And a bookshop is born…
When I was seventeen I caught the train from Derby to the little village of Cromford. Here the world’s first water-powered cotton spinning mill was developed by the waistcoat popping girth of Sir Richard Arkwright. As a result, you could argue Cromford played a pivotal role in the development of modern industrial civilisation. Those who’ve visited the gloriously eccentric and creaky timbers of Scarthin Books can confirm that Cromford maintains its central position in the human story, this undoubtedly being the location of the world’s greatest bookshop. For me, it will never be surpassed. Whenever visiting family in Derbyshire I must return to Scarthin Books. A seasonal pilgrimage. The reason why is that trip when I was seventeen.
I can’t remember why I decided to visit. I was into The Smiths. I was a bit of a loner. I probably liked the idea of paying my £2 or whatever it was and traipsing off for the day to an old village on a little two car train. Shy, I nervously approached the desk to ask a question. The proprietor was almost scowling before I even began…
Scarthin Books, Cromford, Derbyshire - possibly the greatest on earth
“Sorry, I’m looking for a biography of Disraeli,” I said.
Now his expression changed. His entire disposition softened. Suddenly I was whisked into an ecstatic whirling discourse on the merits of various biographies of this 19th century Prime Minister. “This one is the best,” he announced, lifting a thick green volume from a box, on a shelf, somewhere in one of the many stacked rooms in this rabbit warren of shop, overlooking a mill pond, at the foot of the Peak District. I can’t remember who wrote the book. What I do remember is feeling like I needed to repay the enthusiasm of the bookshop owner by actually reading it. So I pulled out some details from the text and integrated them into an essay I was writing on “The Rivers Pollution Prevention Act 1876” (as relevant today as 147 years ago…).
Eventually the marks came back from the teacher and something remarkable happened. My history teacher, Mr. Oswald, was overjoyed. My initiative and further reading was commended. He pulled me into his office for a word. Not a bad word. A good word. You’ve got potential. Now I know this might sound strange to some but having been more interested in football results and whether I could learn a switch kickflip on my skateboard, the thought had never really occurred to me before that I could have academic potential. Life until then had been mechanical. I attended school, I had a Saturday job, I played sports with my mates. Something clicked. I could learn stuff. There was a whole world of things to know and knowing things could change your thoughts. And if you changed your thoughts, you could change your life and the world around it. That was the power of a bookseller.
Fast forward some 20 years or so and I’m on the floor, curled in the foetal position, gasping for each breath in tears. My partner Agathe comes to check on me, bring me tea every now and then. I’m telling myself to take it minute by minute and for some reason I focus on playing a golf game on my phone. I’ve given up on the art therapy of watercolour painting, now I’m clinging on. My body has gone completely and utterly haywire. My left upper chest feels as hard as a rock and is throbbing. My left arm has been tingling for months. My feet too. Even the left side of my face is going numb from time to time. What set off this monstrous reaction? We’d gone for breakfast at the local cafe. A lovely little cafe too. As we waited for our food to arrive on an autumn morning I could feel a wave coming again, a mad, non-sensical utterly overwhelming wave of anxiety that is hard to understand if you’ve never been through similar - and I really hope you won’t. My body was stuck, completely stuck in evolutionary flight mode. I had anxiety so bad even going to the local corner shop was an ordeal.
The escalation of this anxiety had been rapid. Previously I’d felt like I could take on a lot and take it in my stride. Although naturally nervy and quiet I’d also had a bit of courage to get through it and a deep desire to see and do things. As Morrisey had wailed to my teenage self, “shyness is nice and shyness can stop you from doing all the things in life you'd like to.” I’d been working for C40 Cities Climate Leadership Group since 2016 and by some strange twist of fate had become our HQ China expert, regularly visiting China to engage cities in climate action policies and build up our office in Beijing. All of a sudden I could hardly catch a bus, never mind an international flight.
The schedule at C40 was relentless in terms of travel and the variety of events and information I was dealing with. I remember one time being in Qingdao on the eastern seaboard and looking up from a huge meeting table. Our little delegation on one side with me in the middle, various representatives from the city of Qingdao opposite arrayed before us. Above the heads of their delegation were three portraits. Marx, Mao and Lenin. It was a long way from Derby. The job was full on. None-stop. Then the pandemic came and everything had to stop.
Playing my role, at the “8th US-China Energy Efficiency Forum” - singing another Memorandum of Understanding…
Life often makes sense in hindsight doesn’t it. We take that messy business of living and spin convenient narratives for ourselves. Well, what makes sense to me now is that the stopping did something to my mind and body. It was as though I couldn’t slow down whilst I had no control and nowhere to go. I was running into myself. Slowly at first I could feel anxiety rising inside me. Obsessively I would read the news, first covid, then Russia’s invasion of Ukraine, and finally climate change. The topic i’d been motivated to work on since I was a teenager - which I’d studied at university. I was reading everything I could on climate change after seeing the aftermath of wildfires on the Camino de Santiago pilgrimage across northern Spain. I couldn’t stop. New technologies. The latest research on the physical science. Diplomatic assessments. My mind lamented what could have been. What should have been. It was as if I had another dialogue with myself happening constantly. “Shut up,” I’d think lying in bed before inevitably scrolling and searching for more news at 4am.
