Tom Cox - Ring the Hill

Also by Tom Cox

Help the Witch

21st-Century Yokel

Nice Jumper

Bring Me the Head of Sergio Garcia

Under the Paw

Talk to the Tail

The Good, The Bad and The Furry

Close Encounters of the Furred Kind

For he conducted his life as
everyone doesby guessing at
the future

Annie Proulx,
Accordion Crimes

The man the hare has met
will never be the better of it
except he lay down on the land
what he carries in his hand
be it staff or be it bow
and bless him with his elbow
and come out with this litany
with devotion and sincerity
to speak the praises of the hare.
Then the man will better fare.

The hare, call him scotart,

big-fellow, bouchart,

the OHare, the jumper,

the rascal, the racer

The creep-along, the sitter-still,

the pintail, the ring-the-hill

Anon,
The Names of the Hare
(Thirteenth century)

(201819)

When you arrive at my house my current house, which might not be my house for very long, since that increasingly seems to be the way of things with me something you will probably notice about it before long is that it is in the sea. Not the extreme bottom of the sea, low tide perhaps revealing a chimney pot and the weatherworn edge of a seventeenth-century gable, but certainly not what could be considered officially part of the mainland. Its a fact that makes itself more apparent on some days, and from some vantage points, than others. When the mist is heavy and you stand at the summit of one of the abrupt, isolated hills common to this part of Somerset, the realisation becomes stronger that, not all that many centuries ago, all the low ground as far as the eye can see was underwater: first proper sea, then a sort of marshy half-sea, dotted with small, tall islands, where semi-feral humans lived off fish and a king could successfully hide in times of trouble. I am fascinated by this place, and like it more every day, although I did not fall instantly in love with it. As most people who have got any kind of living under their belt know, though, the kind of love that arrives at first sight is rarely the most fulfilling.

I moved here at the beginning of the crisp, golden, hazy days: the period when, after the scruffiness of late summer, nature gets the decorators back in. It was a time of year that I already associated with the heart of Somerset and now probably will forever: the season when the region shows off its long, cosmic sunsets, the intricate embroidery of its skies, to best effect. In August I had made the mistake of boasting about a long period of excellent health and been summarily punished for my smugness with a back injury and chest infection, but the golden days kept stretching on and I was determined to make the most of them, so I hobbled out into the dry sea, past its sparkling coppery trees, coughing my way to the top of the island lookout points, doing a commendable amount of exploring for an invalid. Id ordered the map before Id booked the removal van: one of the lovely personalised ones the OS do nowadays, with your house at the dead centre. You get the privilege of choosing the cover photo yourself. Mine was one Id taken on my first visit to Glastonbury Tor, in autumn 2015, at dusk, of the silhouettes of two Danish women watching the sun fall into the sea just below Weston-super-Mare, seventeen miles to the west. In Somerset and Dorset, more than in other coastal counties, I always get the impression the sun takes its nightly rest in the sea: nowhere too far away, but not quite in a spot you could easily swim or row a small wooden boat to.

I came to live here in the other sea the inland sea that is mostly, but not always, dry by accident; and then again I didnt. Accidents are often an amalgamation of intentions, hopes, misfortunes and the knock-on effect of experiences, which arguably makes them not all that accidental at all. I impulsively left a part of the UK I love in order to live out a crazy, ambitious writing experiment in a brutally cold, topographically hostile spot; when I decided it was over, which was quite quickly, I ran back as soon as I could into the arms of part of the UK I loved but ended up in a house where I found it extremely difficult to work; I looked for a quieter, more private house to write in a couple of places which I thought might provide a balance between my social and working needs; I didnt find one, but I fell, in a subtle way, for a house in another area, not all that far away, an area I didnt know well at all. That all happened in under twelve months and accounts for why I am now in the sea. In other words, I am here as a direct result of being me. In this instance it has been expensive and tiring, being me, but I dont regret it.

Twenty-one is the number of houses I have now lived in. I cant claim full responsibility for that total. My parents moved a lot when I was growing up. In my ancestry, on the Irish side, there is evidence of travelling salesmen, so maybe thats an additional explanation for the wanderlust. Im disturbingly good at moving now: the packing, the labelling, the sizing up, the prioritising and deprioritising of bullshit admin. I wouldnt say it gets easier, but doing stupid things during house moves in the past has, finally, after many years, made me marginally better at not doing stupid things during house moves. There is no better illustration of the human brains ability to blank out bad experiences as a coping mechanism than that of moving house. Never again! we say, after a move, feeling like we have been slowly backed over three times by a large tractor with tyres caked in hot manure. But after a while, the details of exactly why it was so traumatic fade. Maybe it wasnt so bad after all? we think. But it was. Probably worse, in fact. Our memory is lying to us. If I was ever stuck for inspiration for writing, I would apply for a job as a removal man. Its not just that removal companies see the intimate, behind-the-scenes paraphernalia of strangers every day; moving stressful enough on its own often happens when at least one other big life event is taking place. Bereavement, a break-up, a change of job, a financial crisis. Its hard for people to keep their masks on when theyre mid-move. Movers see people stretched and fraught. They see a full flame ignited under stories that have been left on simmer for years.

I suspect my movers thought me oddly phlegmatic, my packing amazingly orderly, when they took my stuff from the edge of Dartmoor to east Somerset, but they were dealing with a rumpled relocation veteran. It was ultimately just another day in my peripatetic recent life. But I know, even so, from overhearing their banter, that they found amusement and intrigue in the quirks of my possessions. Why would anyone go to the trouble of buying this many books and records yet not replace that filthy, dented car, with all the bits hanging off it, or own any furniture made after 1972? Youve got a lot of lamps and plants, mate, one mover told me. I have, I replied. Youve got a lot of lamps and plants, mate, his colleague told me, an hour or so later. I have, I replied. I love the plants, and wouldnt want to be without them, even though they dont make moving any easier, and merely living with them is a much finer art than you assume, at times feeling like hosting a party attended by fourteen quiet but oddly high-maintenance friends, all of which you must keep constantly happy. Jim needs a lot of encouragement to come out of himself but dont talk too loudly around Celia, and make sure Matilda always has a drink by her side even though her husband Bob is teetotal, and dont worry if Greg seems very down and colourless early in the evening: he doesnt really reach his best until 2 a.m. Also, dont dance too close to Bianca or open the curtains suddenly when she is nearby if it is a nice sunny morning. The biggest of the lot a vast Dracaena, taller than most rooms, which had lodged with me almost forever, in a huge pot full of earth and big pebbles, and which even the burliest of the removal men would not risk carrying alone became very opinionated when I was experimenting with room arrangement, just when I thought Id got through the move relatively unscathed. Thats where the back injury came from. A deranged disc, necessitating hundreds of pounds of chiropractor treatment. It wasnt the Dracaenas fault, though. It was mine for being an idiot, and, without evidence, believing myself to be in possession of the strength of a man four times my size.