by Stoker
The point of winter, I have always thought, is to have a Mr Badger attitude. No doubt most of Only Connect’s readers are well acquainted with The Wind in the Willows, Kenneth Grahame’s wonderful tale for children, of the Water Rat, the Mole, Mr Toad, and of course, Mr Badger. But Wind in the Willows is not just for children; it is a tale for adults, perhaps more so for adults, who will find in these adventures along the riverbank an examination of every human type, the experience of every human emotion, and the sharing of dreams of warm summers and snowy winters - and of the Wild Wood.
Grahame, a Scot but brought up by the River Thames in Berkshire by a grandmother, was an ambitious and clever man. He joined the Bank of England in his late teens and rose rapidly to become its Secretary – the third most senior official in the Bank – at the age of 39. He married late in life, survived an assassination attempt (not what one might expect in that proud institution), took early retirement at 49 after some sort of management contretemps at the Bank (that we do expect), and lived by the Thames for the rest of his life. He was already a highly regarded writer of children’s stories when in his retirement he wrote The Wind in the Willows. It became an immediate best seller; it has remained so ever since.
Not surprisingly perhaps, Grahame has ever since become a hero and role model to every banker with an urge to write or paint or compose. Not many get the chance to take early retirement and settle on a riverbank to do it though. Nor, it has to be said, do many (or indeed any) have the talent to create anything so long-lastingly popular as the tales of Ratty and Mole messing about on the river.
The world, our world, is full of Rattys and Moles, going out for picnics, learning to row, helping their neighbours the Otters find their missing child Portly, visiting friends for tea and chat. No doubt some even visit the local magnate, Mr Toad, in his grand house with lawns reaching down to the river. Believe me, we all know Mr Toad. Mr Toad, or one of his cousins, intrudes loudly into our lives, at work, in restaurants, speeding past us in his 4x4 on the motorway. Mr Toad was even our Prime Minister for a while, a blond-haired Mr Toad, and has not given up hope he may be again. Grahame’s Mr Toad is though, deep down, a likeable and kindly creature, for all his loudness and bombast, with his dreadful over-enthusiasms for Toad Hall and its magnificence, for sculling on the river, for canary-coloured carts, and finally and most dreadfully, for motor cars: “poop-poop, poop-poop!”.
It is Stoker’s habit to buy a copy of The Wind in the Willows for every young child of his near acquaintance and urge their parents to read it to them (Grahame wrote it as series of letters to his only child, Alastair). Furthermore, Stoker at about this time of year, rereads the great tale and laughs and weeps and sighs, and wishes he had a tenth of Grahame’s talent (though not of his misfortunes, which we will not go into here, but would have broken a lesser man).
Stoker perhaps would, given a choice, live in the wild fells of the Eden valley, perhaps in one of those little border castles with a wood to shelter it from the northern winds, and a river – the Eden – down below, tinkling on its way, trout weaving among the bright stones. Little black cows might graze a few fields (preferably with somebody else to look after them); and this being the Eden valley, there would be (and is) a railway line on the hill to the west, with steam trains panting their way up the ever-resistant gradients.
Wonderful in summer; better still in winter, with howling westerlies and long-lying snow, with the little black cattle filling the stone sheds up with enough breathy steam to challenge the engines across the valley. Ah; at this time of year, to be Mr Badger, to return you to the more sylvan banks of the Thames, and to The Wind in the Willows.
Mr Badger lives in a great sett, a magnificent and sprawling home, composed of tunnels entwined amongst tree roots, with a boot scraper by the front door, deep in the Wild Wood. Nobody invades Mr Badger’s privacy; he has a certain reputation and is rarely seen out, especially in daylight. And in the winter, with deep snow all around, his sett becomes invisible under a deep layer of white, even that boot scraper, which comes to play a key role in this saga. Mr Badger lights the fires in his great brick fireplaces (probably carved out of Roman ruins), retreats to his favourite armchair, takes up a copy of a decent newspaper – and snoozes the days away under it. It is the invasion of his slumbering home by Mole and Ratty, lost and terrified in the Wild Wood, that eventually sets up the exciting and entrancing action sequence that dominates the second half of the book. No plot spoilers here; you’ll have to read it for yourself, but it does lead initially to a wonderful series of happenings, the most evocative, the most moving part of the book.
The two friends return home from Badger’s via a snow-bound village street, glancing through lit windows in the dusk at the families within preparing for Christmas. Large handkerchief required now please; for we must dwell on home and old friendship, on what it means, and on what we have lost. But we never really lose it; the carol singers will always come, there will always be a few bottles of ale, and the gossip of past times will always comfort us.
Happy Christmas, readers; and felicitations for the New Year, in which we will forsake the Thames and the Eden, and settle by the Potomac to examine new tales of yet another Mr Toad, newly moved from his magnificent house at Mar-A-Lago to the wonders of the White House.
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