The Wind in the Willows has always been at my periphery. I cannot remember the first time I heard about it, but surely it was before I was ten. It may have been an advertisement for or review of one of the many television or radio adaptations. Or it may have been in casual conversation, if under tens ever had casual conversations in which The Wind in the Willows came up. Maybe a friend or two had read it. But I don’t remember any specific conversations. We were too busy kicking a ball about or putting a cricket ball through a window. Teachers probably mentioned it. But whatever the reason I knew about it, I never read it.
It was never high on my priorities, either. Even less so now, short decades after leaving childhood’s shores. A children’s book that I hadn’t read when I was a child: what would be the point now? Of course, nothing has much point anyway, so when I stumbled across a well-worn paperback copy at my parents’ house a few months ago (uh, where did that come from?) I figured I may as well give it a go.
It wasn’t quite what I expected. More episodic than I thought it would be: the chapters are almost serialised, and I can imagine that they wouldn’t have been out of place spread over a weekly or monthly children’s magazine back in the day. It made it easy to put the book down for a day or so, and jump right back in and not feel you have to re-read anything to come back up to speed. Although, I must admit I found the sudden jump from page 102 to 137 a bit jarring. Did everyone else find that?
Hang on, I think something might be amiss here. Page 137 doesn’t usually follow straight on after page 102, does it? This isn’t one of those avant garde books that throws convention out the window, is it? It seemed so normal. Kenneth Grahame hasn’t perpetuated a giant practical joke down the century since he wrote this, somehow managing to brainwash everybody who read, adapted or studied this book into overlooking a rather large gap? Am I going to be swamped by some secret squad of book goons (don’t tell me they don’t exist…) and taken away never to be seen again just for letting this out in the ope–
Uh huh. So, um, I think something is amiss with this copy. And, yeah, looking at the really expensive binding method used (yes, sarcasm), I can see what might have happened: the pages just kinda fell out. Somewhere. Not here. Dang. I’m going to have to find another copy. Well, I could read the book on Project Gutenberg, but I’d rather hold a proper book and I don’t yet have one of those new-fangled Kindle or iPad wotsits for even a simulated experience. Nuts, reading on hiatus until replacement pages can be found. It is lucky the book is so episodic. Do I really want to buy a new book? Who gets the money now? It’s out of copyright, so I’m guessing the publisher? Plenty of options out there around the $15–25 mark. Meh, other options? I’d quite like a copy myself. Steal it? Nah, probably not the right thing to do. Ah ha! Second-hand. Yes. Pre-loved. Done and done. Back into it…
So, where was I? Episodic, yes. But more than that: it’s life. An adventure here. An adventure there. In between not much. Happiness here. Fear there. In between not much. Happily Grahame concentrates more on the adventure episodes than the not-adventure episodes, but we still get a feeling of progression, whether it be by the changing of the seasons, or the changing of the characters.
Ah, the characters. It is the characters that make this book. As it should be in a good story.
Mole, who sees the world with wide-eyes when he first wanders out of his house in the book’s opening pages. Who later, as his adventures progress through the chapters, becomes more comfortable with his new surrounds, the dangers they hold and at the same time becomes much more sure of himself. And in the end…well, you probably have to read for yourself. Clichéd? Only in the manner of a thousand other heroes.
Strong, competent Ratty, and aloof, intelligent, yet caring Badger and Toad. Toad. Mr Toad. What can we say of Toad? Immature. Fearless. Unthinking. Irresponsible. A gad. And someone we, on some level, want to be. Pure fun. And they are all imbued with character progression by Grahame — no mean feat.
Without these characters, The Wind in the Willows would not be The Wind in the Willows. Obvious, of course. The accoutrements of the English countryside provide a setting, but it could just as easily be anthropomorphised animals living in the middle of New York, or on the steppes of the Himalayas, or in deepest, darkest Africa. Yes, there is an innate English-ness about The Wind in the Willows, and the mannerisms are all English, but the characters, their characteristics, are universal.
Although the characters are not paint-by-numbers, there is a simplicity about the story Grahame tells. He doesn’t bother too much with keeping a consistency within his world: animals and humans interact when it’s funny, or even just when he feels like it, otherwise the two worlds are completely separate. For example, Mr Toad drives a car with humorous consequences, boards a barge and interacts with the human population on equal footing, getting arrested, being mistaken for a washer-woman. And yet the world of the animals is otherwise quite separate from the world of the humans. When the stoats and ferrets invade Toad Hall, the human police force isn’t called. Instead it’s left to Badger, Mole, Ratty and Toad to save the day.
Because of that simplicity, it is simply a fun tale with nicely rounded characters. There are the usual children’s tales morals of friendship and courage, which the one hundred-plus years between the writing and the reading haven’t really dulled. Read it and put that smile of childhood innocence back on your face.
