Earlier in the year, when this anthology was entering the later stages of the editorial process, Paul Wright’s film Arcadia was released to a small number of cinemas around the country. Comprised of archival footage set to a score by Adrian Utley of Portishead and Will Gregory of Goldfrapp – with a cursory narrative of sorts provided by Wright’s voice-over – it explored Britain’s relationship with the land, including the passing of folk traditions and the incursion of the industrial age into our countryside. There was an obvious elegiac tone to parts of the film, but also a sense of weirdness, a strange, unsettling undercurrent that emerged from the archives: masked figures, ritual dances, traditions rooted in folklore and legend. It looked like something from The Wicker Man.
This Dreaming Isle occupies that same fertile ground. It was always our intention to allow the contributing authors a free rein when it came to their stories – we asked only that they should tie them to a specific place in the British Isles, and should in some way explore the myths and traditions, the folklore and history that make this land unique.
What’s startling upon reading these stories together, in one volume, is that so many of them occupy that territory commonly called ‘folk horror’. We are faced with haunted lochs and medieval witches, spectral apparitions and Black Magic. Even Andrew Michael Hurley’s ‘In My Father’s House’ – arguably the weirdest story in this anthology – suggests a timeless presence in the landscape, something not entirely malevolent, but not on the side of the angels either.
In some cases, the same images surface with eerie regularity. Secluded hills, mirrors, the appearance of a stranger in a small community: these are all elements that are common in British folk tales, and they crop up here too, threading through the stories. But even more startling are the differences, the kaleidoscopic variety of the authors’ interpretations of place, and folklore, and ‘Britishness’. These tales dig deep into the layers of history beneath our feet, revealing strata upon strata: back through the medieval witch trials to the Norman invasion, and beyond. It’s no coincidence that two of the stories turn up ancient creatures, fossilised in the very bedrock of the land.
Of course, these days it’s almost impossible to discuss Britain, past or future, without Brexit rearing its scaly head. When this anthology was first conceived (and I can be precise about this, as I’ve time-travelled back through the email threads) the crucial vote on 23 June 2016 was still three months away, and the notion of Britain being anything other than part of Europe seemed ludicrous and far-fetched. Little did we know that two years later – after the Leave vote, the failed negotiations, the infighting and the resignations – it would still seem ludicrous and far-fetched, but we would be shackled to it nonetheless.
I’m reminded of a ride at Alton Towers called The Black Hole that I rode when I was a teenager, plummeting down through the darkness at such speeds that my stomach felt as if it was rising into my throat. That sensation of being in blind, rudderless freefall scared the shit out of me then – much as it does now.
The political landscape of Britain is different today, even if the actual landscape hasn’t changed. The notion of ‘Britishness’ is all too often marred by reactionary nationalistic sentiments, the chest-thumping of the far right or the ‘tea-and-scones’ tweeness of Theresa May. It has never been the intention of this anthology to push any kind of political agenda, but we were very clear about what we didn’t want. There was no space here for anti-immigration rants or ‘this is our land’ conservatism. I’m pleased to say that none of the stories we were sent even attempted to head in that direction – our authors are far too sensible, and too reasonable, for that.
Which brings me back to Arcadia. When the film was released, Paul Kingsnorth penned a short essay for their website, intended to be part of the promotional push for the movie. Kingsnorth is sometimes a controversial figure, and it didn’t take long for the debate to brew around his contribution. Entitled ‘Elysium Found?’, Kingsnorth’s essay quickly moved away from the weird, unsettling heart of Wright’s film, instead using it as a flag to wave for old fashioned patriotism and nostalgia. Several of the authors in this book took offence at the right-wing, reactionary tone of the piece – and rightly so. The past isn’t tea and scones on the lawn, it’s malicious ghosts and weird goings-on in the fells, it’s witches burned at the stake and towns razed to the ground by Vikings. The past is a dangerous, cutthroat place, filled with violence, injustice and inequality. Those who see it through rose-tinted glasses aren’t engaging with it, they’re simply fantasizing – and that’s always dangerous.
The very idea of Britishness is in turmoil at the moment. With everything that’s happening on the political scene, it’s hard to imagine what this country will look like five years from now, never mind the decades to come. But the stories in This Dreaming Isle make one thing clear: there are rich veins of weirdness running through the soil here, an underground river of the strange and the unsettling that has been part of Britain’s cultural landscape for centuries, and shows no signs of drying up any time soon. Brexit or no Brexit, Britain’s weird stories are here to stay.
Dan Coxon
August 2018