What Ernest means to us

As the Collector’s Edition crowdfunding campaign nears its final week, editor and founder Jo Tinsley, art director Tina Hobson and deputy editor Abi Whyte share their memories of how the journal began, what Ernest means to them and why they feel it should continue to exist in the world. Photos and interview by Jim Marsden.

Editor and founder Jo Tinsley, art director Tina Hobson and deputy editor Abi Whyte, at Distil Co-working, Bristol. Photo: Jim Marsden.

Tell me about the first issue of Ernest you produced.

JT: The three of us were working together on an independent magazine called Pretty Nostalgic, which was a joy to work on in so many ways. We would often talk about this other magazine we would love to launch together one day, but rather than let that get in the way of our work we would save the idea to a shared (secret) Pinterest board with a view to coming back to it one day. One year on, after our work on that magazine came to an end, we got together around a table with some big sheets of paper and started sketching out what we wanted to explore and who for – and slowly Ernest began to appear. Ernie has always been a character to us, who we have come to know better over time.

AW: I fondly remember those days in your living room, Jo, thinking about who Ernest is – their likes, passions and insatiable curiosity for the world around them. That got us thinking about the Ernest voice; how we wanted it to be authoritative and enlightening, yet warm and engaging and playful, where appropriate. To help us hone this voice, we didn’t just want to work with writers; we wanted to find people with a passion or an expertise from all walks of life. Right from the start, we’ve been lucky to work with contributors with fascinating stories to tell, and who all seem to ‘get’ what Ernest is. For me, it’s the ‘contributors’ page at the end of the journal that captures Ernest perfectly – the way each edition is brought to you by a talented collection of writers, photographers, illustrators, beachcombers, taxidermists, mountaineers, anarchist chefs, egg painters... it’s often a very eclectic mix!

TH: I remember it feeling really organic. Jo sowed the initial seed of the idea in our heads long before we thought seriously about producing the journal, and we just found we were seeing ‘Ernest’ everywhere. The idea began to grow on its own. That day we sat down at Jo’s to articulate who ‘Ernest’ was, it felt like we were describing someone we already knew. Once we had that in sharp focus, we had something we could hold all our ideas up to, and the direction felt really clear. So in a way, it felt like we were realising a pre-existing Ernest, more than creating a new concept.

Thinking back to that first meeting, do you think the journal has changed much since those early days?

TH: We’ve certainly refined the journal over the years, but I don’t think we’ve changed the essence of Ernest. I think both the content and the look have become more confident, now that we really know who we are. We’ve cleared away the clutter, and allowed it to mature. But the bones are the same, we’ve just made Ernest… more Ernest.

JT: It’s quietly evolved over the years, but like Tina says, the core of Ernest remains consistent and I think our readers appreciate that. With each issue, we’ve stripped things back a little more – boiling things down, refining our design and creating a looser structure to allow space for longer reads. Initially, I feel like we tried to be too many things for too many people, but as time went by and we got to know our community better, we felt more confident to find our niche. The world of independent publishing changed a lot over those first few years and we soon found ourselves nestling between other new ‘slow travel’ titles. And while it’s wonderful to be part of such a thriving subculture, we needed to define what makes Ernest distinctive.


What was the design process for Ernest? What did the mood board in your mind look like?

TH: Ooh, there were so many things! Firstly, we wanted it to feel really ‘objecty’. It needed to be tactile, weighty, substantial, durable. We wanted readers to feel they could sling it in a satchel and take it on their travels. That determined the format – small but chunky, with a heavy paper stock and a matte laminate cover. No pristine, uncoated, white covers for us! We wanted to evoke a Shackleton-like spirit, so our type choices reflected that era and that British heritage, while our triangular masthead was a nod to nautical flags. When it came to artwork, we wanted illustrations that felt useful, with a sense of ‘Victorian accuracy’. We began working with Aidan Meighan, whose style fits Ernest perfectly, and he has been part of the team ever since, with artwork in every edition. We found photographers who intuitively felt like a good fit – those with an eye for curious details and an authentic, rather than ‘insta-epic’, approach to capturing a landscape.

How did you all meet?

JT: We met at Immediate Media, a publishing company in Bristol, in around 2008. I was the Outdoors Editor on BBC Countryfile Magazine, which was a wonderful role writing and commissioning walking, cycling and day trip guides. Abi joined the Countryfile team shortly afterwards, and we’ve been working together in some way or other ever since. Tina, I accosted in the office lift. She had recently moved to Bristol and was freelancing on BBC Wildlife Magazine. I'd heard she had published an independent magazine called Lost in London. Indie publishing was in its infancy back in those days, so I was really eager to meet someone who had done it, launched their own magazine.

