cuddled up as if they were asleep, but proved to be stiff and cold; and a very old but still valuable collie called ‘Gipsy’. She was enduring such agonies from rheumatism that it was terrible to hear her howls; and after trying to relieve her by rubbing, taking her into the stable – and in fact doing all we could for her – it seemed better and kinder to shoot her two days afterwards.

We now agreed to venture into the paddock and see what had happened to the bathing place about three hundred yards from the house. I don’t think I have told you that the creek had been here dammed up with a sod wall twelve feet high, and a fine deep and broad pond made, which was cleared of weeds and grass, and kept entirely for the gentlemen to have a plunge and swim at daylight of a summer’s morning; there had been a wide trench cut about two feet from the top, so as to carry off the water, and hitherto this had answered perfectly. The first thing we had to do was to walk over the high five-barred gate leading into the paddock just the topmost bar was sticking up, but there was not a trace of the little garden gate or of the fence, which was quite a low one. We were, however, rejoiced to see that on the ridges of the sunny downs there were patches, or rather streaks, of tussocks visible, and they spread in size every moment, for the sun was quite warm, and the ‘nor-wester’ had done much towards softening the snow. It took us a long time to get down to where the bathing place had been, for the sod wall was quite carried away, and there was now only a heap of ruin, with a muddy torrent pouring through the large gap and washing it still more away. Close to this was a very sunny sheltered down, or rather hill; and as the snow was rapidly melting off its warm sloping sides, we agreed to climb it and see if any sheep could be discovered, for up to this time there had been none seen or heard, though we knew several thousands must be on this flat and the adjoining ones.

As soon as we got to the top the first glance showed us a small, dusky patch close to the edge of one of the deepest and widest creeks at the bottom of the paddock; experienced eyes saw they were sheep, but to me they had not the shape of animals at all, though they were quite near enough to be seen distinctly. I observed the gentlemen exchange looks of alarm, and they said to each other some low words, from which I gathered that they feared the worst. Before we went down to the flat we took a long, careful look round, and made out another patch, dark by comparison with the snow, some two hundred yards lower down the creek, but apparently in the water. On the other side of the little hill the snow seemed to have drifted even more deeply, for the long narrow valley which lay there presented, as far as we could see, one smooth, level snow field. On the dazzling white surface the least fleck shows, and I can never forget how beautiful some swamp hens, with their dark blue plumage, short, pert, white tails and long bright legs, looked as they searched slowly along the banks of the swollen creek for some traces of their former haunts; but every tuft of tohi-grass lay bent and buried deep beneath its heavy covering. The gentlemen wanted me to go home before they attempted to see the extent of the disaster, which we all felt must be very great; but I found it impossible to do anything but accompany them. I am half glad and half sorry now that I was obstinate; glad because I helped a little at a time when the least help was precious, and sorry because it was really such a horrible sight. Even the first glance showed us that, as soon as we got near the spot we had observed, we were walking on frozen sheep embedded in the snow one over the other; but at all events their misery had been over some time. It was more horrible to see the drowning, or just drowned, huddled-up ‘mob’ (as sheep en masse are technically called) which had made the dusky patch we had noticed from the hill.

No one can ever tell how many hundred ewes and lambs had taken refuge under the high terrace which forms the bank of the creek. The snow had soon covered them up, but they probably were quite warm and dry at first. The terrible mischief was caused by the creek rising so rapidly, and, filtering through the snow which it gradually dissolved, drowned them as they stood huddled together. Those nearest the edge of the water of course went first, but we were fortunately in time to save a good many, though the living seemed as nothing compared to the heaps of dead. We did not waste a moment in regrets or idleness; the most experienced of the gentlemen said briefly what was to be done, and took his coat off; the other coats and my little Astrachan jacket were lying by its side in an instant, and we all set to work, sometimes up to our knees in icy water, digging at the bank of snow above us – if you can call it digging when we had nothing but our hands to dig, or rather scratch, with. Oh, how hot we were in five minutes! the sun beating on us, and the reflection from the snow making its rays almost blinding. It was of no use my attempting to rescue the sheep, for I could not move them, even when I had scrattled the snow away from one. A sheep, especially with its fleece full of snow, is beyond my small powers: even the lambs I found a tremendous weight, and it must have been very absurd, if an idler had been by to see me with a little lamb in my arms, tumbling down at every second step, but still struggling manfully towards the dry oasis where we put each animal as it was dug out. The dear doggies helped us beautifully, working so eagerly and yet so wisely under their master’s eye, as patient and gentle with the poor stiffened creatures as if they could feel for them. I was astonished at the vitality of some of the survivors; if they had been very far back and not chilled by the water, they were quite lively. The strongest sheep were put across the stream by the dogs, who were obedient to their master’s finger, and not to be induced on any terms to allow the sheep to land a yard to one side of the place on the opposite bank, but just where they were to go. A good many were swept away, but after six hours’ work we counted 1400 rescued ones slowly ‘trailing’ up the low sunny hill I have mentioned, and nibbling at the tussocks as they went. The proportion of lambs was, of course, very small, but the only wonder to me is that there were any alive at all. If I had been able to stop my scratching but for a moment, I would have had what the servants call a ‘good cry’ over one little group I laid bare. Two fine young ewes were standing leaning against each other in a sloping position like a tent, frozen and immoveable: between them, quite dry, and as lively as a kitten, was a dear little lamb of about a month old belonging to one; the lamb of the other lay curled up at her feet, dead and cold; I really believe they had hit upon this way of keeping the other alive. A more pathetic sight I never beheld.