The evening after the cafe incident I told Agathe I couldn’t take it anymore and shakily found the strength to drive myself to the local hospital. It wasn’t even the right place to go but in that moment I needed to do something. Soon I was speaking to a doctor and began to get some help. Slowly at first but then almost as rapidly as I’d descended into the pits of anxiety, life became manageable once more. Even writing these words I wouldn’t say I was fully recovered. Do we ever fully heal from such things? It will always be there. Lurking about…the sly little gremlin…but I feel much much better. And there is a reason I’m writing this.
The shop we went to see after returning from France in June
When I was at my lowest I read online blogs from people suffering anxiety. One man wrote a piece that I hung onto. He said that although the person reading his message won’t believe it now, it’s possible that you might look back on these moments as important and even ones you wouldn’t take away from your story if you could. He wrote about how his anxiety had caused him to reassess his life and changed his perspective dramatically, made him a better person. I wouldn’t say if given the choice that I wouldn’t take away the anxiety. Thinking about the worst moments almost brings back the sensation of soreness and pain in my chest. But I do understand how he could write those words. My own severe bout of anxiety caused me to realise how precious life is. And that I needed to be myself. My full self. In those climate conferences and meetings, I wasn’t always my entire self. It felt like I was acting a bit, playing a role, which though I was adept to do at times, never quite came as naturally to me as it seemed to for others.
I decided to start off 2023 by putting myself out there. That was my resolution for the year. No more stabilisers. Let’s just live and follow our passions. I decided to test the waters by recording a video showing people my favourite church, a question I’m often asked online and in person. To my astonishment that first video gained over a million views on instagram and even more on TikTok.
A few months later whilst visiting Agathe’s family in France we were lucky enough to visit the asylum where Van Gogh was a patient between May 1888 and May 1889. I’d always felt such a draw to his works, like millions around the world. Here I was where he’d conceived the Starry Night. I had to show people who weren’t as lucky as me to be here. These videos gained even more views. I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have made them without the anxiety. Strangely it helped. A bit of me stopped caring so much. Caring about what people would think or say or how they’d view me when recording these videos or writing these words. It’s what I wanted to do…so there go, do it. No big deal.
Preparing notes for a video on Van Gogh’s asylum, Saint-Remy de Provence, France
That’s when the recurring bookshop dreams came flooding back. In France. In the olive groves where Van Gogh wandered. Why didn’t we just do it? Me and Agathe had talked about it. On other holidays. In Cornwall. When on pilgrimages through England. Never before had I really had the feeling that we might do it. The let’s just dive in spirit…now it was abundant.
As fate would have it on the day we returned to England a shop was advertised in our home town, Frome in Somerset. At the bottom of Catherine Hill. A beautiful cobbled street that is doing its absolute best to survive in the world of online shopping and the factories of fragmentation that dominate our lives. This is a place of real community and the shop seemed perfect. It was small. Needed absolutely loads of work doing to it. We could see it though. See what it could be. So we decided to go for it. It really was as simple as that. Agathe would stay in her full time role but be a steadfast support throughout the process of setting up the business.
Long Live the Hedgerows. That had been my tagline on Instagram for a few years and it seemed perfect for the shop which we’d decided to call Sherlock & Pages. We created a few other taglines too. Riot for the Dormice (our logo is now a beautiful linocut of a hibernating dormouse). And No Magic on a Dead Planet. This was about inserting personality and reflecting our values. The idea of being your full self. Sherlock & Pages is a little bookshop which something unique and positive to offer an online audience as well as helping to maintain a tiny slice of this magnificent little country high street. In short we are a conservation bookshop. Conservation of all we’ve inherited and all we have a responsibility to pass on.
We’ve been documenting our journey on YouTube, very much in the let’s just do it mindset. If you can subscribe, like and comment on the videos (as long as you actually enjoy them) then that would really help. Elsewhere you can follow us on instagram, and the social media platform formerly known as Twitter, and of course browse our online shop which will be regularly updated.
I’ve got to say I’m slightly terrified about the finances. Bookshops aren’t exactly a goldmine, not least independent shops. We’ll have to fight for survival on the basis of our soul, passion and expertise. We already maintain a unique list of thought provoking and beautiful reads online. Our categories are a bit different. They reflect our values and interests. Our strength is nature writing though we cover much more - from heritage, conservation, landscape, craft, to our love of British landscapes, art, and history. All the major categories of larger retailers are stocked but done our way. Any support you could give us would be greatly appreciated. We are currently shipping within the UK and to the US and Canada. I hope we can add more countries soon.
The Sherlock & Pages online shop is live - www.sherlockandpages.com
Pretty soon we’ll be opening the physical shop. Hopefully by early November. After writing this I’m heading off to start off some of the internal painting. It’s none stop again. Yet I feel the spirit of living has returned - as the English band James once wrote, “getting away with it all messed up.”
P.s. If you or anyone you know is suffering from anxiety, don’t feel shy of seeking professional help. So many people have reached out to me and told me they’ve felt the same. Sometimes when so much awful news is in the world we can feel embarassed at turning inward and looking after ourselves. That’s what we’ve got to do if we’re going to be any use to anyone though.
Long Live the Hedgerows,
Luke
. guardian of the hallowed words