TH: Jo and Abi were on the same editorial team, but I wasn’t, so I got to know that we were interested in the same things through chats with mutual friends. There was quite a long period of cautious smiles and nods in the lift before we properly met and became friends and colleagues!

AW: Jo and I instantly clicked as colleagues and friends when we first worked together on Countryfile. I was struck by Jo’s creative mind and infectious enthusiasm, and so I jumped at the chance when she invited me to join her on Pretty Nostalgic, then later on Ernest. That’s when I met Tina and it was thrilling to work with such an intuitive designer who seemed to effortlessly bring Jo’s vision to life. We all seemed to gel really well.

Editor and founder, Jo Tinsley.

Art director, Tina Hobson.

Deputy editor, Abi Whyte.


Which magazines did you look up to as inspiration when starting Ernest?

JT: I was a huge fan of UPPERCASE (founded 2009) – a beautifully designed Canadian journal for craftspeople and designers, created by Janine Vangool, who’s an inspiring editor and one-woman-team. Ads-free with high production values and thoughtful, spacious design: it was such a breath of fresh air from mainstream publishing. Smith Journal – an Australian quarterly, launched in 2011 – was also such a joy. Minimally designed and filled with niche, esoteric and unexpected articles, it’s a magazine I come back to time and again. It sadly folded in 2019, apparently falling victim to that most common publishing business model, where advertising underpins print costs.

Tell me how it felt when you saw Ernest on the shop shelf for the first time?

AW: It was a surreal and very proud moment. I remember, with its size and the popping colour of the red tent against the bleak Icelandic landscape, it looked very distinct from the other titles – I just felt compelled to pick it up. It still gives me a thrill today to unexpectedly see it on display in a shop I’m browsing around.


What is the best thing a reader of Ernest could say about it?

TH: It fills me with joy to realise Ernest means to our readers what it means to me. One piece of feedback in our survey echoed my own feelings, that reading Ernest is like meeting a fascinating person in a country pub, who regales you with tales and histories which leave you feeling passionately interested in things you’d never even considered previously.

JT: I think it’s when people ‘get’ Ernest, that’s what means the most to me. We invited readers to respond to a survey recently and almost 500 people took the time to tell us what they thought of the journal. Hearing people say that it allows them time to pause and take time for themselves; or how it’s the only magazine that they read cover to cover; or how it has reawakened an interest or passion within them – this all matters enormously to me. Making something that I feel proud of and that’s valued and resonates with people has always been my main motivation. Receiving thoughtful messages from readers or seeing someone share their collection of journals on their shelves, that’s what makes me want to continue publishing Ernest.

What does your ideal Ernest article look, sound or feel like?

TH: I feel so lucky that so much of my job is reading and considering these stories. For much of my time, I’m pre-occupied with ‘getting things done’; giving myself space to dive into an Ernest feature nourishes my busy mind. Also, one of the wonderful things about working in our small team is that we don’t have to go through the many rounds of approvals that a larger magazine team necessitates. It means ideas, written and visual, aren’t eroded by myriad opinions before ink touches paper. Nothing is done by committee; so the writers, artists and photographers we work with have more autonomy and authorship than usual, and I think you can feel that undiluted creativity in the journal.

JT: Carol Devine’s ‘Mapping Antarctic Women’ feature in issue seven encapsulates an ideal Ernest story for me. In a bid to celebrate the roles that women have played in shaping our knowledge of the Antarctic, Carol has been re-mapping the Antarctic, shining a light on female place names and honouring their seldom told stories. It’s articles like this – which give an insight into history, geography or cartography, but which also invite us to enquire into an aspect of our modern world, reflect on our relationship with landscape and feel a responsibility to protect it – that feel important to me. Aidan Meighan created original artwork for the feature, which we have released as a limited edition poster as part of our crowdfunding campaign.

How are all three of you similar?

AW: We all seem to intuitively ‘get’ what makes an Ernest feature an Ernest feature, which is a very particular thing as we still sometimes find it challenging to explain down exactly what that is, but somehow we just know. I think all three of us have a love for the natural world, which is such a core part of what Ernest is about. Also, most importantly, we’re a working team that really cares about each other. We’re all working mums with young families, juggling freelance work and busy lives, so we understand the importance of supporting and checking in with each other, allowing each other time to step back and take a breather if we need to.

TH: That’s so true. It’s really refreshing that we’re so open and supportive of each other. I think we can empathise with each other when we need to slow down for a time, or recharge with some fresh air and a cold dip.

How are all three of you different?

AW: Jo and Tina seem to be very green fingered, whereas plants come to me to die.

Where did you see Ernest fitting in the magazine world when you started? Is it still in the same place or different now?

