"The writing shines with a crisp clarity ..."
Her books have so far been for children. They include historical fiction (Jack Fortune, Warrior King and Emily’s Surprising Voyage, which was long-listed for the Carnegie), and a contemporary novel, The Willow Man, as well as several retellings and a life of Shakespeare. This year will see the publication of her first adult novel, An Ordinary War, by Writers Review Publishing.
She lives in Somerset, whose magical landscapes provide the settings and inspiration for several of her stories.
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I'm not sure if there is such a thing as typical nature writer - but if there is, Chloe Dalton is definitely not it. Up until the 2020 pandemic, hers was an emphatically urban lifestyle. For over ten years she worked in the UK Parliament and the Foreign and Commonwealth Office - notably with William Hague - and her day job is still in this field. And I think that's important, because it explains a lot about the way she writes and the way she approaches and observes nature.
The story begins with an evocation of a bitterly cold day in the January of 2020. The writing shines with a crisp clarity which is the hallmark of Chloe's prose: "The trees were frosted white with windblown snowflakes, while icy cobwebs hung in the hedgerows like frozen cat's cradles. A lone kestrel brooded on the garden fence, spectral in the dim light." During the weeks that followed, a hare gives birth. And later, after the beginning of the pandemic, when Chloe has retreated to her house in the countryside, she hears a dog barking. This is unusual. She goes out to investigate - and comes across a tiny leveret lying on the grassy strip that runs down the middle of the track which she is following. She hesitates. Although in her current life she has nothing to do with animals, as a child she was used to her mother rescuing and caring for all kinds of creatures, and her sister has a small farm - so she knows enough to understand that she may do the leveret more harm by handling it than by leaving it alone. So she leaves it and goes home. After a few hours, she returns, hoping it will have found its way back into the undergrowth and been reunited with its mother.
But it's still there. And she sees that if she leaves it, there can be little hope for it. If its mother has not already found it, it's unlikely now that she will. It couldn't be more vulnerable: before long it will inevitably be predated. So she takes it home.
But now, what is she to do with it? The friend who is staying with her gently points out that this will surely end in tears: what will happen when Chloe goes back to London?
But Chloe doesn't take her friend's advice. Perhaps it's a reaction to the way the pandemic is robbing everyone of agency in their own lives - anyway, she decides that this small life is one she will try to save.
And she does. But she does it in her own way, which is firmly grounded in the understanding that this is a wild creature, and while she will do her best to enable it to live, she has no intention of trying to make it into a pet. She never names it, she doesn't put it in a cage, even for its own safety: it is wild and it will remain so - it will be free, even if this means it will put itself in danger.
But something extraordinary happens. The hare chooses to stay with her. Not all of the time; sometimes it disappears for weeks on end. But it clearly sees her home as a place of safety. When, eventually, she decided to write about the experience, the hare is often lying beside her, completely at ease in her company. And the experience changes her. She becomes so much more aware of nature, and how everything locks together: instead of seeing a green field, she notices all the different varieties of plants at her feet. When the local farmer harvests potatoes wth a machine, she sees the resulting carnage - dead wildlife, including many hares - and has a visceral sense of their fear and panic as the machine approaches. But she also sees that farmers are leaving wider margins for wildlife, and how these are resulting in a greater diversity of species - this book isn't about despair, it's about finding hope, and reconnecting with the natural world - which is not just an empty phrase, but which is in the end essential if we, and the planet, are to survive.
At the beginning, I suggested that Chloe Dalton is not a typical nature writer (if there is such a thing). Many books about nature foreground the writer's internal life. Many writers explain - often very movingly - how connecting with nature has helped to heal their inner turmoil, the damage which life has inflicted on them. That's not the aim of this book. Chloe does refer to her urban life, to her day job - and she does say how her experience with the hare has modified her attitude to that life. But she doesn't reject that side of her life - and her purpose doesn't seem to be predominantly to explore her own motivation: it's to observe, and understand, the nature of this creature. She fully understands that it's not her pet - it's its own creature, it's 'other', it's wild, and all the more to be respected and admired because of that.
She writes absolutely beautifully. Her prose is clear, precise, luminous. I came across an interesting quote from her in an interview about a piece of advice about writing that her father once gave her. It is, I think, excellent advice about writing in general, and it's advice that she has certainly followed.
'My first real job was as a researcher to a Member of Parliament. In my first week, my father came across me sitting at home, early in the morning, worrying over the text of something I’d drafted. When I asked for help, he pulled up a chair next to me, took my pencil, and after a few moments, drew a steady line through every superfluous word on the page. He told me that in Parliament I would write for people who didn’t have much time to read, and that I should learn to convey my point as briefly as possible. I’ve come across various iterations of that advice in the years since. ‘Know how complicated it is and then state it simply’, Hemingway wrote. But my father taught this to me first, and I’ve never forgotten it.'
I want to end this as Chloe Dalton ends her very beautiful book. She is contemplating the fact that one day the hare will not return, and she says:
'I tell myself not to count the years ahead in which she might never again come, but rather cherish the days she has given me of her own free will, when she lowered her species' instinctive guard against humans, and shared the beauty and mystery of her presence in silent and graceful companionship. I will remember her leaving, but will know that before she did, she always, first, looked back.'
