In my last column for SR, I mentioned the sad demise of Sir Ernest Shackleton at the ripe old cat age of 20+ and considered whether to replace him, given the high costs of pet insurance, cat food and other feline necessities. Well, I didn't wait long to be tempted to have a wee glance at the SSPCA Rehoming Centre website, and there was a Shackleton lookalike, except he had longer fur: Freddy, whose downcast whiskers indicated he was less than happy about being in 'custody'. Having tried to be sensible for 24 hours, I decided that at least I could afford to support him if I gave up eating lunch, whereas he would be costing the SSPCA more, so why not go for it?
However, since we adopted Sir Ernest the procedure is more sophisticated. First a detailed online application. Then a telephone interview with an SSPCA officer who described Freddy 'warts and all'. Apparently he did have some behavioural issues, like nipping the staff member who was trying to put him back in his 'cell', but by Shackleton standards this seemed fairly innocuous so I wasn't put off. Then a video call so the SSPCA lady could inspect my house and garden to check it was suitable for cats – sadly the local felines who all want to come and visit could not provide suitable endorsements.
Having passed all the tests, I was able to pick up Freddy, who while he did not enjoy the trip home in his carrier, immediately made himself at home and prepared to welcome the hommage of the rest of the Brown clan, including six-year-old Olivia. This was a marked contrast to the experience with Shackleton, who lived under the spare room bed for two weeks, only emerging for meals. I also decided to retain Fred's given name (the late Mr B had insisted on calling his predecessor Shackleton after his great hero instead of 'Simba'). Thankfully, no-one had decided that Freddy's exceptionally furry feet suggested he be christened Bilbo Baggins!
Antarctic warriors?
Mr B had a full collection of books by or about his hero, and when a new biography by Ranulph Fiennes was published, I decided it was a necessary addition. As an avid reader, I always read any book that comes to my attention, even Walter Scott, who I've never warmed to. So I was familiar with what seems to me the totally bonkers behaviour of these explorer chaps – Fiennes illustrates Shackleton's (to my mind) insane physical exploits by comparing them with his own – but reading about these intrepid/mad achievements made me wonder again what drives such people.
Mr B and friends did fairly risky things like skiing across the Alps without tents, relying on finding mountain huts for overnight camping – but they were sort of sensible and didn't attempt the impossible, which Shackleton and chums did, often. There's no doubt that damage to Shackleton's heart from what was effectively starvation on the expedition with Scott killed him at the age of 47, 100 years ago, an anniversary coinciding with the location of the lost Endurance under the polar ice.
Being a naturally timid soul (although I have lectured to 200 bored undergraduates without flinching), I've never understood the lure of adventure, apart from reading about it in Buchan's novels. I can only assume that guys like Shackleton become addicted to the adrenaline rush that comes with courting danger and winning out. Shackleton, by his own admission, was a rubbish husband and father who was pretty useless at any 'normal' occupation. Yet he managed to pull off the most incredible feat of endurance to rescue his crew from the ice, an epic which was underappreciated at a time when it was seen as a failure, especially as the world was convulsed with war.
With the benefit of historic distance we can see how extraordinary Shackleton's achievement was, but still those of us less addicted to danger might wonder about the phrase:
C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la guerre, c'est de la folie.
Dr Mary Brown is a freelance education consultant