JT: We originally pictured Ernest as a men’s journal, an antidote to what was currently being offered within the men’s magazine market, with titles mainly pre-occupied with health, status or hobbies. We wanted to create a space for people to indulge their curiosity and delight in esoteric topics, while making room for how we feel about landscape and the world we live in. Ernest has evolved over the years, and we don’t aim it at any particular gender or demographic anymore; our community connects over shared values, interests and aesthetics.

TH: I think the real change we were tapping into back then was what was happening to our relationships with magazines, and with print more generally. My first job was in news journalism. It was all about ‘right now, right now’ – and it was a world desperately struggling to keep up with the internet. It just couldn’t match it for speed, and people were saying ‘print is dead’ and so on… and we knew it wasn’t true! We knew holding freshly inked paper has a magic that a screen can’t match. So we deliberately left all that rush and urge for ‘timeliness’ behind us. That’s why issue one feels as relevant today as it did back then.

What did the indie magazine world look like when you started? And now?

JT: Gosh, it’s so different. When I would go to an indie bookshop back in 2010, there would only be a handful of titles. But the subculture has flourished since then, and some wonderful independent magazine stores have opened too. It’s such a joy to think that there’s enough interest to sustain whole stores filled with niche publishing.

TH: Yes, the scene is so much bigger now! And that can only be a good thing, as many big newsstand magazines have sadly folded in that time. Older publishing models, propped up by advertising, are really suffering as things move online, but conversely, readers are happier to pay more for a niche publication that really resonates with them. The tricky part is keeping going long-term. There’s no getting away from the fact that commissioning great work, for great work’s sake, and then printing it on quality paper stock and posting it to readers around the world is an expensive game. We’re all small, creative teams trying to find ways to make the numbers add up while retaining our authenticity, and sadly many indie titles find the challenge unsustainable in the long-term.


Given an enormous sack of money, what would you do to Ernest?

JT: What a thought! I think the first thing I would do is revel in having the time to just be an editor. Often, all the other elements of running an independent business end up dominating, whether that’s selling advertising space, marketing or bookkeeping. There’s nothing I would like more than the opportunity to immerse myself completely in the editorial side of Ernest. I would allow myself time to read, meet new writers and get to know our readers better. I feel like I could add so much more depth and value, given the chance. On a practical level, if I didn’t have to worry about money, we would love to publish more frequently – quarterly would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?

What drives you to keep making Ernest?

TH: I have a deep love for Ernest and the more we get to know our community, the more I realise other people have too. Ernest has no agenda other than to be a bloody good magazine, and I think that’s exactly what it is. It sounds so simple, but in this noisy life, it’s a rare and precious thing. I also have other work. Lovely book and magazine projects come along, occupy my mind for a while and then are sent on their way into the world. But Ernest is different. It is the beating heart of my work, sometimes quietly ticking along in the background, sometimes it’s all-consuming. I hope readers can feel it too – that between issues, Ernest is very much alive. Those new stories are finding form as a disparate band of passionate folk – experts and amateurs, scientists and artists, whittle their words and pictures in readiness for the next edition.

JT: Ernest means the world to me. Recently, I'm having to sit with the idea of closing the journal because of the constant financial pressure, and it's making me reflect on how much it matters to me and how much my work is wrapped up in my sense of what makes me 'me'. Ernest has allowed me to travel to incredible places, make lifelong friends from all corners of the world and work with a team of women I care dearly for. And all of this has allowed me to overlook the fact that, up until late 2019, it has never really paid its way.

Obviously, how I feel about Ernest, and how much love there is for the journal within our community, isn't enough on its own to continue publishing. It needs to be a viable business with a funding model that works – something we almost achieved in the run up to 2020 – but it's certainly fuelling my faith in Ernest as we head into the final week of our crowdfunding campaign. As I write this we are 50% of the way there. I want Ernest to continue to exist in the world and I just hope this campaign reaches enough people who feel the same.

We need to raise £20,000 to secure the future of Ernest. Please consider donating to our Collector’s Edition campaign so we can keep publishing Ernest in 2022 and beyond.

Mapping Antarctic Women

In 2018, for issue seven of Ernest, humanitarian writer and researcher Carol Devine shared her story of remapping Antarctica; shining a light on its female place names and celebrating the vital roles women have played in shaping our knowledge of the frozen continent. Read the full feature below…

Illustrated by Aidan Meighan

The map is about relativity, defining in relation to other things. It is an artifice, a conceptual construction of the world, whose primary function is to afford us a sense of our place in it.” – Ivy Schroeder, Terra Incognita exhibit: Contemporary Artists’ Maps, Contemporary Art Museum, St Louis.