I'm not sure if there is such a thing as typical nature writer - but if there is, Chloe Dalton is definitely not it. Up until the 2020 pandemic, hers was an emphatically urban lifestyle. For over ten years she worked in the UK Parliament and the Foreign and Commonwealth Office - notably with William Hague - and her day job is still in this field. And I think that's important, because it explains a lot about the way she writes and the way she approaches and observes nature.
The story begins with an evocation of a bitterly cold day in the January of 2020. The writing shines with a crisp clarity which is the hallmark of Chloe's prose: "The trees were frosted white with windblown snowflakes, while icy cobwebs hung in the hedgerows like frozen cat's cradles. A lone kestrel brooded on the garden fence, spectral in the dim light." During the weeks that followed, a hare gives birth. And later, after the beginning of the pandemic, when Chloe has retreated to her house in the countryside, she hears a dog barking. This is unusual. She goes out to investigate - and comes across a tiny leveret lying on the grassy strip that runs down the middle of the track which she is following. She hesitates. Although in her current life she has nothing to do with animals, as a child she was used to her mother rescuing and caring for all kinds of creatures, and her sister has a small farm - so she knows enough to understand that she may do the leveret more harm by handling it than by leaving it alone. So she leaves it and goes home. After a few hours, she returns, hoping it will have found its way back into the undergrowth and been reunited with its mother.
But it's still there. And she sees that if she leaves it, there can be little hope for it. If its mother has not already found it, it's unlikely now that she will. It couldn't be more vulnerable: before long it will inevitably be predated. So she takes it home.
But now, what is she to do with it? The friend who is staying with her gently points out that this will surely end in tears: what will happen when Chloe goes back to London?
But Chloe doesn't take her friend's advice. Perhaps it's a reaction to the way the pandemic is robbing everyone of agency in their own lives - anyway, she decides that this small life is one she will try to save.
And she does. But she does it in her own way, which is firmly grounded in the understanding that this is a wild creature, and while she will do her best to enable it to live, she has no intention of trying to make it into a pet. She never names it, she doesn't put it in a cage, even for its own safety: it is wild and it will remain so - it will be free, even if this means it will put itself in danger.
But something extraordinary happens. The hare chooses to stay with her. Not all of the time; sometimes it disappears for weeks on end. But it clearly sees her home as a place of safety. When, eventually, she decided to write about the experience, the hare is often lying beside her, completely at ease in her company. And the experience changes her. She becomes so much more aware of nature, and how everything locks together: instead of seeing a green field, she notices all the different varieties of plants at her feet. When the local farmer harvests potatoes wth a machine, she sees the resulting carnage - dead wildlife, including many hares - and has a visceral sense of their fear and panic as the machine approaches. But she also sees that farmers are leaving wider margins for wildlife, and how these are resulting in a greater diversity of species - this book isn't about despair, it's about finding hope, and reconnecting with the natural world - which is not just an empty phrase, but which is in the end essential if we, and the planet, are to survive.
At the beginning, I suggested that Chloe Dalton is not a typical nature writer (if there is such a thing). Many books about nature foreground the writer's internal life. Many writers explain - often very movingly - how connecting with nature has helped to heal their inner turmoil, the damage which life has inflicted on them. That's not the aim of this book. Chloe does refer to her urban life, to her day job - and she does say how her experience with the hare has modified her attitude to that life. But she doesn't reject that side of her life - and her purpose doesn't seem to be predominantly to explore her own motivation: it's to observe, and understand, the nature of this creature. She fully understands that it's not her pet - it's its own creature, it's 'other', it's wild, and all the more to be respected and admired because of that.
She writes absolutely beautifully. Her prose is clear, precise, luminous. I came across an interesting quote from her in an interview about a piece of advice about writing that her father once gave her. It is, I think, excellent advice about writing in general, and it's advice that she has certainly followed.
'My first real job was as a researcher to a Member of Parliament. In my first week, my father came across me sitting at home, early in the morning, worrying over the text of something I’d drafted. When I asked for help, he pulled up a chair next to me, took my pencil, and after a few moments, drew a steady line through every superfluous word on the page. He told me that in Parliament I would write for people who didn’t have much time to read, and that I should learn to convey my point as briefly as possible. I’ve come across various iterations of that advice in the years since. ‘Know how complicated it is and then state it simply’, Hemingway wrote. But my father taught this to me first, and I’ve never forgotten it.'
I want to end this as Chloe Dalton ends her very beautiful book. She is contemplating the fact that one day the hare will not return, and she says:
'I tell myself not to count the years ahead in which she might never again come, but rather cherish the days she has given me of her own free will, when she lowered her species' instinctive guard against humans, and shared the beauty and mystery of her presence in silent and graceful companionship. I will remember her leaving, but will know that before she did, she always, first, looked back.'
Raising Hare is published by Canongate.
Sue's first novel for adults, An Ordinary War, will be published by Writers Review Publishing in July.
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