First, the cover
which is meant to be touched; which is made up of three different layers, textures, (paper, linen, ink), and is crafted and light and at the same time emphatic. Heading North in bold capitals, Helen Rickerby in a finer, thinner font.
And inside
the ink that's pressed firmly into the paper. That's meant to be read with eyes shut, with fingers running over author's name, title, press, place , time and thereafter,
fifteen poems
beginning with 'Setting Off', and it was now, ending with 'Home Stretch', and to the other. Because Heading North is a road trip, or a pilgrimage, or a northwards meander, which is lightly reverent, and wry and humorous, and quiet and assuredly observant. There are Indian takeaways, hotels, hoteliers, road signs, camping, mosquitos, flat tyres. There are moments of intimacy and reflection and indolence. Roads, forests, varying shades of light, this is also a trip down the motorways of relationship, time, memory, rest
and return
and the line and we're so close now - to home, or to each other, or to an end of something - like uncertainty, or the curiosity about what else might be.
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