I love Antarctic maps; the shape of them, and how they have transformed over the centuries. This remote continent – the windiest, driest, highest, coldest place on Earth – was first imagined long before it was certain to exist. James Cook’s 1795 map of the southern continents has an empty space where Antarctica was anticipated. He’d said: “There may be a continent or large tract of land near the Pole, I will not deny.”

J. H. Colton’s partially sketched detail of the Southern Polar Regions in 1865 appears like a circle with bites out of it. I equally love NASA’s uber-modern digital satellite maps. You can zoom in to see penguin colonies and the terrifying crack of the Larsen C ice shelf, which broke away last year.

Though I’ve seen the tip of the iceberg of this vast land, I’ve become acquainted with its mountains, valleys and peninsulas through a project I began, unwittingly, in 1995. I was leading the first Antarctic environmental cleanup expedition, a collaboration between a small foundation and the Russian Antarctic Expedition. I was sitting in the base commander’s office at Bellingshausen Station to discuss the Joint Russian-Canadian Ecological Project when my colleague Sergey said, “You are the first women to live here in over 20 years.”

As he spoke I was looking at a map of the continent on his wall. Marguerite Bay. So Marguerite was here before me. Who was she? Who were all the other women behind some of those names? I promised myself I would find out.

Years later I decided to make a map of Antarctica with all the female place names on it; to shine a light on the female presence and contributions to our knowledge of this continent. In telling the unknown or little-known stories of Antarctic women, I would both learn and share history, science, and stories of the barriers women faced and tackled, their explorations, discoveries and more.

The first person recorded to have seen Antarctica was Fabian Gottlieb von Bellingshausen, a Russian navigator in 1820. Sealers were also hunting in the area at that time, though we largely don’t know who they were, apart from Nathaniel Palmer.

Women’s early presence in the Antarctic was mapped through their absence. They physically arrived on the continent a century after men, not because of a lack of desire to go, but because they were banned. “Three sporty women” applied to join Sir Ernest Shackleton’s Imperial Trans-Antarctic Expedition in 1914. Shackleton replied that there were “no vacancies for the opposite sex.” It was the same for women in Argentina, the US and other countries who wanted to go far south. The first recorded woman to sight Antarctica was Norway’s Ingrid Christensen, who sailed with her whaling magnate husband in 1931. Ingrid Christensen Coast in East Antarctica was named after her in 1934.

Maps beautifully and at times wistfully tell the story of humankind, just as ancient ice cores narrate our chequered history. Antarctic maps tell of the human desire for exploration no matter where early travellers hailed from or who their monarch was. Antarctic place names particularly tell us who loved, missed and honoured whom, who arrived when and where and discovered what. Captain James Clark Ross was the first to honour his Queen when he named Victoria Land in West Antarctica, after he beheld the region in 1841.

Other explorers and scientists followed suit and honoured their Queens: Queen Maud Land (1939, Norway), Queen Fabiola Mountains (1960, Belgium), or named places and landforms for their wives: Adèlie Land (1840, France), and daughters: Cassandra Nunatak (1959, US). The first person to reach the South Pole in 1912, Roald Amundsen, paid tribute to his childhood nanny when he named Mount Betty. The US Geological Survey honoured The Office Girls, who supported the Antarctic programs back home, by naming two nunataks after them (nunataks are exposed peaks of mountains not covered by ice).

While many Antarctic place names are tributes to people even today, in the early days they were largely chosen by prominent men. I think of the bosuns and petty officers working in this harsh landscape, who didn’t declare official names but perhaps whispered their wives’, lovers’ and daughters’ names into mountains and valleys. I think of the unnamed women who may have visited in earlier times, perhaps from Chile or Argentina. Where are their mountains?

As the world changed, so did the map. It began to mark the actual appearance of women to the continent. Caroline Mikkelsen, reportedly the first woman to set foot on Antarctica in 1934, was the wife of a Norwegian whaling ship captain. Her namesake is Mount Caroline Mikkelsen.

Jackie Ronne was the first American woman to set foot on the continent, and her husband led the Ronne Antarctic Research Expedition (1947-48). The Ronne Ice Shelf is named in her honour.

In 1956, marine biologist Maria Klenova did ship-based research in the Antarctic. She was the first female scientist and Russian woman to work there. Klenova not only studied the marine life but also helped map the first Soviet Antarctic Atlas. Klenova Peak is her namesake.

Geologist Lois Jones fought to visit the continent to collect her own scientific samples despite the US navy admiral refusing women to go “over my dead body.” At long last, Jones was among the first American female scientists to go to Antarctica in 1969. She led the all- female expedition with The Ohio State University. Jones Terrace in the Olympus Mountain Range celebrates her.

