Solla Sollew

I struggle to describe it. “Vivid” doesn’t really do it justice.

We would visit my Nan’s three or four times a year when I was a kid, and the trip was always imbued with a certain intensity. It had something to do with the routine. We’d normally leave on a Friday night, in the early evening so that Mum could drive while it was still light. My brother used to bring his pillow in the back of the car. I found this to be an infuriatingly innovative idea, so in my jealousy pretended that it was a rubbish idea and would steadfastly refuse to bring mine. Neither of us would sleep anyway; the parents’ singing would see to that. Queen’s Greatest Hits would last us most of the way up the M40, then we’d have ABBA to see us into the countryside. Fuck me, I hated ABBA.

We always stopped at Bridgnorth for Fish and Chips. There was a pub car park where we’d munch them, sitting on the boot and chatting to the locals in the pub garden in the summer. Then Dad would take over the driving, Mum putting her feet up and snoozing in the back seat. I wasn’t tired: once we got into the hills the thrill would begin. Hedgerow lanes and dark looming mountains; the odd village, a mottled signpost, all of it laced with some inherent magic. Hope Bowlder, Wenlock Edge, and a signpost to Church Stretton, 12 miles: I knew we were close.

Church Stretton is an old market town nestled in the Shropshire Hills, not far from Wales. Not wanting to stereotype its residents, I’ll just say that there are no schools, eight pharmacies, and four thousand subscriptions to The Daily Telegraph. The road leading into the town winds around a final hill, then plummets straight into the centre of town. Dad would always take this last corner at breakneck speed, then rapidly slow down when the chances of hitting a pensioner got too high.

My Nan lived on the outskirts, at the very end of a road which snaked its way lazily towards a small hill, with an electricity pylon on top. Past the neighbours peering through the netted curtains, past the No Public Right Of Way sign. This is possibly my favourite idiosyncrasy about my Nan’s: the road actually is a Public Right Of Way, but about 30 years ago the residents decided they didn’t want strangers wandering up their road, so they made this sign and nobody ever questioned it.

The house itself is a long bungalow, set a few feet below the driveway, giving the appearance that it is slowly sinking into the ground, reclaimed by the hillside and the ivy. We’d hobble out and stretch our legs, and get the suitcases out as my Nan walked up the path, always saying Hello in the exact same way: she sung it like a motif, emphasis on the Lo. I must’ve been shorter than her then, which is a strange thought. Inside she’d already have the tea made, somehow, and she’d natter away. She emigrated from California fifty years ago, but nevertheless still speaks with that potent twang. Her enunciations never altered: she called my Dad “Johnny” and told him his hair was going thin, that they were working him too hard. Dad would tell her she was right. It was routine.

It would be late, by now. My brother would be asleep before his head hit the pillow, but I’d turn on the tap-lamp. I don’t think they’re actually called tap-lamps, but that’s what my Nan called it, so that’s what they are. I’d turn on the tap lamp and read a book.

I don’t know where they came from, the children’s books. They probably belonged to my Dad, or one of his siblings; I never thought to ask. But my Nan assembled them on the bookcase in the kids’ bedroom with deliberate intent, I know that. They were the kind of things she thought her grandchildren should be reading. There was the Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Galaxy, which left me nonplussed. There was a Bumper Book For Boys: Second Edition, full of Famous-Five-style illustrations of boys playing conkers and tiddlywinks. This was so ancient that it referred to the British Empire. And there was a Dr Seuss Book, I Had Trouble In Getting To Solla Sollew.

For my Nan, a lover of all things American and garish, Dr Seuss was a perfect fit. I had at least 10 of his books at home, but not this one. It was older, with pages like burnt toast, and smelling of that weird dusty, stagnant smell that I can only describe as time. It felt like a relic, and I remember being drawn to it before I ever sat down to read it in full. It had that intangible thrill which I associated with this house.

I can’t remember the name of the creature who narrates, but I can still picture it exactly. A vague resemblance to Big Bird, but green, shaggy, and with a wearied scowl. This narrator is beset by troubles: first he stubs his toe, so resolves to always watch his feet. Then another Seussian monstrosity bites his tail. Unable to deal with problems on two fronts, the narrator despairs until a passing tradesman tells him of the city of Solla Sollew: where they never have troubles: well, maybe a few.

The creature spends the rest of the book in search of this golden land. This kind of quest was just my cup of tea when I was eight: I’d read endless journeys across fantasy lands, as brave and wily protagonists overcome their adversaries in search of some kind of treasure. The narrator battled armies of Zaks and rode magic carpets, and eventually found the extravagant gates of Solla Sollew. I felt the hardback cover in my right hand, knowing that this was the happy ending. Turned the final page: to see a creepy bug-like thing, scowling from the keyhole in the doors of the city. A city guard morosely tells the protagonist that the bug’s in the hole and the hole’s in the door, so nobody goes into there anymore.

I couldn’t believe it. I was furious. My plucky protagonist had gone through the whole ordeal, and made it to the very gates of the city, for nothing. You can actually see the golden spires and palms poking out over the city walls, insurmountable. He was never getting in.

But there’s one final twist. The guard tells the creature of another town, with a name that I can’t remember. And in this town, they have no problems at all: not even one. So he sets off in search of the other town, and I’m left with the end of the book and a deep sense of foreboding.

I might’ve still believed in Santa, but I was no idiot. I knew that even if he did make it to the second promised land, it would never live up to its billing. I couldn’t deal with not knowing the ending to the story, so I made up my own: but that was worse. He’d probably been mauled to death by a Zak, or died of starvation at the gates of the second city, or even worse, had been doomed to walk from promised land to promised land for ever, willed on by ever-more extravagant tales of impossible splendour.

So Dr Seuss fucked me up, more than Kafka ever could. It’s the first thing I can remember reading which taught me a conscious lesson, even though I didn’t quite know what that was. I’m still not sure I do now. There’s the straightforward fable about chasing happiness, but the book seemed to reach to something more intrinsic than that.

We visited my Nan’s less often as my family grew up, and our lives began to diverge. But we’d still go at least once a year, and every time we did, I’d remember how it used to feel, to leave in the evening and drive up North. Warmth, adventure. The memory was still vivid: the experience itself, less so. Sometimes there’d be snatches: if we were there at Christmas, or if we were seeing the whole extended family. But the more I tried to reach for it, the further away it was. Like when you’re trying to remember that one specific word, but the harder you think the more your brain seizes up. Like that fluffy Dr Seuss creation stood beneath the looming gates of Solla Sollew. Eventually, trips to Church Stretton became just like visiting any family member.

We still go. This isn’t some sorrowful lament for times long past: it’s all still here. My nan at the end of the road, aging but lucid as ever. The hill framed by the window, pylon on top. My Dad and his bloody awful rendition of ABBA’s 1979 hit “Voulez-Vous.” But something, the sum of all the parts, has dissipated. Because it’s all still there, but it’s not coming back.