It is needless to say that we were all most dreadfully exhausted by the time the sun went down, and it began to freeze; nothing but the sheer impossibility of doing anything more in the hardening snow and approaching darkness made us leave off even then, though we had not tasted food all day. The gentlemen took an old ewe who could not stand, though it was not actually dead, up to the stable and killed it, to give the poor dogs a good meal, and then they had to get some more rails off the stockyard to cook our own supper of pork and maize.

The next morning was again bright with a warm wind; so, the effect of the night’s frost soon disappeared, and we were hard at work directly after breakfast. Nothing would induce me to stay at home, but I armed myself with a coal-scoop to dig, and we made our way to the other ‘mob’; but, alas! there was nothing to do in the way of saving life, for all the sheep were dead. There was a large island formed at a bend in the creek where the water had swept with such fury round a point as to wash the snow and sheep all away together, till at some little obstacle they began to accumulate in a heap. I counted ninety-two dead ewes in one spot, but I did not stay to count the lambs. We returned to the place where we had been digging the day before, and set the dogs to hunt in the drifts; wherever they began to scratch we shovelled the snow away, and were sure to find sheep either dead or nearly so: however, we liberated a good many more. This sort of work continued till the following Saturday, when Frederick returned, having had a most dangerous journey, as the roads are still blocked up in places with snowdrifts; but he was anxious to get back, knowing I must have been going through ‘hard times’. He was terribly shocked at the state of things among the sheep; in Christchurch, no definite news had reached them from any quarter: all the coaches were stopped and the telegraph wires broken down by the snow. He arrived about midday, and, directly after the meal we still called dinner, started off over the hills to my ‘nest of Cockatoos’, and brought back some of the men with him to help to search for the sheep, and to skin those that were dead as fast as possible. He worked himself all day at the skinning, a horrible job; but the fleeces were worth something, and soon all the fences, as they began to emerge from the snow, were tapestried with these ghastly skins, and walking became most disagreeable, on account of the evil odours arising every few yards.

We forgot all our personal sufferings in anxiety about the surviving sheep, and when the long-expected dray arrived, it seemed a small boon compared to the discovery of a nice little ‘mob’ feeding tranquilly on a sunny spur. It is impossible to estimate our loss until the grand muster at shearing, but we may set it down at half our flock, and all our lambs, or at least 90 percent of them. Our neighbours are all as busy as we are, so no accurate accounts of their sufferings or losses have reached us; but, to judge by appearances, the distant ‘backcountry’ ranges must have felt the storm more severely even than we have; and although the snow did not drift to such a depth on the plains as with us, or lie so long on the ground, they suffered just as much, for the sheep took shelter under the high riverbanks, and the tragedy of the creeks was enacted on a still larger scale; or they drifted along before the first day’s gale till they came to a wire fence, and there they were soon covered up, and trampled each other to death. Not only were sheep, but cattle, found dead in hundreds along the fences on the plains. The newspapers give half a million as a rough estimate of the loss among the flocks in this province alone. We have no reliable news from other parts of the island, only vague rumours of the storm having been still more severe in the Province of Otago, which lies to the south, and would be right in its track; the only thing which all are agreed in saying is, that there never has been such a storm before, for the Māoris are strong in weather traditions, and though they prophesied this one, it is said they have no legend of anything like it ever having happened.

ISABELLA BIRD

INTRODUCTION

In 1892, Isabella Bird was the first woman to be elected a Fellow of the Royal Geographical Society. All the more extraordinary, perhaps, given that this pioneering Scottish writer, photographer and naturalist did not take up globetrotting until she was into her forties.