Bradshaw Peak on McLay Glacier honours Margaret Bradshaw, an eminent geological scientist from the University of Canterbury. In 1979, she was the first woman to lead a deep field party in the Antarctic.

Otome Point was so named by the Japanese Expedition because the point looks like a woman’s nose. This descriptive place name is a rarity versus honorary or sentimental names.

A learning journey

I am mapping hundreds of these female place names and have asked others to help. The list is growing and the map that illustrates this article shows only a glimpse.

An Argentinean scholar sent me the name Eva Perón Bay, which is formally Mobiloil Inlet. A Bulgarian scientist sent me a list of locations named after women from history, mythology and folklore. The Akaga Glacier in the Antarctic Peninsula is named after sixth century female Bulgar ruler, Akaga. A Turkish scientist told me about Tilav Cirque, honouring Turkish astrophysicist Serap Tilav. Not only was I happy to learn about Tilav, I also learned that cirques are amphitheatre-shaped basins created by glaciers. I’m continually discovering new locations and their back-stories – each map name is like a matryoshka doll.

On my map I mainly include formal names, but also keep informal ones and any that have been renamed or have simply disappeared, such as The Sisters. Among these rocks off Cape Adare, now consumed by the sea, are two named for Gertrude and Rose – sisters mentioned in a British folk song from the early 1900s. In this time of unequivocal climate change, how many other landforms will disappear?

Naming places in the Antarctic follows an official process – not straightforward given its geography and size. The Scientific Committee on Antarctic Research’s (SCAR) Composite Gazetteer of Antarctica (CGA) “is the authoritative international gazetteer containing all the Antarctic toponyms published in national gazetteers, plus basic information about those names and the relevant geographic features”.

Some countries insist different places have different names or places have multiple names due to translation or transliteration. These multi-named places are recorded by the Gazetteer. For example, the UK calls the Antarctic Peninsula Graham Land, while Chile calls it Tierra de O’Higgins.

Land of peace

By 2015, 24 countries gave 37,325 geographic names for 19,303 features in Antarctica. National Antarctic Place-Names Committees liaise with each other – there is collaboration and some peaceful disagreement. The Antarctic Treaty of 1959 dedicated the continent to peace and science, forbids new territorial claims, and does not recognise territorial disputes.

In 1912, Edwin Swift Balch of the American Geographical Society aptly described the objective of Antarctic place naming: “A proper Antarctic nomenclature must have loyalty to humanity and to science, and not spring from servile obedience to national prejudices and greed. Since the Antarctic regions [...] belong to the human race collectively, it seems self-evident any names invented and applied should be international.”

And so this place at the bottom of the world is our beacon of possibility, and a harbinger. The names remind us of the prolific whaling and sealing that threatened their extinction. They also tell us about our international cooperation, and social and scientific achievements.

So, who was Marguerite? Marguerite Bay was named in 1909 after Marguerite Cléry, French explorer Jean-Baptiste Charcot’s second wife. His first, Jeanne Hugo, Victor Hugo’s daughter, sought divorce on the grounds of desertion. Marguerite never made it to Antarctica but I found her there.

Today, women make up over a third of the 4,000 temporary field staff working yearly in the Antarctic: scientists, heads of research stations, artists and logistics crew. This map in-the-making honours their contribution, and of the women before them, to our knowledge of this frozen continent. Now, more than ever, this contribution and knowledge is vital for humankind and the planet we call home.

Carol Devine’s map of Antarctica, illustrated by Aidan Meighan, is now available for the first time as a limited-edition poster through our Collector's Edition crowdfunding campaign. There are only 200 available, so make your pledge on our crowdfunder before they go!

Inside issue one: the Collector's Edition

Earlier this year, we launched a survey asking our readers for their thoughts on the future of Ernest, and one of the clearest messages to come across is that what people really, really want is a copy of issue one to add to their collection.

And so we’ve decided to do it! We’re crowdfunding to print a special Collector’s Edition of issue one, with a subtle matte silver foil on the cover, no advertising and an extra 8-page feature celebrating seven years of publishing Ernest. Read on to find out what’s inside.

Below images by Jesse Wild

The remarkable life of Nikola Tesla

“His naivety and kindness were exploited his entire life, and he died poor and insane – having fallen in love with a pigeon – while lesser men reaped the rewards of his genius. This is often the way of things, except for the part about the pigeon.”

Writer Mark Blackmore enters the world of a super-scientist with 700 patents to his name and the power to make electricity dance.

The singular case of Dr Lobsang Rampa

“When informed that he’d just been addressed in Tibetan, Rampa fell to the ground and began to scream in agony. This continued for a good 30 seconds before he finally climbed back onto his chair and calmly explained that before leaving Tibet he had put a curse on himself to no longer understand or speak Tibetan. In fact, Lobsang Rampa only spoke English with a curiously strong West Country burr.”

