Millican Dalton: A Sublime Midlife Crisis

The relevance of a 20th century cave-dweller to environmental aesthetics.

Wednesday, 23 December 2020

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At the mouth of the cave at Borrowdale, May 2020. Photograph: Lewis Eaton.

On a swelteringly hot day in the North Western Fells of The Lake District, the gaping mouth of a cave offered itself as a refuge and swallowed us mercifully into its cool damp interior. Caves are otherworldly places. This particular cave, set into the hillside of Castle Crag, allows you to peer out at the gently swaying trees and glimmering daylight of the outside world from a viewing point void of light and sound. The daytrip itself had been to seek refuge in The Lakes; an attempt at replacing the stagnancy of a locked-down city summer with a more welcome, less claustrophobic, kind of tranquillity. We spent a few minutes scrambling around on the siltstone, marvelling at the height of the cave walls and exchanging the obligatory comments about feeling small in big spaces. On leaving, I noticed a large, flat stone covered in scrawlings. At the centre in neat, deeply-etched letters read ‘Don’t Waste Words, Jump to Conclusions’ with dozens of smaller sections of writing surrounding this. Each gave names and dates, with many faded with age and dissolving back into the stone’s surface. It was from a frantic Googling during the car ride home that I came to find out we had happened across a sort-of pilgrimage place for hikers: the cave in which a man had lived out his summers for over forty consecutive years.

In 1904, at the age of thirty-six, Millican Dalton gave up his life as an insurance clerk in London in order to dedicate himself to The Great Outdoors. Having spent part of his childhood in Nenthead, the North Pennines, he found life and work in the capital stifling in comparison. From then on Dalton split his year, spending the summer months in the cave under Castle Crag and winters in a canvas hut in Buckinghamshire. Far from your conventional hermit, Dalton was an active and sociable member of the community. He organised camping excursions for the outdoors novice which included teaching hiking, rock climbing, rafting and how to forage for food. What I found extraordinary for the time was that these excursions didn’t exclude women, with one of Dalton’s advertisements for a mountaineering course stating his views bluntly: “Ladies are welcome to the camp. There is nothing new in ladies camping, the custom being at least 10,000 years old.” This rare indiscriminate approach led to Dalton forging a long-lasting friendship with geologist Mabel Barker, who over the years consistently recommended Dalton’s courses to women students and friends.

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Dalton and Barker atop a needle, 1913. The Mable Barker Collection.

LITERARY

I thought of you as Notre-Dame burned

by Angelica Jopling | 24 November 2020

I thought of you as Notre-Dame burned.

I thought of how I peeled off my sticky leather

gloves to feel my naked fingers between yours

as we crossed that bridge over the Seine after dinner

giddy and full.

We stopped for a moment

to watch at the glow of the city

melt into the surface of midnight water.

And rather than words came the thought

of forever.

We shall live here some day

in a little apartment on the river

with just enough bread and wine and

love for two.

You play piano while I write.

Simplicity is the greatest luxury, I said

with too many words.

You squeezed my frozen hand as if you understood,

but nothing can be so simple anymore.

Two hundred years of construction burn

in one hour.

Stone and glass dissolve to ash.

Prayers of yesterday licked by flames.

Prayers of tomorrow know no innocence.

And as the candle flickers, the warm glow

turns blue before becoming nothing.

The bones of cold fingers

grind to dust and comes the thought

of forever, a soft, grey sand.

Illustration by Vitoria Santos