John Lewis-Stempel is undeniably pretty good at the whole writing about nature lark, but all the same I'm not sure I'd have borrowed this if I hadn't been having a bit of a library dry spell*; hell, I literally have Waterlog at home. And from the off this one gives the impression that unlike eg the great Meadowland, a book you can tell demanded to be written, this might be more a case of Lewis-Stempel needing to do another book and casting around for a topic. Perhaps it's unavoidable to some extent when being in a pond is not always so convenient as being in a meadow or wood**, but especially earlier on the ostensible subject of the book often seems pretty peripheral to the diary entries from which it's assembled, which will concern themselves more with the travails of farming sheep, say, or the life of Scott of the Antarctic's son. Who, yes, had his wetland links (even then - a wetland is not quite the same topic), but the main thing I took from the account is that he was married to Elizabeth Jane Howard before she got mixed up with the Amises. Which, yes, interesting, but not terribly pondtastic, is it?
Even when we are on topic, there are big chunks (the difference between frogs and toads; the legal protection of newts) which read a lot like they were copied and pasted by someone with an anxious eye on his wordcount. I'm not asserting that this is the case, to be clear - but if they're not, and they read that way, isn't that arguably worse? At least once, I'm not convinced he's even correct - the claim that moorhens and coots favour different habitats doesn't match my experience of the two often overlapping. And then there's the narrative oxbow in which he makes an aquarium as a purported pond microcosm, includes something he knows full well will attack other denizens, and then a few days later seems to realise the whole enterprise is going to provide precious little enlightenment or content, so anticlimactically returns it all to the wild. Oh, and there are lots of literary clippings, some of which are at least gorgeous, but others of which, inevitably these days, are John bloody Clare. I think there was maybe a good slimmer book here - for decent chunks of it, Lewis-Stempel writes movingly about both the delights of ponds, and their degradation ("Doesn't it make you puke, what we are doing to Britain?"). But too much padding around that core leaves much of the first half feeling like a contract-filler. Mercifully, once the year comes round to summer, the book springs to life too. There are still glitches - the notion of Walden as the first teen angst book falls apart when Young Werther was a lifetime earlier - but we get fewer digressions, more satisfying gimmicks (adult John trying to complete a 1980s I-Spy book), and, fundamentally, more of the characterful, poetic, yet always solid writing about flora and fauna, water and light at which he excels. The autumn chapter is slim; partly because he's already covered November as part of winter, sure, but I suspect also because by that point it was clear that the target word count was in sight. An epilogue provides a guide to making your own pond, talking about the importance of properly balancing its elements; good advice for books about ponds too, really.
*Seriously - eight in two weeks, but this was one of only two items I borrowed. And I suspect the other is going to be worse.
**He does get in when he can, but this also means the obligatory comment - on the very first page! - about how "In modern argot I am "wildswimming"; as a child in the 1970s, our gang's trips to the River Lugg at Mordiford were merely 'swimming'. Everything that was once ordinary has to be übered." First, I've never seen it as one word before. But mainly, I can trump him, because I remember when people just went swimming, or wild swimming, without so many of them feeling the need for that not very exciting observation about the mild variation in terminology every sodding time.