‘I thought of those tiny remote islands . . . way out in the Atlantic ocean, right at the edge of the world.’ (p 54)
Simple?
Even being the hopeless fantasy addict that I am, I sometimes crave respite from remarkable children battling to save the entire world from unspeakable evil. I yearn, at least temporarily, for something more ‘real’. I need recovery from trying to keep track of numerous oddly-named characters and unravelling multi-stranded plots. My mood requires something simpler, gently evocative , perhaps, rather than viscerally exciting.
I have been saving this book for just such an occasion, and it was a brilliant choice. In this context, Julia Green’s lyrical evocation of two children’s short summer in the Outer Hebrides was perfect. (And I do not use the word lightly.) I think many children sometimes crave the same things in their reading too.
This is a story completely devoid of wizards or monsters, yet is has its own magic, transportation magic. It is writing that takes you with it to the very places it describes, so that you see its wildly beautiful island landscapes. You hear the churn and crash of its waves against the rocks, you catch the sting of its sharp breeze against your skin, feel its white beach sand between your toes, smell the pungent tar of its boathouses, and taste the smoke from its tideline bonfires. There may be no spells here either, but the author so beautifully conjures the characters of her two protagonist, Jamie and Mara, that you live their experiences, share their days, know their hopes and fears, almost breathe their air. The story, too, may have no dramatic conflict between the light and the dark, but yet is far from being without excitement or tension. The young pair’s sea journey to remote, and long abandoned, St Kilda, is brave, foolish, cold, wet, terrifying and at times deeply moving.
More than anything, though, this is the simple story about a boy and a girl (and a small dog) who share a few weeks in a remote and wonderful place, and, in doing so change each other, and help each other to grow.
‘You’re always too careful . . . Though you’re getting better.’ (p 164)
It is also a tale of the wild ocean that takes them to the edge of the world and back.
Perhaps not so simple
However, the very best ‘simple’ writing is underpinned by well-honed craft and consummate artistry, and that is very much the case here. Julia Green is an author of subtly potent language and of sensitive insight into the lives and minds of children. Apparently simple books can be profound too, sometimes the most profound of all. Here, a young boy’s all-too-understandable fear of the sea, and a young girl’s determination to control her own future, are transformed into a wild adventure, dangerous and scary, but exciting too, alive - and survivable. This story embraces the wild wonder of remote islands, of their beaches, their winds, their skies and their stars - and, of course, of the sea that is their essence. And the sea can be many things; imagination, other people, change, freedom, danger, life; life that is a wild, scary, exciting, beautiful adventure; yet life that is also anchored in secure return to harbour and home.
‘I want to live a big life.’ (p 188)
Like many of Julia Green’s books before, To the Edge of the World is a wonderful gift to our children. Her next, The House of Light, is apparently not far off, and I look forward to it enormously.