David Bramwell tells the bizarre tale of West Country plumber turned mystic Dr Tuesday Lobsang Rampa.

Sea monsters of the Northern Seas

“The creature’s horse-like head would rise out of the sea and the malicious glint from its flame red eyes would be the last thing the poor mariners would see before they drowned.”

An island that dragged sailors to a watery grave and a monstrous create that collected human bones in his beard – Duncan Haskell wakens the beasts that slumber in the depths of our northern seas.

A history of backpacks

“The modern era of rucksacks really began with Ole F Bergan of Norway, who invented a new rucksack frame in 1908 using bent juniper branches, reportedly out of frustration when on a trail…”

The Bergen, the haversack and the Swiss army pack: military icons that endured heavy loads, extreme weather and the relentless bombardment of warfare.Vintage military bag restorer Kevin Ruston reveals his admiration for the humble and enduring rucksack.

The last of the Scalpay fishermen

“Throughout my childhood in Inverness, I heard much about Scalpay. To me, it was a fairytale place; an unknown land, far away on a distant planet with stories of crofts, religion and fishing.”

Photographer Johan Hallberg-Campbell tells the story of his ancestral home – a remote island in the Hebrides where traditional ways of living and working are fast becoming memories of the past.

A water trail through the Westfjords

“Icelanders have been bathing outdoors for centuries, and for good reason. Few things soothe sore muscles and chilly limbs like a hot spring...”

In Iceland’s wild west, a small team are revitalising isolated communities while preserving an outdoor bathing heritage that dates back to the Vikings.

The slow coffee movement

“Do I improve as a person by discovering just how hard it is to grind a mere 18 grams of coffee beans by hand? Do my friends really want to try the beans I roasted at home over a candle in a glass? But the results are worth the wait...”

Grinding your own beans, measuring water and tinkering with a chemistry set: the slow coffee movement requires a steadfast follower – and John Lidwell-Durnin is one of them.

You can bag yourself a Collector’s Edition of issue one through our crowdfunding campaign, alongside limited edition prints and one-of-a-kind product collaborations. Collector’s Edition: issue one, £20 (limited: 1,500 available)

Mountain of gravitas

In 2015 for issue four of Ernest, author Simon Ingram wrote about astronomer Nevil Maskelyne’s expedition to the Scottish Highlands to work out the weight of the world. Read on to discover how a wild camp, a mountain and the site of an old experiment formed the foundation of an unlikely adventure two centuries in the making.

Illustrations by Ruth Allen

Schiehallion is totally fantastical. Seen from Loch Rannoch it is a mirage of a mountain: elegant and scooped, rising a vertical kilometre from Perthshire’s knotty Highland to a startlingly sharp point. It stands statuesque and quite separate to its rather dumpy neighbours. You’ve seen it, even if you don’t think you have: perhaps in reality, hooking the corner of your eye from the summit slopes of Ben Nevis, or the road through the East Highlands. Maybe you’ve seen it depicted on a beer bottle or a painting. You’ve seen an unwitting impression in every child’s paintbrush interpretation of a mountain or poking out of the backdrop of a bedtime story. Its name even means ‘fairy hill.’ And while Schiehallion is quite real, like most fairytales, not everything about it is quite as it seems.

This vision of Schiehallion from afar has, over many hundreds of years, captured countless imaginations. This particular tale focuses on two. Separated by ambition, motives and the not insignificant gulf of 240 years, one of these imaginations belonged to a scientist, minister and Astronomer Royal by the name of Nevil Maskelyne. Rather less impressively, the other belonged to me. But while my motives for being in this wild place were simple, Maskelyne’s were not.

The experiment

You may have heard the headline: the Highland mountain that, a time long ago, was used to ‘weigh the world’. It sounds grand and unlikely. Then you learn the details, understand the reasoning and grasp the basics of the science involved – and it starts to sound utterly crackpot. The Royal Society plaque at Foss that commemorates the Schiehallion Experiment, as it would come to be known, wisely dodges detail. You do get the sense that Something Rather Important happened here. But you’re not sure exactly what.

At the time when Nevil Maskelyne arrived on Schiehallion in May 1774 there were certain things that were known, albeit roughly. It was known that Earth and other planets orbited the Sun. And it was known that a relationship existed between the gravity of an object and its overall mass: the bigger the object, the greater its pull. But while such cosmic concepts could and had been observed and proven given time, clear skies, a telescope and a genius, there was one thing far closer to home such things couldn’t do: look down. Nobody knew what lay deep within our own planet. Many still thought it was hollow.

