It was barely 9 o'clock in the morning. Having settled myself in the office to compile yesterday's entry in my written diary, the doorbell rang. Descending two steps at a time, I arrived at the front door.
"Andrew?"
"Yes, that's me"
"Just need a photo mate" as he handed a large brown package over to me.
"Great, have a good day mate" and with that he, my new best mate, the unknown courier, sped off.
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| An early morning package |
At the moment of possibly needing urgent medical attention, I agreed last year to be a longlist judge for the Richard Jefferies Award for nature writing. A previous judge, John Price, was stepping down from the role. The current chair of the Richard Jefferies Society asked me if I'd be willing to step into the void. John, as a bookseller, academic, past headmaster, the man who discovered the rare endemic St Helena Boxwood plant on the island of the same name, and an all round inspirational mentor, provisioned the most daunting steps for me to follow. Delighted, terrified and intrigued in equal measure, I said yes. After that decision, John issued me with a caution, "Annually, we receive around forty submissions. That is a lot of reading in a year."
Over the decade or so, this award, with a £1000 prize, has been operated by the Richard Jefferies Society thanks to a generous bequest. Winners of the award often later appear in the Wainwright Prize shortlists. It's a similar demographic, though the Richard Jefferies Award only has one category – to best reflect the heritage, content and sense of place that is so strong in Jefferies’ countryside works. That, and having only been an original publication in the relevant calendar year.
To date, twenty-seven books have been submitted for 2026, and I have read around three quarters. Time for a confession? I speed read.
It would be almost impossible to read every word on each page, and still maintain a normal life. Instead, and this was mastered during my media days, I scan the beginning and end of a paragraph or page, only reading with normal intensity if that initial scan piques some nascent interest. That pique could be a word, phrase or simply a general feeling. There are no hard rules to this.
The package which arrived this morning contained a paperback, a nature memoir of a child growing up in the 1960s and 70s. My era, it looks interesting, and immediately the back cover piqued my interest – 'of a woman who dedicated her life to transforming food and farming'. Only time will tell.
Not every book creates piques. As we are still judging, there are no titles to reveal. However, many nature writers these days publish descriptions of what they emotionally feel when within nature. Mindfulness if you will. These books are fascinating to read, yet wildlife encounter often plays a scant second fiddle to mental health, coming to terms with grief or saving the writer from the urban stress of modern life. Few writers now observe wildlife just for the purpose of the observation of wildlife. And that makes longlist judging challenging and fascinating.
Remembering what the award is '[to] reflect the heritage, content and sense of place', a book on walking in forests to rekindle a lost sense of purpose after a bereavement, may have a sense of place, but lacks any wildlife content other than simply being outdoors. However, what is compelling for me is that I am reading authors I've not heard of, I'm reading books I'd probably overlook on a shop display. I'm being removed from my comfort zone. The process is opening my eyes to, and piquing an interest in, modern nature writing.
Yet, it is unavoidable, inevitable in some ways, that a long list of nature classics sits fossilised in the recesses of anyone well-read enough, who is tasked with the role of long lister. Possibly beginning with Gilbert White, selectively through to Richard Jefferies, of course, W. H. Hudson, Henry Williamson, Thoreau, John Muir, BB, Gavin Maxwell. To authors such as Richard Mabey, Roger Deakin, Nan Shepherd or Kenneth Allsop. They all encircle the modern reader, subtly attaching their creative ideas into our subconscious. But to what effect? Is John Muir's much admired classic Steep Trails (published after his death) – exploring the spirit of discovery, any more influential than Jefferies' Story of my Heart – exploring mystical experiences with the natural world, or Maxwell's Ring of Bright Water – his relationship with an otter, or a book extolling the benefit of wild swimming for mental health, published this year? I'm tempted to say, yes to all the above. However, explaining that conclusion might prove tricky.
I live in 2026, not 1926, or 1826. Writers reflect the norms of society in their time, mostly. A few punches through the melee to create a tidy wave of change – think Rachel Carson. Most, however, write alongside the general flotsam of what can be termed a financially accepted benchmark. After all, writers need to live. Readers like to know what they're getting. A book that sells well today, clones additional money-spinners. Yet, these days I feel two genera are missing. The aforementioned observational nature writing, and a humorous book on wildlife. Now there's an idea?
But, what I can say, with some certainty, is that I have been reading a lot of natural history publications this year. The ultimate decision is not in my gift. As a foot soldier, my involvement is the heavy lift. And I must say, even at speed, I'm enjoying it enormously.
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| The latest addition to the growing pile. |
Richard Jefferies Award for nature writing - www.richardjefferiessociety.org/award/
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