Review : The Fens

I usually try and keep reviews to things I found interesting, even if I disagree with them, but in this case I'm prepared to make an exception.

Francis Pryor is a wonderful man. Britain B.C. is a truly remarkable book that presents a vivid account both of archeology itself and its goal of understanding prehistory, and I can't recommend it highly enough. Likewise the sequels Britain A.D. and Britain in the Middle Ages, and also Home are all, if not quite so magisterial, well worth reading. Pryor is adept at delivering a sense of passion even for what are otherwise quite mundane topics - the prehistory of farming is, frankly, not something I could ever stand more than a few pages on coming from anyone else. And if he uses more anecdotes than most authors can get away with, he does so because they're interesting and relevant, enlivening the subject without distracting from it.

Not so, alas, in The Fens. It really should be called Francis Pryor Unleashed, because here he goes full-on into the realm of "old man stories than don't go anywhere and just aren't interesting." If Francis Pryor ever wants me to come and be a literal cheerleader (pom poms and skimpy outfit included) for him, then I will, but for specifically this book : sorry, no.

The first half or so of the book, where he concentrates on the prehistoric elements, is pretty solid. When Pryor describes archeology and his interpretations of life in the distant past, he's on form. There's nothing much new here but it's a nicely told tale. There's even some interesting commentary on the sociology of the people of the fens, some worthy attempt to get to grips with a mindset shaped by a very different world. The only real downside is that he constantly (but only slightly) over-promises and under-delivers, e.g. setting up a tale of a particularly intriguing archeological discovery but then failing to explain what exactly was so intriguing about it. It's all a bit stream-of-consciousnessy. Still, I'd give the first half a thoroughly decent 7/10.

The remainder of the book is, however, just plain bad. There's almost no history whatsoever - nothing about how things came to be, just long-winded descriptions of what's currently there. It reads like a travel guide to some forgotten corner of England that the author is almost worryingly obsessed with. He literally goes off on tangents about places where he had particularly nice tea and cake or fish and chips, like listening to some old twit bang on about their holidays in a place that just isn't interesting in the slightest. Yes Francis, of course you like fish and chips - you're British, we get it. Enough already !

You know those books that are so good you don't want to finish them ? This is the opposite. By the end I really just wanted it to be over so I could do something else. As Pryor himself nicely articulates :

Before us was a huge expanse of recently mown sedge fen, with water-filled dykes and alders in the middle distance. Herons were everywhere, as were greebs, moorhens and ducks. It was fabulous. Then I glanced at my companion and saw the place through her cold, disapproving eyes : it was a large, flat, wet field with nothing whatever to commend it. Even the herons looked depressed.

And unfortunately no amount of enthusiasm can convince me that a travelogue of a flat, damp, sleepy corner of England is something that needs to exist. History ? Sure ! The different changes that took place over time - especially the world view of our prehistoric ancestors - is hugely interesting stuff. But a travelogue ? Hell no. Look, I've been there, and there are some very nice places : I like herons too. But I don't need to write a book about where the best fish and chips are - that's the kind of thing my grandparents would prattle on about ad nauseum, and if it was irritating to listen to, it's equally unengaging to read. Even the author's masterful enthusiasm can't disguise the fact that this is like listening to Grandpa Simpson. See, enthusiasm can make a good topic great, or a mediocre subject quite interesting - but it can't turn narrative-free description of completely and utterly normal places into something worth reading.

Sorry Francis, but this is one to skip. If you only read one Francis Pryor book this year, make sure it isn't this one. With the latter section being a dismal 3/10, I'd give this no more than 4/10 overall. Quite why it seems to be doing so well in reviews in the press, I honestly don't understand.