The idea that led Maskelyne to the Perthshire highlands was this: things fall to Earth with such gravitational keenness because Earth is the biggest thing hereabouts. But what if there was an object of considerable mass and abruptness located nearby that was large enough to have its own gravity? This object’s gravitas wouldn’t be enough to override or even challenge Earth’s, it wouldn’t make Newton’s apple fall sideways out of the tree towards it, for instance. But the gravity of this object may be robust enough to have the tiniest influence upon a falling object – a twitch in its trajectory. If that twitch could be measured, you could theoretically work out the factor by which Earth’s pull was greater than that of the competing object’s.

The kicker was this: if you knew the dimensions, composition and mass of this object, with a relatively simple bit of ratio mathematics you could figure out the bountiful inverse: the mass of Earth itself. All that was needed was something big, abrupt and – for ease of measurement – symmetrical. After much searching, the mountain of Schiehallion was selected. Two small, stone bothies were constructed on opposing sides of the mountain. In each was installed a plumb-line – Newton’s Apple suspended mid-fall, if you like – and apparatus to determine by what degree of deflection the mountain’s mass was pulling the plumb line away from the vertical.

This may have sounded straightforward enough to a mind geared up for science. But the rigours of a Scottish summer would give the experiment – and Maskelyne himself – a beating. Because the instrument usually used to determine if something was vertical or not was a plumb-line, Maskelyne’s measurements had to be made using the stars. The planet moves, the skies are frequently cloudy, and delicate observations and the height of the midge season are uneasy bedfellows. As well as this, the addition of a mathematician named Reuben Burrow to survey the mountain’s physical attributes – a blitz-tempered Yorkshireman with whom the genteel Maskeyne could hardly be called compatible – along with a result that may turn out to be too small to be measured, the task was, so to speak, mountainous. It took Maskelyne 17 weeks. Then the real work began.

The mountain

In 1774, climbing mountains without ulterior cause – botany, mining, weighing the world – wasn’t the done thing. In those days, civility was sought, not voluntarily shunned. This pursuit of progress and the refinement of the modern world through science was known as the Enlightenment. Today, however, enlightenment means something different. Mountains provide us with a way to reconnect with nature and realign a perspective often lost in the jostle of modern life. That this one in particular had a fine aesthetic and an appropriate scientific footnote for me made it an alluring venue for a wild camp.

It was an evening of transient bluster at which the Highlands are master. One moment filthy clouds hung heavy on the mountain; the next they were pierced by spears of golden sun, then everything was glistening with fresh rain. It felt wild and vital and muscular. It felt like Scotland should.

My hope was to locate the site of Maskelyne’s old observatory somewhere on the northern slope of this 3,553ft mountain. It was a difficult task; no express location seemed to be documented, and so my route plan was the result of hopeful conjecture from a pile of vague clues.

I’d never set foot on Schiehallion before. I’d never even seen its famous profile in the flesh until that afternoon, when I wandered down to the shores of Loch Rannoch and looked at it. I imagined what it would feel like to stand on the apex of that extraordinary summit, and was happy that its aura of the unreal stands firm in reality. Some mountains are intimidating; some are beautiful. Schiehallion bewitches.

There is no path on the northern side of the mountain. I followed streams and sheep tracks through tight heather and beneath a glorious Scots Pine, before the ground began to tilt up into that famous concave arc. It’s actually an illusion, the symmetry you see from Loch Rannoch; the mountain is in fact long and skinny, with a sharp summit ridge running east-west. It’s like the hull of a capsized boat.

The only clue I had been able to turn up as to the site of Maskelyne’s northern bothy was that it was at around 2,300ft and close to the course of the stream I had followed from the mountain’s base. As the evening began to creep across the sky and wind began to assert itself on the mountain, my hopes of finding it before nightfall began to fade with the thickening dark.

The camp

Night time on a mountain is fierce and thrilling. These are hard places already, and in the dark they lose what little comfort they harbour by day – paths, signs, other people – and become as they have been throughout history: lightless, uncivilised and wild.

Maskelyne’s gravity experiments on Schiehallion were conducted only by night: he needed to see the stars. In the dark and the building wind, I stood outside my tent, pitched on the flattest ground I could find on the slope. I was higher than most of England, and I knew I was close to precisely where the experiment happened. Were it still standing and in use, from my camp I fancied I’d probably be able to see the candlelight of the observatory.

I would have liked to have bunked down within its bricks – it’s said there is enough left behind up there to know it when you find it – but somehow, it didn’t matter. I got what I’d come for: common ground with the scientists who conducted an extraordinary experiment here 240 years ago.

I was breathing the same air, drinking water from the same streams, sleeping on the same rock. And save for a few dug-in embers of electric light far down the valley the view I was seeing matched theirs. The mountain drew us together over the centuries into a shared experience regardless of motive: just being there.

