Jim Lawley

The winner of this year’s Booker Prize will be announced tonight. Of the six shortlisted novels, Andrew Miller’s The Land in Winter looks like a good bet for the £50,000 award. It might even be a contender for best Booker novel ever. The prize’s judges have been known to make strange calls – and always bet responsibly! – but the odds on Miller are good. The story takes place against the backdrop of snowbound Britain’s ‘Big Freeze’ between December 1962 and February 1963. ‘For a mile from the Kent coast,’ Miller writes, ‘the sea had turned to pack ice.’ This was the time of Beeching, Babycham, Benny Hill, Acker Bilk, Dr Kildare, the Daily Herald, the Kray twins, London smog, shillings in the meter, the H-bomb and flying saucers.

‘I have searched everywhere for the “city of dreams” and found it here, in Ronda,’ Rilke wrote. Hemingway was more practical: ‘[Ronda] is where you should go if you ever go to Spain on a honeymoon or if you ever bolt with anyone. The entire town and as far as you can see in any direction is romantic background…’ Sixty miles inland from Málaga, encircled by mountains, Ronda stands on a plateau cut by a steep, narrow gorge some two hundred yards deep. Eroded over a period of five million years by the river that runs through it, this ravine divides the town in two and ends in a sheer cliff drop to the plain below. Cacti and fig trees grow out of its sides; birds wheel and swoop down the chasm to their nests on the rock face.

‘Never join a queue.’ It’s not a bad motto. It keeps me away from tourist-choked hotspots. It means I don’t visit venues that offer free admission for children, advertise fast-track entry or are just one stop on ‘a multi-attraction sight-seeing experience’. My advice? If they want you to book a time slot, don’t go. As Bertrand Russell points out in The Conquest of Happiness: ‘Noise and the constant presence of strangers cause fatigue.’ It’s certainly difficult to appreciate great art or admire magnificent architecture in such circumstances. And when I’m studying the text explaining the significance of the Rosetta Stone, I don’t want someone leaning over my shoulder trying to read it at the same time. Especially when they’re chewing strawberry-flavoured gum.

With the summer’s Test matches over, England’s cricket coach and captain will now be wondering how to avoid our usual trouncing in Australia this winter. Normally we try to win and we get walloped. On the last three occasions we’ve ventured Down Under, Australia have either whitewashed us 5-0 or beaten us 4-0 with one game drawn. And, weather permitting, Australia don’t just win – they usually crush us by massive, embarrassing margins: an innings and 123 runs, ten wickets, 381 runs… These humiliations show that on their home turf Australia are approximately twice as good as we are. Australia often score more runs in one innings than England can manage in two. Unless we take drastic measures, that could well be the fate that awaits us this winter too.

Ávila, Spain At school I wasn’t much good at anything – until, that is, I had the good fortune to land in Mr Hodges’s French set. It wasn’t just the ten words of vocabulary and the irregular verb we learnt every day, it was the whole structured Hodges approach which gave me confidence, showing how the apparently unmanageable job of learning a language could be broken down into small, achievable tasks. Since Mr H also taught Spanish O-level, when the time came I opted for that rather than German. The scenes of Spanish life in the textbook fascinated me; they were only black and white line drawings but they promised something romantic that I knew I’d never find in cold, wet 1970s Birmingham. I pored over those pictures.