Don't you hear my call, though you're many years away

I am descended from a long line of hoarders, where very little is thrown away if it might conceivably be of interest to future generations. I often envy people their neat, tidy, clutter-free homes which are a piece of cake to keep clean. We have houses and lofts which are filled to bursting with what is, to some, a load of junk but which is, to us, tomorrow’s history. Clothes, photographs and letters are all stored for future reference. This now results in my wanting to locate an appropriate publisher for a collection of letters chronicling the life of one of my forebears. The papers date from his schoolboy letters to his parents to the messages of condolence sent to his bereaved family after his early death.

The main bulk of his letters date from around 1860 when he was Chief Astronomer of the British Boundary Commission marking, on the ground, the 49th Parallel between British Columbia and the United States of America. It was an incredible undertaking, involving the clearing of a die-straight line from the coast at Vancouver right over the Rocky Mountains. His descriptions of the landscape and the conditions under which they worked (clicky on the piccy to enbiggify it) conjure up tremendous images. The letter written by a night-time campfire, where blots and smudges mark when the ink froze in his pen every 25 words makes me shiver, 150 years later.

One day I shall go out there and see the land, where he left his mark, for myself.