I slept fitfully, emerging from my tent twice to re- peg a lively corner of the flysheet in wind that was becoming strong. By the second time, the moon had risen, casting a weird glow onto the landscape through a shroud of cloud.

The legacy

The legacy of the Schiehallion experiment was considerable. Maskelyne and Burrow bickered about each other’s behaviour on the mountain for years, but both sit peacefully name-checked on the plaque beneath Schiehallion today. So too sits the quiet hero of the tale, Charles Hutton, who computed the data gathered by the experiment to a conclusion Schiehallion’s gravitational pull on Maskelyne’s plumb-line was less than half of what was expected if Earth had the same average density as the mountain: 2,500kg per cubic metre. To explain this, Earth was estimated at having an average mass – ‘weight’ – of 4,500kg per cubic metre. The theory Hutton put foward in diagnosis was that the planet was not only not hollow, but made up of something denser than rock. Hutton suggested metal. Science still thinks he’s right.

Hutton also became an accidental hero to the hillwalker when – while trying to make sense of Burrow’s chaotic survey data – he made it more palatable by joining values of equal height on a map with a line: thus inventing contours.

The experiment officially ended with a party at the northern observatory. Things got out of hand, the observatory caught fire, and burned to the ground. The only one not amused by this was the local fiddle player, ‘Red’ Duncan Robinson, whose violin became inadvertent kindling. Maskelyne honoured his promise to replace the instrument by sending him a package directly from London. The fate of this violin is an intriguing question mark: Maskelyne sent the young lad a 1729 Stradivarius, one of the finest instruments ever made. Had it survived the intervening centuries, it would be worth millions.

So there you have two absorbing ways to utilise a mountain. These muscles of the landscape are often used as metaphors for personal or conceptual challenges. Maskelyne scaled his own mountain of theory and used Schiehallion’s gravity to prove Earth wasn’t hollow. I climbed the mountain that helped him do so, standing on its tip just after dawn, the morning after my night on its slopes. From it – pleasingly rocky, and minus a trig point – I looked down to the lochside from where I’d first spied Schiehallion the previous afternoon and pictured myself atop the fairytale point.

Be yours an adventure in science or purely an adventure, there are few more beautiful than this
– whatever kind of mountain yours happens to be. The Scottish poet Norman MacCaig, who knew the potential of these wild places to bewitch the beholder put it well, and was pleasingly specific, when he wrote:

There’s a Schiehallion anywhere you go; the thing is, climb it.

To accompany Simon’s words, Ruth Allen illustrated a trio of drawings, which are available for the first time as a limited edition set through our Collector’s Edition crowdfunding campaign. Each print is A5.

Slow stationery

Wilder. strives to encourage more people to unplug from our hyper-connected world and experience the joy of putting pencil to paper with their beautiful range of stationery. We talk to co-founder Rupert Marlow about the slow practice of journalling.


As the tendrils of the digital world snake ever-deeper into our lives, it’s nice to think that some analogue processes still have the edge. Take journalling, for example. Often made out to be more complicated than it is, journalling is essentially just the regular habit of thinking through writing. You might reflect on yourself or the world around you, but really you just pick up your pen and make your own rules. And journalling seems to work best on paper. Useful as they are, digital devices are engineered to distract and intrude, and there’s something soothing in turning all that off and seeing what thoughts flow through the nib of your pen.

“A question is a good place to start,” says Rupert Marlow of Wilder., whose own journalling led him and wife Sarah to produce these rather lovely notebooks. “What did I do today that I am or should be proud of? Was my response to x/y/z reasonable or fair and if not, why not and how could it be better next time? What are my regular habits that I know aren’t positively serving me? What do I do sometimes that I know I would benefit from doing more?”

Rupert suggests that an often helpful way to start journaling is with a question

For Rupert, a journal is about regular self-reflection and subtle change. “Journalling – the way I do it – is a way of quietly, honestly and privately looking at things you might want to change about yourself or simply change the way you view a behaviour or pattern. It can also help you spot patterns that help with this identification.”

“It’s important to be honest and kind to yourself, and to know it’s a process and takes time. There will be flashes of realisation, but mainly the result is often a subtle trajectory change, whether in mood, behaviour or simply a change in how you view things. It’s mostly the case, for me at least, that after a while you look back and notice how much something has improved.”

Wilder. have kindly donated 21 gift sets to our Collector’s Edition crowdfunding campaign, comprising three pocket notebooks, one A5 notebook, a Wilder. pencil plus a copy of Ernest. You can pick up one of these sets on our campaign page, or browse the entire. collection on the Wilder. website.