Her destinations included Australia, India, Tibet and the Middle East, but Bird reserved a particular fondness for North America. In 1873, she headed for the Rockies, and for Estes Park; now a town near Boulder, then a fledgling wilderness retreat founded by the prospector Joel Estes, and where Bird hoped the dry air would be beneficial for health. Bird related her experiences in a series of letters to her sister, Henrietta, and published, in 1878, as A Lady’s Life in the Rocky Mountains. She began her Rockies odyssey in San Francisco, first by train, through Utah and Wyoming.

Cosmopolitan by Victorian standards, Bird was a woman of a class, possessed of withering opinions. The frontier town of Cheyenne, Wyoming, she observed, ‘is…a God-forsaken, God-forgotten place. That it forgets God is written on its face. It owes its existence to the railroad [and is] mainly inhabited by rowdies and desperadoes, the scum of advancing civilization’.

On reaching Estes Park, Bird was in no mood to rest. She took part in high-octane cattle mustering, describing how ‘I had not expected to work like a vachero’. And on land so wild that ‘cows have to be regularly broken in for milking, being as wild as buffaloes’. She fulfilled too her ambition to summit Longs Peak. Her guide on the 14,000ft ascent was ‘Mountain Jim’ Nugent, a trapper and scout with a fearsome reputation. Bird developed a crush nonetheless, despite Nugent being a little wilderness worn. ‘As he spoke I forgot both his reputation and appearance, for his manner was that of a chivalrous gentleman,’ she wrote. ‘He told me that the loss of his eye was owing to a recent encounter with a grizzly bear, which, after giving him a death hug, tearing him all over, breaking his arm and scratching out his eye, had left him for dead.’ Nugent would be the John Brown to Bird’s Queen Victoria, the rough outdoorsman rendered unobtainable by circumstance. (Nugent was shot dead nine months after they met.)

Bird’s journey was, in truth, just beginning. An accomplished horsewoman, her intention from the outset had been to explore the mountains. From Estes Park, she ventured forth astride ‘Birdie’, a bay pony. ‘A little beauty,’ she wrote to Henrietta, ‘with legs of iron, fast, enduring, gentle and wise; and with luggage for some weeks, including a black silk dress, behind my saddle, I am tolerably independent.’

They ‘toured’ for 800 miles, often alone, often at altitude. At times, Bird’s bravura bordered on foolhardiness. ‘The fierce heat caused soul and sense, brain and eye, to reel,’ she recalls in the extract featured here. ‘I was at a height of 12,000ft…the sun, he was white and unwinking like a lime-ball light [and] I suffered so from nausea, exhaustion and pains from head to foot, that I felt as if I must lie down.’

And so it went on, for weeks on end, Bird summoning the strength of will to record events daily. ‘It is not easy to sit down and write after ten hours of hard riding,’ she wrote to Henrietta, ‘especially [when]…wholesome fatigue may make my letter flat when it ought to be enthusiastic.’ On the occasions the mountains relented, they worked their magic. In Lower Canyon, Bird found ‘a valley…of great sublimity. The sky and the earth combine to form a wonderland every evening – such rich, velvety colouring in crimson and violet; such an orange, green and vermilion sky; such scarlet and emerald clouds; such an extraordinary dryness and purity of atmosphere, and then the glorious afterglow which seems to blend earth and heaven.’

A LADY’S LIFE IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS

BY LADY ISABELLA BIRD

It was another cloudless morning, one of the many here on which one awakes early, refreshed and ready to enjoy the fatigues of another day. In our sunless, misty climate you do not know the influence which persistent fine weather exercises on the spirits. I have been ten months in almost perpetual sunshine, and now a single cloudy day makes me feel quite depressed. I did not leave till 9.30, because of the slipperiness, and shortly after starting turned off into the wilderness on a very dim trail. Soon seeing a man riding a mile ahead, I rode on and overtook him, and we rode eight miles together, which was convenient to me, as without him I should several times have lost the trail altogether. Then his fine American horse, on which he had only ridden two days, broke down, while my ‘mad, bad bronco’, on which I had been travelling for a fortnight, cantered lightly over the snow. He was the only traveller I saw in a day of nearly twelve hours. I thoroughly enjoyed every minute of that ride. I concentrated all my faculties of admiration and of locality, for truly the track was a difficult one. I sometimes thought it deserved the bad name given to it at Link’s. For the most part it keeps in sight of Tarryall Creek, one of the large affluents of the Platte, and is walled in on both sides by mountains, which are sometimes so close together as to leave only the narrowest canyon between them, at others breaking wide apart, till, after winding and climbing up and down for twenty-five miles, it lands one on a barren rock-girdled park, watered by a rapid fordable stream as broad as the Ouse at Huntingdon, snow fed and ice fringed, the